The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Shemal stood behind him, a satisfied expression on her face. “Not what I intended,” she said, “but effective all the same.” She jerked the sword free.

  Blood gushed from Boreas’s mouth in a flood. His eyes rolled up, and he fell face forward onto the hard turf.

  Like the knights, Aryn was frozen, unable to move. She could only stare at the fallen king. However, Teravian broke free of the men holding him and rushed forward.

  “No!” he cried out, throwing himself down beside the king. “Father!”

  A smirk sliced across Shemal’s face. “You little liar,” she crooned. “You loved him after all, didn’t you? And yet you’ve betrayed him. How pathetic.”

  Teravian bowed his head over the king. Shemal drifted closer. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but did not pull away.

  “Now,” she intoned in her sepulchral voice, “weave the spell. Bring the bull back into the sky, and call the Warriors of Vathris to you. They will yet follow you.”

  He looked up, his gray eyes stricken.

  “That’s it, my beautiful prince! Weave the magic. You know what you must do.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I do.”

  The prince shut his eyes and held out his hands. Shemal looked on, gloating.

  Aryn . . .

  She went rigid as the voice spoke in her mind. It was Teravian.

  Aryn, you have to help me.

  What? she managed to cast the word back.

  Gods, Aryn, don’t be so thick, not now. We only have a moment. She can’t hear us speak across the Weirding, but she’ll get suspicious in a few seconds if I don’t conjure the illusion of the bull again. We have to cast the spell.

  What spell?

  This . . .

  He abandoned words. Instead, his thread drew close, connecting with her own, and knowledge came to her. Terrible knowledge.

  Horror filled her, and regret. How long had he woven alone and in secret, knowing that failure would mean his death, knowing that success would mean the same?

  Never mind that, Aryn. I crafted this spell for so long, only today I realized it wouldn’t work—I didn’t have the power to cast it alone. But you can help me. Do it now. Not for me, for the king.

  The words were like a slap, clearing the uncertainty from Aryn’s mind. She gripped Teravian’s thread, and as he revealed the pattern to her, she wove with all her strength and skill.

  Teravian wove with her, so fast she could not keep up with him. His skill with the Weirding was great—greater than her own, greater even than Grace’s. But his power wasn’t enough; he could not complete the pattern on his own.

  Aryn joined her shining hands with his. Once again she opened herself, letting all the magic of the Weirding flow through her, and she felt his astonishment. His skill was great, honed in countless lonely hours, but her power ran deeper, flowing from the well of her soul. With every hateful look at her arm, with every person who had recoiled from her in disgust, she had dug the well a little farther, into the very foundation of of her being. There she had struck bedrock, and a spring from which power welled forth. It did not matter what others thought of her; she knew who and what she was. She was a woman. She was a queen.

  She was a witch.

  The spell was complete. It shone between Aryn and Teravian: a net as pure as starlight, holding within it a shadow darker than death.

  “I do not see the bull!” Shemal snapped. “What are you doing, boy? You’re casting a spell, I can see it. Do not lie to me again, or I’ll slit your throat.” She clutched his hair with a hand and held the sword against his neck.

  Now! Aryn shouted in her mind.

  Together, she and Teravian cast the shimmering net at Shemal.

  Against the Weirding, the Necromancer appeared as a void, a place of darkness where no threads wove. Then the net struck her, wrapping itself around her, outlining her in light. At the same time the shadow inside the net found the hole in her body made by King Boreas’s sword. The shadow entered her; the net vanished. The spell was done.

  Aryn and Teravian opened their eyes. Shemal staggered back and dropped the sword. She held up her hands. Thin black lines marred her skin, like cracks in porcelain. Even as they watched, the lines multiplied, lengthened, snaking up her arms. They appeared on her face, turning it into a shattered mask. Then the lines grew darker, thicker.

  “What have you done?” she hissed. Her voice rose to a shriek. “What have you done to me, you wretched children?”

  “You are neither dead nor alive,” Teravian said, his gaze fixed on her. “So we’ve given you those things you could never have. The gift of life—and of mortality.”

  “No!” Shemal cried out, and in that sound was such poison, such hatred, that men covered their ears and horses screamed. Like a flock of crows, shadows gathered around the body of the Necromancer, concealing her with black wings, then flew away, leaving only emptiness in their wake. Shemal was gone.

  Aryn cast a stunned look at Teravian. “Is she dead?”

  “No, not yet at least. She is only fled. But now that she’s mortal, she’ll feel all the weight of the eon she has dwelled upon this world. She won’t come back. Please, Aryn, help me.”

  He was lifting King Boreas’s shoulders from the ground, and Aryn assisted him, and they laid the king’s head upon Teravian’s lap. Blood still stained Boreas’s lips, and his flesh was the color of ashes. His eyes were shut.

  “He’s dead,” Teravian said softly, wonderingly. “He was so strong—I could never be as strong as he was. Only I’m alive, and he’s dead.”

  Aryn only shook her head, unable to form words. Sorrow was like a knife in her heart. She touched the king’s face with trembling fingers. Faint but clear, she sensed one last glimmer of life, like the flare of a candle just before it sputters and goes out.

  I love you! she cried out to the darkness. My king, my true father. I love you with all my heart!

  No words came in reply, but she felt warmth, love, pride. He felt no pain; he regretted nothing.

  She wept openly now. “I sense him still.”

  Teravian gripped her shoulders. Hard. “Tell him. Tell him that I didn’t betray him.” Tears ran down his cheeks. “Tell him I would have given my life for him.”

  Aryn met Teravian’s haunted eyes. “He knows.”

  The candle flared, went out. The thread, as bright as steel, went dark. Boreas, King of Calavan, was dead.

  A chant rose on the air, deep and thrumming. Men had gathered in a circle around them, and they were speaking a lament in low voices.

  May he dwell in the halls of Vathranan now

  May his blood bring life to the land

  May he feel the winds of Vathranan now

  He sits at the right hand of Vathris

  A gentle touch on Aryn’s shoulder. “Sister?”

  She turned and gazed into warm brown eyes that looked out from a smooth, dark face. It was Lirith, shapely and perfect as Aryn knew her. She gripped Lirith’s slender hand with her own withered one.

  “You’re whole,” Aryn breathed. “By Sia, you’re whole.”

  Lirith smiled. “As whole as I can be. Thanks to you. Your magic undid the spell of the Necromancer.”

  “I think it did more than that, beshala.”

  They looked at Sareth, who stood above them. He pointed down, to his feet planted firmly on the ground. One foot was shod in leather. The other foot was bare and perfectly formed. The women looked back up. In his hands, Sareth held a length of carved wood. His peg leg.

  Lirith leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him. “Sareth—oh, Sareth.”

  He held her tight, his expression one of wonder. “Beshala,” was all he said, stroking her black hair. “My beloved.”

  Aryn looked down at her hands. The right was still withered. Why had the magic not made her whole like Sareth?

  Because you are whole, Teravian spoke in her mind, and he placed his right hand over hers.

  She looked up, in
to his eyes, and nodded.

  When their threads touched, she had learned more than just how to weave the spell he had devised to harm Shemal. She had glimpsed his memories as well. King Boreas had known of the Witches’ plot to use Teravian against the Warriors of Vathris; it was Ivalaine herself who had told the king, and he in turn had told Teravian. Their counterplot was simple: Teravian would let Liendra and the Witches think they had his allegiance. He would get close to them, learn what they were planning, and reveal it to the king before they could succeed.

  Only Boreas and Ivalaine had not counted on the presence of the Necromancer. Shemal had made it clear to Teravian that if he revealed her presence, she would slay his mother and father. Teravian had known she had the power to do it, and so he had been bound, unable to tell the king the full truth. However, even as he did Shemal’s bidding, in secret he probed her, sought out her weaknesses, and devised a spell that could do harm to her.

  “The spell would have killed you,” Aryn said. “You would have poured your whole life into it, and it would have taken you. Only it still wouldn’t have been enough.”

  Despite the grimness of his face, a smile touched his lips. “Only it was enough—because you were there.”

  He sighed, then laid Boreas gently back on the ground. Around them, the men continued their chant.

  “So now what do we do?” Sareth said, still holding on to Lirith, his gaze on the fallen king.

  Aryn gripped Teravian’s hand. “They will still follow you. The Warriors saw you drive Shemal away, they’ve seen you weep over your father. They know you were true to him. All you have to do is create the illusion of the bull again.”

  “No, Aryn.” His expression was resolute. “I’ll work no more illusions. I think Liendra’s cronies have all fled, but the men saw them, and her body is still here. They know I was in league with the Witches. They’ll never follow me.”

  “It’s true, I fear,” Lirith said. “I’ve seen what would happen if you take that path. The men would turn against you, the Warriors would lay down their swords and return to their homes.”

  Aryn looked up at the witch. “Then what can we do?”

  “They won’t follow me,” Teravian said. “But there’s another whom they will.”

  Sareth looked as puzzled as Aryn felt, but Lirith nodded. “I see it as well. There is still one the Warriors of Vathris will follow north to Gravenfist Keep.”

  This was too much for Aryn. “But Boreas is gone. Who are you talking about?”

  “You,” Teravian said, touching her cheek. “I’m talking about you, Aryn.”

  Her mouth dropped open. This was madness. However, before she could speak, ruby-colored light permeated the air. The chanting of the men ceased, replaced by gasps and murmurs. Aryn followed their gaze upward.

  Crimson light filled the sky; the dawn had come. Only dawn had already come. How could there be two suns in the sky?

  One of the fiery orbs shrank in on itself, descending from the sky, alighting on the ground before Aryn. The light dimmed—but did not vanish—revealing a small girl clad in a gray shift. Her feet were bare, and her tangled red hair blew back from her scarred face.

  Despite her sorrow, despite her weariness, wonder filled Aryn. And hope.

  “Tira,” she said. “How is it you’re here?”

  The girl laughed and threw her arms around Aryn.

  “No!” came a strangled cry.

  Fear replaced wonder, and Aryn looked up. Lirith had gone rigid; Sareth gripped her.

  Aryn gently pushed Tira away and rose, moving to the witch. “Sister, what is it?”

  Lirith’s hands curled into claws. Her voice was hoarse, chantlike. “The gates of winter have opened. The Pale King rides forth, his army behind him like a sea of darkness.”

  The men in earshot let out oaths and made warding motions with their hands. Teravian leaped to his feet.

  “It’s all been for nothing,” the prince said, clutching Aryn’s arm. “It will take us a fortnight to march to Gravenfist. Queen Grace will never hold out for so long.”

  A buzzing filled Aryn, as well as understanding. “You’re wrong. It has been for something. Grace won’t have to hold the keep for long before we can get there.”

  Teravian looked at her as though she were mad, but Aryn knelt beside Tira. She touched the girl’s scarred face. “Have you come to take us to Grace?”

  Tira shook her head. “Durge,” she said.

  46.

  It was almost showtime.

  Sage Carson, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral, watched in the mirror as the stylist arranged his hair. Her touch was light and deft. With each flick of the brush she coaxed several coal black strands into precise formation, then locked them into place with a puff of hairspray.

  He admired her work; it wasn’t so different from his own. Find the stragglers and individualists, those who strayed from the flock, and bring them into line. It was those who chose to deviate from the herd that brought unhappiness—to others and themselves. The world would be a better place if everyone followed the same path. The right path. And Carson had spent the last twenty years making sure his path was the one everyone else followed.

  A knock came at the door of the dressing room. The door opened, and the head of Kyle Naughton, one of the young assistant producers, popped through.

  “Twenty minutes to airtime, Mr. Carson. Everything’s ready onstage, and the choir is warming up.”

  Carson started to nod, then stopped. The stylist was still brushing.

  “Thank you, Kyle. I’ll be out soon. I think it’s going to be a special show tonight.”

  Kyle grinned and gave a thumbs-up. He adjusted his headset, then retreated through the door, closing it.

  Seeing the clean-cut young man now, it was hard to remember that just four years ago Kyle had been a drug addict who had sold his body to whoever would pay in order to buy his next fix. Carson had found him on East Colfax, not long after first coming to Denver. In those days, Carson’s show hadn’t been what it was now—the number-one-rated television program in all of Colorado. To help get the word out—his word—he would take to the streets, driving through the darkest parts of the city.

  When his car stopped, Kyle had climbed in, thinking Carson just another trick. Then Carson had shown him another path; Kyle had been with him ever since. They were all so loyal—his flock, his followers.

  “How long have you been with me, Mary?”

  The stylist didn’t pause in her work, but in the mirror he saw a smile appear on her lips.

  “It’ll be nineteen years this summer, Mr. Carson.”

  Mary had been one of the very first to come to him. She had worked for him when he began his first show on a public cable-access channel, taping his sermons in an abandoned gas station outside of Topeka. First people had ignored him, then they had laughed at him. The ministers in their fancy churches had been so proud, so righteous. They had said he wasn’t a true pastor, that he was a charlatan. They had thought, just because they had official pieces of paper on their walls, that they were better than he.

  Well, he had left Kansas behind, and no one could laugh anymore. He commanded the Steel Cathedral. Two thousand people came every weekday to see him. Hundreds of thousands more watched his show. And his Saturday night broadcasts—like tonight’s—were the most popular of all. You didn’t need a degree to talk to God, to talk for him. All you had to do was believe.

  “You’re a good soul, Mary,” he said.

  Her smile deepened. She was sixty, he supposed, but still pretty. She didn’t seem to age anymore. Nor did young Kyle Naughton.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carson.”

  “You can go now, Mary. I’d like to be alone, to prepare myself.”

  Without a word she set down the brush, then left the dressing room, shutting the door behind her.

  Carson removed the towel that covered his shoulders—carefully, so as not to muss his crisp white suit—then gazed at himself in the mirror. He always t
ook ten minutes before the show to himself. This was his time to gather his thoughts, his time to think about what he was going to say to his flock.

  His time to listen to the Big Voice.

  Carson would never forget the day he first heard the Voice. It had come in his darkest moment, just over four years ago. The unbelievers in Kansas had finally rallied against him. They had seized the cable-access channel that aired his show, claiming it was needed for use by the public schools. And no doubt they would indeed use the channel to teach their lies about evolution, and to show students those lessons in fornication they called sex education.

  Despite his prayers, his last sermon was cut off in mid broadcast. He and his followers were escorted out of the recording studio by the police. It was over. As so often happened in this wicked world, the unbelievers had won.

  Then the Big Voice had spoken to him.

  At first he thought he was going insane. He had become weak in his despair, and he turned to alcohol, which he hadn’t touched since starting his ministry. However, still the Big Voice spoke to him: deep, thunderous. Over those next days he had tried to shut it out, but nothing—not cotton in his ears, not loud music, not the pounding water of a cold shower—could stop it. Finally, he had lain down on his bed, and he had listened.

  I will gather many followers to you, the Voice said, and though it was only in his mind, it was as clear as if it came over the radio with the sound turned up all the way. You will have a great flock at your command.

  “How?” he had dared to whisper to the water-stained ceiling of the motel where he had holed up. His heart had ached with longing; he wanted to believe. “How can that happen now?”

  You must believe in me, the Voice said. And you must do as I tell you.

  He did. The first thing the Big Voice told him to do was to pack his things, to take what few followers would come with him, and to go to Denver, that he would find everything he needed there.

  Carson didn’t see how that could be true, but he did as he was told. Early on he realized that everything the Big Voice told him was true. It told him men in suits would come to his motel and bring him the money he needed, and the next morning they did. At the time he didn’t recognize the name of their company, though he had come to know it and its crescent moon logo well in ensuing years. They were servants of the Big Voice, just as he was.