The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  “Boreas is dead,” Grace said.

  Aryn nodded, and gasps of dismay rose from Tarus, Paladus, and the other men around Grace.

  “How?” Grace clutched Aryn’s arm. “You have to tell me how.”

  Aryn shook her head. “There’s so much, Grace. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Then you might want to save this little chat for later,” Samatha said, flicking her mistcloak back over her shoulders. “I’ve just come from the wall. It looks as if the enemy is preparing to advance again.”

  Grace felt so cold. “Was Durge there, Sam? Did you see him at the wall?”

  The Spider shook her head. “He wasn’t in the barracks either.”

  “We have to find him,” Aryn said. “We have to find Durge right away.”

  Grace stared at her. “Why?”

  “Because Tira spoke his name to me.”

  Grace’s heart was too frail to bear this. “Tira?”

  “She appeared to us three days ago. It was just after Lirith had a vision of the Rune Gate opening. It’s impossible that we’ve journeyed so far in so little time, but I think that’s why Tira came to us—to help us reach you before it was too late.”

  Three days. So that was how long it had been since the Rune Gate had opened. Just three days. It seemed like a lifetime.

  Grace gazed past Aryn. “Where is she? Where’s Tira?”

  “She’s gone,” Teravian said, finally speaking. “She was riding in the saddle in front of me. Then, when we started up the valley, I looked down and she was . . . gone.”

  Grace turned her face up to the sky, certain if the clouds were gone she would see it there, shining in the south: a red star.

  “The enemy will approach the wall soon,” Paladus said. “What are your orders, Your Majesty?”

  The men looked at her, their faces expectant. What did she do? She needed to know more before she could decide.

  Aryn, she said, spinning a quick thread across the Weirding. I have to know—I have know everything that happened. And there’s no time for words.

  The young woman’s voice came back, clear and strong. I understand, Grace.

  Her sapphire life thread drew close, entwining with Grace’s strand. There was a flash as the two threads contacted, then, in an instant, Grace understood everything. She saw—no, she lived—all of it. Ivalaine’s descent into madness. The scheming of Liendra and the Witches. The treachery on the battlefield, pitting father against son.

  It was too much. Grace tried to stop the river of knowledge rushing into her, but the force of it overpowered her. Liendra was dead. Ivalaine was dead. Boreas was dead. All should have been lost, but somehow Teravian and Aryn had joined together, and they had wounded the Necromancer Shemal, driving her away. Then, from the sky, a tiny figure descended—a girl with red hair.

  Despair filled Grace, and horror. The Warriors had come, but at what cost?

  He loved you, Grace. Aryn’s voice was gentle, soothing the fresh wounds in her mind, in her heart. King Boreas. He would have made you his queen, if he could have. Only he knew it was never to be.

  How, Aryn? she managed to spin across the Weirding. Boreas was the one who called the Warriors of Vathris to war. He was the one they followed, and he’s gone. I know Teravian did what he did to try to stop the Witches, but the men wouldn’t have known that. How did you convince them to follow him?

  She didn’t, spoke another voice in her mind, and while it was wiser than she remembered it, the sardonic edge had not entirely left it.

  Teravian?

  Yes, Your Majesty, it’s me. And to answer your question, it wasn’t me who the Warriors followed north.

  Grace saw it as Teravian brought his silvery thread closer: He and Aryn standing in the middle of the battlefield as a priest of Vathris placed her hand in his.

  Yes, it was the only way. The Witches had created a rift between father and son. With the father dead, there was only one way to heal it—for the one who had remained true to the king to accept the one who had betrayed him.

  You’re married, Grace said, spinning the words out to both of them. You didn’t wait for the Feast of Quickening.

  We had no choice, Teravian spun back. I’m King Boreas’s heir, but after what I did, the men would never have followed me. And while they loved Aryn for her loyalty to Boreas, they couldn’t follow her north, not unless—

  Not unless she was the queen of Calavan, Grace finished. So you’re a queen, Aryn, just as in the vision you saw. And they followed you. The Warriors of Vathris followed you here.

  “Your Majesty?” Paladus said.

  Grace opened her eyes. In all, the exchange across the Weirding had taken no more than a minute, but it had changed her forever.

  The commander gazed at her, concern on his face. “You must give us your orders.”

  Boreas had been so strong, but he was gone. It was up to Grace, and Aryn, and Teravian to be the strong ones now. She set fear and uncertainty aside. When she spoke, it was with the authority of a queen.

  “I need you to see to the wall, Commander Paladus. Keep watch on the movements of the enemy. Sir Vedarr, I want you to make preparations for the arrival of the reinforcements.”

  “And what of me, Your Majesty?” Tarus said.

  “Do whatever King Teravian asks of you.”

  Tarus looked as if he was about to protest, but Grace laid a hand on his shoulder. “He is your liege, Sir Tarus.”

  The red-haired knight met her eyes. Then he turned and bowed before Teravian. “How can I serve you, Your Majesty?”

  Teravian’s gray eyes were thoughtful. “It turns out I’m rather new at all this kingly business, Sir Tarus, and I really don’t want to muck it up. People think little enough of me as it is. I could use some help getting the army properly situated in the keep, and many of the knights will be glad to see a familiar face.”

  Tarus called for his horse, then rode with Teravian back toward the army. Grace noticed that Aryn followed the young king with her gaze, though the expression in her blue eyes was unreadable. Samatha had vanished, and Paladus, Vedarr, and the other men went to see to their duties, leaving only the four witches.

  Senrael hobbled up to Aryn. “You’ve grown since I last saw you, deary.”

  Aryn laughed. “I’m sure I’m exactly the same height I was at the High Coven, Sister Senrael.” But of course that wasn’t what the old witch had meant.

  Lursa hesitated, then shyly gripped Aryn’s left hand. “It is good to see you again, sister. And tell me of Sister Lirith? Did you bring her with you?”

  “I’m afraid Lirith remained in Calavere.” Aryn glanced at Grace. “I asked her and Sareth if they would keep watch over the Dominion while we were gone. They weren’t happy about being left behind, but Teravian and I needed to leave someone we trusted to help Lord Farvel in our absence. Not all of the enemy’s forces are here in the north.”

  Lursa sighed. “I’m sorry she’s not here. Our coven could have used her. She is stronger in the Sight than any I have ever met.” The young witch glanced at Grace. “What would you have us do, sister?”

  “Keep healing the wounded,” Grace said. She touched Lursa’s arm. “And you’re stronger in the Sight than you believe. If you see anything . . .”

  “I will come to you at once, sister,” Lursa said, and she and Senrael passed back through the gate of the keep. Aryn and Grace were alone.

  A smile curved Aryn’s lips despite her troubled eyes. “Do you remember the day we first met in Calavere? We all thought you were a queen, only you said you were just a doctor. But it turned out we were right all along. You are a queen.”

  Grace started to protest out of habit, then stopped herself. Perhaps Malachor was a dead kingdom, but she was alive, and she had King Ulther’s sword at her side. “I suppose you’re right at that. Come on, let’s go find Durge.”

  They hurried across the yard, asking if anyone knew the whereabouts of the Embarran knight. They found a soldier who had seen Durg
e walking toward the keep’s main tower some time ago, and the two women headed that way.

  “Did Tira say why you had to find Durge?” Grace asked Aryn as they hurried across the yard.

  “No, she just spoke his name. But it has to be important, doesn’t it? After all, Tira has hardly ever spoken. What do you think it means?”

  Grace didn’t answer. However, a note of dread cut through the joy she felt at Aryn’s arrival. Tira had helped Aryn to hurry north. Why? To reach the keep before it was too late? Or to reach Durge?

  You have to tell her, Grace.

  She started to reach out to Aryn’s thread, only they had come to the tower, and she pulled back. It could wait a little while longer; let Aryn see Durge one last time without knowing what lay in his chest.

  They headed down a corridor, toward the doors to the main hall. The doors were shut, and no guards stood outside, which seemed odd. Then again, it was not the inside of the keep that needed guarding, but rather the outer wall. No doubt Paladus had ordered all of the men on duty there. Grace pushed open one of the doors, and she and Aryn entered the hall beyond.

  “Oh,” Grace said, stopping short.

  Aryn pressed her hand to her mouth, too late to stifle a gasp. The sharp scent of smoke hung on the air. There had been a fire; some of the rushes that strewed the center of the hall were burned. The stone floor was wet and slicked with soot. However, Grace saw all of this in a flash. It was the two forms sprawled on the floor that held her gaze. Ashes smeared their gray robes, darkening them.

  “Sia help us,” Aryn breathed. “Are they dead?”

  Shock gave way to motion. Grace rushed forward and knelt beside the two runespeakers. Blood matted Oragien’s white hair and trickled from Graedin’s ears. She laid her hands on them and reached out with the Touch.

  They were alive. However, both had taken severe blows to the head, knocking them unconscious. Each of them had a concussion, yet the injuries were not fatal. Whoever did this didn’t intend to kill, just to neutralize, and he had known exactly what he was doing. Less force and they would have awakened by now, more and their skulls would have been crushed. Who had such skill with weapons?

  “They’re alive,” Grace said, looking up at Aryn, who stood beside her now.

  Aryn’s face was pale. “Thank Sia, but who would have done this?”

  “I don’t know. We have to get them to the barracks where the witches can care for them.”

  She rose, ready to send Aryn to find men to help, but at that moment one of the hall’s side doors opened, and a familiar form clad in smoke gray stepped through.

  Thank the gods. Grace let out a sigh of relief. However, before she could speak, Aryn dashed toward him.

  “Durge!”

  The young woman threw herself against the knight, wrapping her good arm around the neck, kissing his craggy cheek. “I’ve missed you, Durge. I’ve missed you so much.”

  Grace felt a bittersweet joy. She didn’t know if Aryn felt for Durge as he did for her. Aryn and Teravian were married now, and Grace had seen the way her gaze had followed after the young prince. All the same, that Aryn loved Durge was clear. Only as a man or a fond friend?

  That question would have to wait. Right now, they had to understand what had happened here. “Durge, I’m so glad we’ve found you,” Grace said. “There’s an enemy in the keep. Whoever it is, they’ve attacked All-master Oragien and Master Graedin. We have to get them to the barracks, then find whoever did this.”

  Durge said nothing. He had not raised his arms to return Aryn’s embrace. He stared forward, his brown eyes—always so full of kindness—blank and empty.

  Relief gave way to fear. Grace tried to speak, but her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

  Aryn pulled back from the knight. “What’s wrong, Durge? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Glad?” he said in his deep voice, as if the word were alien to him. His skin was pale; dark circles hung beneath his yes.

  Grace didn’t want to do this, but she had to. She shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch, toward Durge’s thread. It was gray as ash. A moan escaped her.

  “Grace?” It was Aryn, her voice quavering. “Grace, what’s wrong?”

  The thing in all the worlds Grace had cherished most had just been taken from her, but she had to put that aside. She had to forget how much she loved him if they were going to live.

  “Get away from him, Aryn.”

  Confusion hazed the young woman’s blue eyes. “What are you talking about, Grace? It’s Durge.”

  “No, it’s not.” Grace slipped a hand into her pocket, feeling the vial of barrow root. There was no way to get him to drink it, but the toxin was potent. If she could cut him, could get it into the wound, the poison would still do its work.

  The young witch stared at Grace, then at Durge. Rarely in the time they had known the knight had he ever smiled. Now he did, a grin cutting across his face, and it was a terrible sight. There was hatred in that smile. Death.

  Aryn screamed.

  Durge shoved her away, and she fell tumbling to the floor. He crossed the room in swift strides to stand before Grace. She searched his familiar, craggy face for any trace of the man she knew, the friend she loved.

  There was nothing she recognized there. No life, no expression. He smelled of smoke.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Grace said softly.

  “That is for the Master to do,” he said, his voice flat. “They will bring you to him.”

  A sound vibrated on the air: low, guttural. Grace glanced at the main door of the hall; it was still ajar. She gauged the distance, calculating how long it would take to run to it. Only she couldn’t leave Aryn, and it didn’t matter anyway. She knew she would never make it.

  The sound grew louder, rising into a hungry chorus of growls. Aryn scrambled on the floor, eyes wide, backing away from the side door through which Durge had come. Lanky shadows moved beyond.

  “Listen to me, Durge,” Grace said. “I know you’re still in there—you’ve got to be. Please, don’t do this.”

  “Shut up, Malachorian whore,” he said and struck her cheek with the back of his hand.

  There was a crunching sound inside Grace’s skull. Pain sizzled outward from her jaw. She reeled, then caught herself and looked up to see spindly gray forms stream through the side door into the hall, one after the other. Feydrim. There were feydrim inside the keep.

  Gravenfist was lost.

  51.

  Travis opened his mouth, but whether to speak a rune, or to tell Jace he was sorry, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter; either way he was too slow. Jace gripped the gun in a small, steady hand and fired.

  Thunder roared through Travis’s skull, then rolled away. Before him, Jace lowered the gun. Travis lifted a hand to his chest, groping, but there was no blood, no gaping hole.

  Jace’s eyes gazed past him. Travis turned around. Marty sprawled on the floor, his gangly limbs tangled together, his brown eyes dull, empty. The bullet had torn a fist-sized chunk of bone and brain from his skull.

  Travis staggered around, staring at Jace. Why? He didn’t manage to speak the word, but Jace answered all the same.

  “He was an ironheart.” She lowered the gun and holstered it with a precise motion.

  Travis looked back at Marty’s corpse. He knelt and unbuttoned the man’s shirt. A thick bandage was taped to the center of Marty’s chest. Travis pulled it aside, revealing a long incision just to the left of the breastbone. The wound was fresh, but it had been neatly sewn together.

  Travis shut his eyes. I was too late, Jay. I should have taken care of him, but I was too late.

  It wasn’t the usual placidness Travis had seen in Marty’s brown eyes. It was the flatness of death. Marty—or the thing that had been Marty—would have killed him. If it hadn’t been for Jace.

  He opened his eyes and turned around. Jace still stood in the doorway. Her expression was stern, but there was something in her eyes—a haunted light—that m
ade his breath catch in his chest.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Jace took another step forward. “I saw Deirdre Falling Hawk on the monitor at my guard station. Just for a moment, but it was enough, and I knew if she was here, you had to be close by. So I left my station to look for you.”

  So Jace had been the woman Vani had seen on the monitor, standing guard at the station in the maintenance hallway.

  “You were following me,” he said.

  “I wanted to see what you were up to. I thought maybe I had an idea of what it was.”

  “So why aren’t you stopping me?”

  Her hand did not move back to the gun at her side. “Because someone has to stop them, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can do it.”

  It was too much. Travis had to catch the wall to keep from falling. The last time Travis was in Denver, Jace had betrayed him and Grace to Duratek, and it had nearly cost them their lives. What she had just said made no sense.

  Jace tucked a lock of hair behind her ear; the gesture made her look vulnerable despite the uniform and gun. “I don’t expect you to understand, Travis. I’m not sure I do myself. Nothing made sense to me after Maximilian died. It was as though the world had been turned inside out, and all the rules and laws that had mattered one moment didn’t the next. I blamed you for that, for bringing that madness into Castle City. And when they came to me, they offered a way for me to find order again. They gave me a new set of laws to follow.”

  Travis clenched a fist. “Duratek.”

  She looked away. “For a little while it was enough. If I followed their rules, if I didn’t think about them, it was almost like the world made sense again.” Jace looked back at him. “Only it was all a lie. Duratek wasn’t interested in following the law, but in making their own laws. Deep down I knew Maximilian would have been angry with me.”

  Sympathy welled up in Travis. It was as much Travis’s fault as anyone’s what had happened to Max, what had happened to her. He was the reason the runelord Mindroth had come to Castle City, and the reason Duratek had come as well. All the same, until a moment ago Jace had been the enemy. It was not easy to realign his thinking.