The Gates of Winter (42 page)

A buzzing filled Travis's head as he stared at the paper in Deirdre's hands. He had never been inside; he had only seen it on television. All the same, he was certain. There was the stage, and the ocean of seats.

“It's the Steel Cathedral,” he said, brushing a hand over the plans. “It has to be.”

The others gave him confused looks. However, certainty filled Travis—sharp and cold as ice.
There is still somewhere you can go. Into the heart of shadow itself. . . .

He stood again, clutching the scrap of paper. “Give me the phone,” he said. “I have to call Anna Ferraro. I have to tell her I know how to get her on TV.”

43.

It is time, sister.

Aryn's eyes snapped open, and she sat up straight in the chair. Her chamber was cold; the fire must have burned out long ago. What was the hour? She had not meant to fall asleep. She had intended to sew all night long, to weave magic into the cloth with every stitch, but she must have dozed off in the end. She glanced at the window. Gray light seeped through the glass.

Please, sister, can you hear me?

“Lirith, is that you?” she croaked, too bleary to simply think the words.

Lirith's familiar voice sounded in her mind.
Thank Sia you're awake. There's no time to waste. Already the Warriors gather on the field below the castle. They will march with the rising of the sun. Sareth and I go now to the upper bailey. Meet us there.

Before Aryn's foggy brain could fashion a reply, Lirith's presence was gone. Aryn let out a sound of dismay; there was so much she wanted to ask the witch. However, it was too dangerous to speak over the Weirding, as Lirith surely knew; there was no telling who might be listening.

Besides, Aryn, you can't lie when you speak across the threads of the Weirding. So are you going to tell Lirith that you spied on her and Teravian last night? Are you going to tell her how you used magic to watch while they . . .

Despite the chill, a hot wave of shame coursed through her. Or was it another, different sensation of warmth she was feeling? In her mind she saw again the way Teravian's lean, pale body had moved against Lirith's soft, dark flesh.

Aryn shook her head. She did not know how this day was going to unfold, but if things transpired as she feared, she would have to put any thoughts of mercy, of tenderness, out of her mind. The Pale King had his slaves with hearts of iron to serve him. If the Dominions were to have any hope, Aryn would have to harden her own heart—if not into a lump of iron, then at least into a thing of ice.

She touched the scarf that lay across her lap. It was covered with embroidery now, the fine stitches forming intricate patterns of crimson and gold. So skillfully had she sewn that the bloodstain could hardly be seen amid the pattern. In her mind's eye, shimmering green threads of magic shone alongside the mundane strands of red and yellow. However, it was not finished; there was still one section of the scarf she had not managed to embroider, and now there was no more time. She would have to hope it was enough.

You'll have to get close to him, Aryn. This magic is part of you. To invoke it, you'll have to give it to him yourself.

She prayed to Sia it wouldn't come to that. Perhaps they had misjudged him; perhaps the prince was loyal to his father after all, loyal to the Dominions. Perhaps . . .

Aryn carefully folded the scarf, then rose from the chair, stretched her stiff limbs, and hastily readied herself for the outdoors. She donned a wool gown the color of the winter sky, and over it threw a dark blue cloak lined with fox fur. The light outside the window had changed from gray to silver. She had to hurry.

As she moved to the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in a polished mirror propped in the corner. The woman who gazed back at her looked older than Aryn would have expected, her face pale and regal.

Aryn turned, opened the door, and left her chamber.

The castle was empty as she rushed through the corridors; when she reached the entrance hall she found the doors unguarded. She passed into the upper bailey. Frost dusted the world, making everything a ghost of itself. Clouds scudded across the hard sky above. Already their edges were tinged with copper.

She found Lirith and Sareth waiting for her just outside the king's stables.

“We can speak as we go,” Lirith said, her breath white on the air. “We must reach the field below the castle before the Warriors make ready to depart.”

“What do you intend to do?” Aryn said as they started across the bailey.

“To watch, and to be ready. If Liendra plans something, it will happen before they begin their march.”

Aryn gasped. “You've seen this?”

“No,” Lirith said with a rueful expression. “I'm afraid the Sight has abandoned me in this. Yet I'm sure of it all the same. They murdered Queen Ivalaine to keep her out of the way, and then last night they—”

Lirith bit her tongue, and Aryn sucked in a sharp breath. So she had not told Sareth what she had done last night.

“Did you sense something,
beshala
?” Sareth said, touching Lirith's arm. “That's where you were last night, wasn't it? You were out searching for signs of the Necromancer.”

Lirith cast a frightened look at Aryn.

Aryn didn't hesitate. “No,” she said. “We didn't sense Shemal's presence in the castle. But she's here somewhere. She has to be.”

Lirith squeezed Aryn's left hand.

You must not worry, sister,
Aryn dared to murmur across the Weirding.
I will never tell him.

And yet I must,
Lirith spoke back, her thread trembling.
I must tell him everything. But not this day.

They hurried across the lower bailey, past the two ruined towers, and through the castle gates. The road that wound down the hill was more populated; they passed servants carrying bundles and squires dashing back up to the castle to fetch items their lords had forgotten.

As they rounded a corner, the field below Calavere came into view, and Aryn's heart leaped in her chest. Company after company was lined up at the foot of the hill; armor reflected the steely light, so that the army looked like a river flowing into the distance. The number of foot soldiers was beyond counting, and there were horsemen as well, score upon score of them, as well as a fleet of wagons to carry supplies.

Sareth let out a breath of wonder. “Would you look at that. Maybe there's hope for this world after all.”

Maybe, Aryn thought, if they could prevent Liendra and her witches from meddling.

They made their way down the hill nearly at a run, and Aryn scanned the army as they went. There were numerous banners, each one bearing the crest of a particular fiefdom: hawks, bears, and serpents. There were other, more exotic banners as well, carried by the lords and chieftains who had journeyed from the far south, bearing the silhouettes of creatures Aryn couldn't name. Then she saw what she was looking for: a banner that stood higher than all others. It was deep blue, adorned with a silver crown of nine points above a pair of crossed swords.

“King Boreas,” Aryn said between ragged breaths. “We should go to him.”

They left the road behind and made for the king's banner. The sea of soldiers parted, making way for them, and many of the men bowed to Aryn as she passed.

As they drew near, Aryn saw Boreas sitting on his massive warhorse. He wore a mail shirt and an azure cloak trimmed with silver, but his head was bare. He looked big and fierce and terribly handsome. Several lords were gathered around him, but Aryn saw no sign of Teravian. She slipped through the throng of mounted knights, moving to the king, Sareth and Lirith in tow.

“So you've come to bid me farewell after all, my lady?” he said, a grin parting his black beard. “I thought you had decided your sleep was more important than wishing me luck.”

Despite her trepidation, Aryn found herself smiling as well. “And who could sleep with all these trumpets blowing, Your Majesty? You're making quite a racket.”

“It's all part of our plan, my lady. We'll make ourselves appear so fearsome the servants of the Pale King will take one look at us and run all the way back to Imbrifale.”

Aryn laughed. “That's an awful plan.”

The king shrugged broad shoulders. “We'll refine it as we go along.”

Aryn started to speak again, only her laughter had somehow turned to tears. The king climbed down from his horse and encircled her in strong arms. For a moment, she felt like a small girl again.

“I wish I could come with you, Your Majesty,” she managed to say between sobs.

“I wish it were so as well, my lady,” he said, his voice gruff. “Your presence would gladden my heart. But it is a dark road we must travel, to a dark place, and should I never return, there must be someone here to keep the light of hope burning.”

Aryn clutched him more tightly. “No, Your Majesty. Do not speak of such a thing. You will return to us, and with Lady Grace at your side.”

However, all he said was, “There, child.” Then he kissed her brow and gently pushed her away. He climbed back onto his horse. “You'll take good care of her,” he said, gazing at Lirith and Sareth.

“With all our might,” Sareth said.

One of the knights guided his horse close to the king's. “Any sign of the prince yet?”

Aryn's sorrow receded in the wake of new fear. So they had not seen Teravian either. What did it mean? Before she could wonder more, the sound of trumpets shattered the brittle air. At the same moment, the sun crested the horizon, and the clouds changed from copper to fiery crimson.

“There,” the king said, pointing across the field to the east. “Here he comes now, along with Petryen and Ajhir. They were keeping track of him.”

The knight grinned. “Perhaps he was a bit groggy this morning after his adventures last night.”

Lirith's cheeks darkened, and she turned away. Sareth cast a puzzled look at her. Aryn started to reach for the witch, then murmured oaths rose from the men all around.

“By Vathris,” Boreas growled, “what's that they're carrying?”

Something was wrong, but Aryn couldn't see for all the horsemen. She spied a squire holding a horse, probably for a lord who had gone to use the privy trench one last time. Ignoring the boy's protest, she grabbed the saddle and pulled herself up.

The light of the dawning sun tinged countless shields and spears with the color of blood. Aryn shaded her eyes with her left hand and saw three riders approaching from the east. Two of the men rode dark horses; she recognized them as Duke Petryen and Sai'el Ajhir. Between them, on a white horse, rode Teravian. The prince was clad in a red cloak over black armor. A sword was belted at his side, and resting on his brow was a circlet wrought of silver.

Ajhir carried a banner, staff braced in his stirrup, and a breeze caught the cloth, unfurling it. It was a mirror to the banner of Calavan—a crown over crossed swords—only rather than silver on blue, it was gold on green. Petryen carried a second banner, red on white: the shape of a charging bull.

“What does he mean by this?” Boreas roared. “By all the Seven, he had better have a good explanation, or I will have him thrown in the dungeon, prince though he is.”

The army fell silent as the prince and the two men rode closer. The air behind them seemed to shimmer with ruby light; the clouds blazed in the sky. The three riders came to a halt, opposite the king and his captains, thirty paces away.

“Hear us, men of Vathris!” Ajhir called out. “Hear us, true followers of the Bullslayer!” His words rang out over the field, impossibly loud, so that every man could easily hear them. Aryn cast a startled glance at Lirith.

It's a spell,
Lirith mouthed the words, weaving her fingers together.

With a jolt, Aryn understood. In a way it was like the enchantment that allowed them to speak across the Weirding. Only this magic made it so anyone could hear Ajhir's words. But where were the witches who were casting the spell?

“You have been betrayed, men of Vathris!” Ajhir called out. “You have been lied to by the very man who you now follow—by King Boreas himself.”

Murmurs of anger and dismay rose from the army. Men cast shocked looks at the king. Boreas's visage went white, and Aryn knew it was from rage rather than fear. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Petryen moved his horse forward; his voice rang out like Ajhir's. “He has told you it was the witch Ivalaine who tried to murder Prince Teravian. What he did not tell you was that it was he himself who convinced her to do the deed, using spells to twist her mind—dark magics no true man of Vathris would have dealings with. It was Boreas who did this, so that he might usurp his son's place in prophecy. For it is not King Boreas upon whom Vathris has shone his holy light, but rather upon his son. The prophecies are clear: It is Teravian who is to lead us in the battle against the darkness of the north, not the traitor and coward King Boreas!”

Now shouts rose from the men, some of protest, but others of outrage. Some of the knights around Aryn appeared as angry as the king, but many more cast odd looks at Boreas, their lips curling in disgust.

It's part of the spell, sister,
Lirith's voice spoke in her mind.
The words Ajhir and Petryen speak—they do more than simply pierce the air. They are piercing men's hearts and minds as well, twisting them. Only I don't know how they're doing it. Can you see anything from up there?

Aryn gazed around, but she saw only the great host of warriors, and the empty plain, and the red clouds that boiled in the sky. The air behind Teravian, Petryen, and Ajhir shimmered as though it were hot instead of bitterly cold.

“This is madness!” Boreas called out. He wheeled his horse around, his eyes casting off sparks. “Do not listen to them! I know not why, but they seek to turn us from our purpose, to prevent us from riding against the darkness.”

However, the king's voice sounded small and weak compared to the stentorian tones of Petryen and Ajhir. His words were drowned out by the angry voices of the warriors, though there were shouts of doubt and protest as well.

How can we know if this is true?
many of the men called out, and others took up the cry.
How can we know it is the prince who is to lead us? Show us a sign!

A chant rose from the men, quickly growing in strength as it raced across the army like a wave over the ocean.

Show us! Show us!

Teravian guided his white horse forward, and the chanting ceased as a silence fell over the army.

“I will show you a sign,” the prince said, and though his voice was low, every ear heard his words, and every soldier held his breath as he raised his arms over his head.

Aryn clutched the reins of her stolen horse. What was he doing? Then she felt the hum of magic along the threads of the Weirding.