The Gates of Winter (39 page)

“Hello there, Queenie,” said a loud voice behind her.

She had been standing outside the main keep, watching the men work on the wall. Now she turned and found herself gazing up at King Kel.

A grin parted his shaggy red beard. “If you don't mind my saying, you look like you just swallowed a mouse.”

She laughed despite her dread. “I think it's still crawling around in my stomach.” Her smile faded. “I think this day is getting darker, not lighter.”

Kel gave her a concerned look. “Don't fret now, Your Majesty. We'll send the Pale King running back through his gate with his tail between his legs, just you wait and see.”

“Do you really believe that, Kel?”

The cheerful light faded from his eyes, and his massive shoulders drooped. “No, I can't say that I do. Much as that makes me sound like the doleful Embarran over there.”

Grace turned around. She hadn't noticed before—his gray attire blended with the dreary air—but Durge stood on the far end of the wall, gazing into the distance. Grace didn't know why—she didn't have anything to ask of him—but for some reason she wanted to go to him.

“Excuse me,” she said to King Kel, who gave her a miffed look, then snorted and headed back to the keep.

When she reached the wall, Grace glanced around, hoping a nearby soldier might be able to give her a hand up. However, all of them seemed to be absorbed in their work, so she headed to one of the wooden ladders and pulled herself up. It wasn't easy in her gown, but she made it to the top without getting too tangled up.

Once there, she had to grip the top of the ladder as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. The valley floor, over a hundred feet below, seemed to pull at her. She waited for the vertigo to pass, then edged her way carefully along the wall.

Durge seemed not to hear her approach. He stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on darkness to the north, his right hand pressed against his chest. Alarm flooded Grace. Did he know, then, what lay within his chest?

That's impossible, Grace. There's no way he could possibly know about the splinter of iron. You didn't tell anyone about it except for Mirda, and she's still in Calavere.

She reached into her pocket. Next to the rune of hope lay another object she had carried with her from Calavere: the vial of poison Mirda had given her.

Durge turned around. A look of pain etched his craggy face. She reached a hand toward him.

“What is it, Durge?”

“Something is coming,” he said. “I can feel it.”

The sound of a trumpet pierced the cold air, then she and Durge were moving. They didn't bother with a ladder. He lowered her to the ground with strong arms, then leaped down behind her. He landed with a grunt, and his knees creaked as he rose, but he waved away Grace's exclamations of concern.

“We must find Tarus and Paladus.”

They came upon the knight and the commander in front of the keep. Aldeth and Master Graedin were with them.

“What is it?” Grace said, getting the words out between gasps for breath.

“We managed to close it, Your Majesty,” Graedin said, his face pale. “Aldeth drove them back, and I spoke the runes before any of them could enter.”

She gripped his shoulders, hard. “Before who could enter?”

“The
feydrim
,” Aldeth said. A scratch on his cheek oozed blood. “Thousands of them. We should have seen them coming, but it was so dark from the smoke we couldn't see.”

They weren't making sense. Grace turned on the Spider. “You couldn't see what?”

“The Rune Gate, Your Majesty. It's opened.”

Durge gazed at Grace with solemn brown eyes. “The Pale King comes,” he said.

41.

Deirdre hung up the phone, praying to the Great Spirit she had just done the right thing.

It is, Deirdre. You made a promise—no more secrets.

The mysterious Seeker—the one who had been helping her—had said it was imperative no one learned of their arrival. But Deirdre couldn't do this alone, and while she still didn't know if she could trust Anders, she had to trust someone.

“He's on his way,” she said, glancing at Vani and Beltan.

“This new partner of yours?” Vani said. She stood by the window, keeping watch on the night with gold eyes.

“Yes.” Deirdre forced herself to breathe. “Once Anders is here, you can tell us everything.”

Beltan pounded on the buttons of the television remote control. “By the Blood of the Bull, how do you make this thing work?”

Despite her fear, Deirdre smiled. She sat down on the couch next to Beltan and took the remote. “So you like television, eh?”

Beltan's green eyes lit up. “I watched one of these at the hostel where we were staying while Vani searched this city for you. It shows the most amazing things.”

Deirdre switched on the TV, and Beltan leaned forward. He seemed to find everything that appeared on the screen fascinating, especially commercials. His mouth opened in horror when a woman spilled red wine on her carpet, then laughed when she used a spray cleaner to remove the stain.

“Is she a witch?” he said.

Deirdre laughed. “Not exactly.” She headed to the kitchen and returned with three bottles of Bass Ale. She gave one to Vani, then sat down next to Beltan again, putting the bottles on the coffee table. He had set down the remote; it looked like he had found an old rerun of
CHiPs
.

“So what are Ponch and Jon up to?”

Beltan took a swig of the beer. “A thief has just escaped them. But they can go very fast on their—what are they called?—motorcycles. I have a feeling they will soon catch him.”

“I have a feeling you're right.”

Beltan took another sip from his bottle and sighed. “With TV and ale this good, why would a man ever do anything else?”

Deirdre grimaced. “A lot of them don't.”

“Only we can't just sit here,” Beltan said, his expression suddenly serious. He set down the empty bottle and switched off the TV. “We have to find Travis. Now.”

Before Deirdre could speak, Vani turned from the window.

“Someone's coming.”

It was Anders. Deirdre recognized the broad shape of his silhouette. Seconds later came the knock at the door. She opened it, and Anders stepped in.

“All right, mate, what's going on? You were all hush-hush and mysterious on the phone, and I—oh.”

As a neophyte agent, he shouldn't have known anything about the Wilder and Beckett cases. However, the recognition was clear in his blue eyes.

“It's them,” he said. “The ones from AU-3.”

Deirdre crossed her arms. “How do you know that?”

“I read your and Farr's report.” He winked at her. “Well, parts of it, anyway. Most of the text in the copy I had access to was crossed out with black markers. Nakamura gave it to me. He said if I was going to be working with you, I should read it.”

Once again, Anders's explanation sounded completely plausible.

Probably because it's the truth, Deirdre. You said you were going to trust him. So trust him already.

“Before we go on, I need you to promise me one thing,” she said, locking her gaze with Anders's blue eyes. “I need you to swear it on the Book.”

“Anything. You're my partner.”

“You can't tell anyone about this just yet. Not Nakamura, not anyone. Understood?”

“Sure, Deirdre, I swear. But do you really think you can avoid telling Nakamura?”

“No, I don't. But I want to do it myself before we leave tomorrow.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean, ‘before we leave'? Where are we going?”

Deirdre glanced over her shoulder at Beltan and Vani. “To Denver.”

The four of them sat around the dinette table and talked until long past midnight. Deirdre listened in amazement and growing horror as Beltan and Vani told them everything that had happened on Eldh. There was much she didn't understand, especially something about Travis returning to Castle City, only over a century in the past. But what chilled her most was the news that Duratek had somehow sent agents to the world Eldh.

“Crikey, it's a war, isn't it?” Anders said. “Duratek is getting ready to conquer Eldh.”

Beltan heaved broad shoulders in a sigh. “They're not the only ones. We've learned the men of Duratek are in league with Mohg and the Pale King.”

“Who?” Anders said, confusion plain on his pitted face.

“I'm probably not the best one to explain it,” Beltan said, “but Falken's not here, so I'll do my best. One of the Old Gods, Mohg, is trying to get back to Eldh so he can break the First Rune and destroy the world. That way he can make the world anew in his own image. And his servant, the Pale King, is nearly free again. Grace is marching north to Gravenfist Keep with an army to try to stop him, but I don't think even she believes there's much hope of holding the Pale King back.” Beltan thumped a fist against the table. “That's why we have to find Travis.”

Deirdre held a hand to her aching head. “Wait a minute, Beltan—what can Travis do to stop all of this from happening?”

“Everything,” Vani said. She rose, prowling around the table. “Travis has two of the Great Stones, which Mohg seeks, and which are the key to breaking the First Rune. What's more, he is the Runebreaker spoken of in prophecy. It is his fate to be there at the end of the world.”

Anders gaped at her. “So you mean Travis Wilder is the one who's going to break this rune thing and destroy the world? But how is that any better than this Mohg person doing it?”

Vani and Beltan answered only with silence.

Deirdre's brain struggled to grasp all these esoteric names and words. It still didn't make sense, but Beltan was right about one thing—they had to find Travis. Somehow he was the key to everything.

“I think we could all use a little more ale,” Beltan said.

He stood and headed for the kitchen. Despite his turtleneck and blue jeans, Deirdre would never have mistaken him for just any Londoner. He moved his long, lean body with a predatory grace.

“Forgive my asking,” Anders said as Beltan sat back down. “But do you really need our help? You've got the transport device, and from what I read in the report you're both pretty good at taking out Duratek agents. Why didn't you just go to Denver to find Mr. Wilder yourself?”

“We tried.” Vani looked at Deirdre. “When we activated the gate artifact, we sought to open a doorway to Denver. However, something . . . happened.”

“What happened?”

The
T'gol
coiled a hand beneath her chin. “I am still not certain. It was as if there was some kind of . . . resistance. We were nearly lost in the Void. At the last moment, I envisioned a new destination—this city, London. I journeyed here once during my three years on Earth. The gate responded to my new command, and we found ourselves here.”

“So this gate thing can take you anywhere you can picture?” Anders said. “Bloody amazing. But why did you pick London?”

Deirdre gazed at Vani. “You knew the Seekers were here, didn't you?”

Vani nodded. “I learned something of the Seekers in my time on Earth. You have tools at your disposal that could aid us in our search for Travis Wilder. It was my hope you would help us, Deirdre Falling Hawk, so I searched the city for you. It took me some days, but I found the location of the Seeker base. After that, it was a simple matter to follow you here.”

Anders raised up a hand. “All right, I'll buy for a moment that wicked gods are helping Duratek to take over Eldh, and that Travis Wilder is the only one who can stop them. But how do you know Wilder is in Denver in the first place?”

“This is how.” Beltan reached for his coat—which he had thrown on the couch—pulled something out, and tossed it on the table. “We purchased this in a shop down the street.”

It was a copy of yesterday's
Denver Post
. Deirdre picked it up in shaking hands. The headline was something about how the use of the illegal drug Electria had reached epidemic proportions, especially among young people, but Deirdre didn't read the article. Instead her eyes moved to the small photograph of a man at the bottom of the front page.
New evidence suggests fugitive still at large in Denver
, read the caption.

The man in the photo was Travis Wilder.

Deirdre looked up. “We'll catch the first flight we can tomorrow.”

Six hours later, Deirdre rose with the smeary gray light of dawn, let the hot water of the shower pound her back to life, and took a taxi to the Seeker Charterhouse, arriving just before eight o'clock. Nakamura usually got in early, and after signing in with Madeleine, she found him already at work in his office.

As she sat down across from the assistant director, Deirdre hoped everything was all right back at the flat. She had left Anders to keep watch over Beltan and Vani.

“You're here early, Miss Falling Hawk,” Nakamura said before Deirdre could speak. He took a sip of tea. “Were you aware then?”

“Aware of what?”

“That new orders arrived for you this morning. You've been reassigned. Temporarily, I hope.”

Her foggy brain couldn't quite grasp the meaning of these words. “Reassigned? To where?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” He picked up a large manila envelope; the flap was sealed with wax. “This just arrived for you. It came directly from the Philosophers. I assume it contains all of the relevant details.”

Deirdre took the envelope in shaking hands. Maybe she did understand. Hadn't she decided that he had to be one of the Philosophers? The one who had been helping her.

“It must be about—”

Nakamura held up a hand. “No, Miss Falling Hawk, please don't tell me. If I was supposed to know what your mission was, then I would have been informed.”

Lines furrowed the assistant director's usually smooth forehead, and his voice was tight. Was he angry at being kept out of the loop?

“I imagine you'll be leaving immediately. However, do be assured that we'll want you back as soon as we can have you, Miss Falling Hawk.”

Not angry. Worried. Nakamura reached across the desk and touched her hand. “Take care of yourself, Deirdre.”

“I'll try.”

Then, before she broke down, she rose and hurried from his office. Madeleine had a car waiting for her. Deirdre climbed into the back, and as the driver navigated the rain-slicked London streets, she broke the seal on the envelope and emptied the contents onto the seat next to her.

Plane tickets to Denver. Passports. Colorado state driver's licenses. Everything she had planned on asking Nakamura for that morning. There was a set for each of them, including Anders. So whoever the one helping her was, he knew what she had done, and he approved. That was something, she supposed.

The false passports and IDs were of superior quality, each one issued under a new identity. She recognized the pictures of Anders and herself as staff photos on file at the Seekers. By the clothes they wore, the photos of Beltan and Vani had been taken last night with a telephoto lens through the windows of Deirdre's flat. So he had been watching them.

“Who are you?” she whispered, holding up one of the fake passports. “What do you really want?”

It didn't matter. Right now what he wanted was exactly what she wanted. To find Travis Wilder. Deirdre scooped all of the papers back into the envelope as the car eased to a stop.

“Wait for us,” Deirdre said to the driver. “We'll be down in five minutes.”

“And where will you be going, Miss Falling Hawk?”

“Heathrow,” she said.

Their flight left at noon. They made it to the airport with time to spare, and everything on their trip to Denver went without incident.

Mostly, at any rate. There was a moment of panic when Vani was pulled aside at the departure gate for a random security scan. Deirdre feared the assassin was going to break the security guard's neck as he ran the magnetometer wand up and down each of her legs. However, Deirdre locked eyes with her, and Vani stood stiffly until the examination was over.

Vani muttered in outrage as they boarded the plane. “If a man of my people touched an unmarried woman in such a way without her consent, a
va'ksha
would be placed on him, a curse that would make his
thaloks
shrivel like raisins.”

Anders winced. “Does
thaloks
mean what I think it means?”

“It does,” Beltan said. “So be on your best behavior.”

The flight was long, tedious, and frustrating. At least for Deirdre. Vani appeared content to meditate most of the time, and Beltan stayed glued to the miniature television that popped out of the arm of his seat. Occasionally he let out a loud guffaw that caused heads to turn, and once he shouted, “Look out behind you!” at the top of his lungs. Deirdre glanced at his screen in time to see Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff.

“That is a cruel bird,” Beltan said, jabbing a finger at the television.

Once the other passengers stopped staring, Deirdre patiently explained the concept of cartoons, and her words—in combination with the beers the flight attendant brought—seemed to calm the blond man down.

Deirdre readjusted herself in her seat. Across the aisle, Anders was drinking club soda and plowing through a battered paperback copy of
Jane Eyre
. Deirdre's head hurt too much to read, so she spent the rest of the flight shredding cocktail napkins and wondering what awaited them in Colorado.

When they reached Denver International Airport, they found the place crawling with Duratek agents. However, to Deirdre's relief, they breezed through Customs and were approved for entry into Denver. Her fear Vani or Beltan would be recognized was groundless. Whoever her secret helper was, he knew what he was doing; their fake IDs received less scrutiny than the genuine versions carried by actual citizens of Denver.

They showed their approval papers to a security guard—a patch with the crescent moon of the Duratek logo was sewn to his uniform—and he allowed them to get in line for a taxi. Minutes later they sped along the highway as the skyscrapers of downtown Denver grew larger, rising up against the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains.