The Gates of Winter (50 page)

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 Durge 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 made 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.

“How much do you know?”

Her gaze moved past him, to Marty's corpse. “Not even close to everything, but enough. I know the things they call angels come from another world—the world you've been to, Travis. And I know they give people hearts of iron and make them slaves. Only slaves to who I'm not sure.” She crossed her arms. “I suppose I'll find out when they make me into one of them.”

Travis cast aside his suspicion. Whatever she had done, she was trying to help now. He touched her arm. “No, Jace. Never. You won't become one of them. I'll make sure of it.”

She looked up at him. Tears shone in her eyes. “There's only one way to be sure, Travis.”

Before he could speak, a burst of electronic static broke the silence. The static came again, along with a familiar voice. “Travis, can you hear me?”

He reached into his pocket, fumbling for the radio he had forgotten was there. “Deirdre?” he said, pressing a button. “Deirdre, is that you?”

“We're in the control room.” Her voice was clipped but understandable. “Anders is very good at persuasion, and the three producers in here have agreed to help us out. No one outside knows anything is going on in here. At least not yet.”

He let out a sigh. “What about Beltan and Vani?”

“They've retreated and are lying low.”

“That's good.”

“Yes, but this isn't.” Urgency sounded in Deirdre's voice. “The show's about to start, and we've got the videotape in, but there's a problem—we can't get the tape to show on the big screen onstage. Anders and his gun convinced one of the producers to tell us why. It turns out there's a panel onstage that Sage Carson uses to control the big screen. Unless that panel is activated, we can't show the tape.”

Fresh dread blossomed in Travis. If they couldn't air the tape, then all their effort had been for nothing. Even if he destroyed the gate, Duratek would remain. There would be nothing to stop them from constructing another gate. It might take them time, but they would do it.

“Travis?”

Jace. He lowered the radio and looked at her.

“I don't know what's on the tape,” Jace said. “It sounds important.”

“If we air it, it will bring Duratek down.”

“So it is important then. But you'll never get to that control panel. There are guards positioned all around the stage. I'm not sure, but I think some of them are ironhearts. Their mission is to keep everyone away from Mr. Carson.”

“Why?”

“I'm still not sure. He matters to Duratek, that's all I know. If you try to get onstage, they'll stop you. And once they realize who you are, they'll kill you.”

“I have to try, Jace.”

“I had a feeling you'd say that. You'd better follow me. I know an access stairway that will get us close to the stage before we're seen.”

Amazement filled Travis. He lifted the radio. “I'm on it, Deirdre. We'll flip that switch for you.”

Before she could reply, he turned off the radio. “We've got to hurry, Jace. The wraithlings know I'm here. They'll tell Duratek.”

She headed through the broken doorway. Travis cast one last glance at the bodies in the room. The ironheart who once had been a man, the crumpled form of the fairy. Jay and Marty.

It wasn't just that evil killed. Death was terrible, but in the end it came to everyone. Rather, it was that evil took good people and made them its own. That was its greatest crime; that was why he had to stop it.

Travis followed Jace. At the end of the corridor was a doorway. Jace drew a card from her pocket and inserted it into a slot. There was a
click
, and she pushed against the door. Beyond was a stairwell.

Jace glanced at her watch. “The show's about to start.”

They raced up the stairs, Jace moving lightly, Travis lumbering after, up flight after flight, until his lungs burned and his legs quivered. Finally, they reached another door.

Jace placed her hand on it, then hesitated and glanced at him. “Are you really what they say you are?”

He fought for breath. “What do they say I am?”

“Dangerous.”

He rubbed his right hand. “I guess even they tell the truth sometimes.”

“Let me go first,” she said, and opened the door.

They were in an access corridor. Jace moved forward, and Travis followed. The corridor opened up into a long, narrow space. Metal scaffolding rose to a ceiling so high it was lost in shadows. Ropes dangled like spiderwebs, and spotlights shone like eyes in the gloom above. To the left was a cinder-block wall, while on the right a gigantic velvet curtain cascaded from above like a deep blue waterfall.

Various show personnel rushed in every direction, speaking into their headsets. A choir dressed in white robes huddled in a circle, engaged in breathing exercises. Several people sat in a row of chairs, looks of wonder and fear on their faces. Some clutched canes and crutches, others stared with blind eyes or hunched over as if in pain.

Jack kept moving, and Travis followed, but they had gone no more than ten steps before a pair of guards—two men—spotted them and approached. The crescent moons on their uniforms glowed in the dimness.

“Who is this man?” one of the guards said to Jace.

“One of today's sufferers,” Jace said matter-of-factly.

The other guard eyed Travis. “Where's his clearance badge?”

Jack licked her lips. “He's a last-minute addition. There wasn't time to laminate a badge for him. That's why I've escorted him here myself.”

The second guard's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the first one's face was hard, implacable. His hand rested on the grip of the pistol at his hip. “No guest is allowed backstage without a badge, Ms. Windom. You should be aware of that policy.”

Jace drew a breath. Travis wondered what she was going to say. Before he could find out, a woman holding a clipboard rushed up to them.

“What's going on here?” Her hair was slipping out of the tight bun it had been drawn into. “It's five minutes to airtime. The backstage area has to be cleared of all nonessential personnel.”

Jace was faster than the other guards. “This man is another sufferer.”

The woman's eyes lit up. “Thank goodness. Why didn't you say so? The little kid with the seizures is out. His parents decided to take him to the hospital instead, so we're one short.” She grabbed Travis's arm and started pulling him along.

“Wait a minute,” the guard with the flat eyes said. “He doesn't have a badge.”

The woman glared back at the guards. “Badge? All I care is that he has an affliction.”

She led Travis away. The two guards started to follow, but Jace stepped in front of them. She glanced at Travis and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“So what are you suffering from?”

Travis turned his head to stare at the woman. What she was talking about?

She let out a groan. “Please, don't let it be idiocy.” She stopped in front of the bank of chairs, then spoke slowly. “What is your affliction? What do you want Mr. Carson to cure?”

Travis looked at the people in the chairs: crippled, thin, hunched over in pain. Finally, he understood.

The woman was looking at him expectantly. What did he say?
I can do magic—magic that kills people. Cure me of that.

Instead he said, “I'm dyslexic.”

She frowned, then gave a resigned sigh. “Well, I suppose that's something. You're sure you don't have epilepsy?”

“Sorry. Just the dyslexia.”

“Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers.” She pointed to the last empty chair. “Sit right here. The show will begin with a medley of hope sung by the choir. While they're singing, Mr. Carson will come out and talk to each of you to get your story. You're to answer his questions as quickly as possible, and don't even think about asking for an autograph. When the healing segment begins, I'll come back to lead you and the other sufferers onstage, where Mr. Carson will cure you.”

“Just like that?” Travis said.

The woman gave him a tight smile. “Just like that.” She scribbled something on her clipboard, then hurried away.

“He can do miracles, you know.”

Travis looked at the woman next to him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and shadows gathered in the hollows of her cheeks.

“What?” Travis said.

The woman smiled. Her neck was so thin he could see her larynx moving as she spoke. “Sage Carson. I've seen him do it on TV. He's cured all sorts of afflictions with just a touch. I'm sure he'll cure you, too.”

Travis didn't want to ask the question, but he found himself speaking all the same. “And what about you?”

“The doctors say I need chemotherapy, but I've seen what chemo does. They have to kill you just to try to save you. I'd rather put myself in God's hands.” She cast her eyes upward. “I know he'll take away the cancer. My daughters need me.”

Anger blossomed in Travis's chest. How many people had died because of lies like that? A tumor couldn't just be waved away with a wish and a prayer. However, radiation could shrink it, could stop it from growing back. The trick was finding a dose that would kill the cancer without killing the patient.

The woman's eyes were shut now; she was humming a hymn under her breath. Travis looked down at his hands. Could he find a way to remove Eldh's affliction without killing the whole world in the process? He didn't know, but he wasn't going to just sit here and pray that somehow everything would work out.

From the other side of the curtain, a roar of applause sounded, then a triumphant chorus of voices burst into song. Travis looked up. The choir had gone onstage; the show had begun. A guard stood at either end of the curtain, but neither of them was Jace. Panic gripped him. Had she set him up? Had she led him here so they could capture him?

“Hello, there, son. Tell me what ails you.”

Hope surged in Travis. The voice was smoother—a bell rather than a rasp—but it carried the same rich cadence, the same promise of power and redemption.

He turned in the chair, and hope became ash in his heart. The preacher standing above him was clad, not in dusty black, but in tailored white. His shoe black hair was shellacked into a perfect wave, and a thick layer of makeup lent his face an inhuman smoothness.

“Speak up, son.” Sage Carson's smile broadened, sending cracks through his makeup. “The show's begun, and there are other sufferers to whom I need to speak.”

The other people in the chairs gazed at Travis, some with less-than-friendly expressions.

Travis looked up into Carson's eyes. “I think you already know what my affliction is.”