The Gates of Winter (24 page)

They ended up in a narrow alley between two warehouses off Kalamath Street. They built a fire from more pilfered loading pallets, and Travis pressed his hands to the cinder-block wall, muttering
Krond
over and over, until waves of warmth radiated forth. Jay let out a laugh and pressed his back to the wall. Marty opened his knapsack and pulled out a loaf of white bread and packages of bologna and American cheese—all bought at a 7-Eleven with proceeds from the day's bottle-collecting venture.

Travis tried not to eye the food as Marty put together a thick sandwich, then to his surprise and delight Marty held the sandwich out toward him.

“You provide the heat, we'll provide the food,” he said, grinning.

“You got that right,” Jay said, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “Having a wizard around is damn handy.”

Travis accepted the sandwich in shaking hands—he hadn't eaten since the shelter that morning—and managed to wait until Jay and Marty had sandwiches themselves before greedily eating it. They talked and ate until all the food was gone, then lay close to the fire on ragged blankets as Travis whispered
Krond
again and again. Before long the food and heat did their work, and he drifted into a dream in which Anna Ferraro stood over him, her TV reporter smile firmly affixed to red lips.

“So how does it feel to know you're going to destroy the world?” she said, jamming a microphone into his face.

Travis fought for words. “I . . . I don't want to destroy it.”

“So that means you believe you will,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

“No, I didn't mean . . .”

“That's all we have time for.” She pulled the microphone away. “You know, you shouldn't all go to sleep at the same time. That is, unless you want to be the next ones to vanish. It's dangerous out here.”

Travis jerked awake, and after that he kept watch for several hours, staring into the dark until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. At that point he woke Marty with a gentle shake. The tall man agreed to keep a lookout, then wake Jay to take the last watch. Travis curled up next to the dying fire and whispered
Krond
until sleep took him once again.

When he woke, the sky was as flat and white as a sheet of paper, and Jay and Marty were already rolling up their blankets. The fire was out, and it was bitterly cold.

“I don't want to be the last ones to breakfast today,” Jay said, “and I figured you'd be dragging us by the park again to see old Sparky. So let's get moving.”

Despite all they had eaten last night, the idea of food set Travis's stomach to growling. Trying to keep warm took a lot of energy. Or was it using magic that made him so hungry?

Civic Center Park was on the way as they headed back to downtown. The gold dome of the Capitol blazed to life as they walked between the library and the art museum into the park. Sunrise. Sparkman should be there.

Travis searched around, then saw it not far off—a wheelchair, angled away from them. Only it was sitting in a patch of shadow by a tree. That was odd. He hurried over, Jay and Marty behind him.

“Professor Sparkman,” he said as he approached the chair, “I need to listen again to your—”

He came to a halt, staring at the wheelchair. It was empty. For a moment Travis thought it wasn't his. Then he saw the faded bumper sticker slapped on the back of the seat.
E=mc
²
.
There was no sign of the receiver.

Jay clamped his wool hat down on his cranium. “Hell, I was only kidding about him chopping off his head.”

“He didn't chop off his head,” Marty said, brown eyes sad.

Travis shuddered. It was just like his dream about the TV reporter.
It's dangerous out here,
she had said. He touched Professor Sparkman's empty wheelchair and breathed a foggy sigh. “They took him.”

“The aliens,” Marty said.

Travis didn't have the energy to disagree. He leaned on the handles of the wheelchair. Now how would he learn where in Denver they were hiding the gate?

“Well,” Jay said with a shrug, “since we're not going to talk to Sparky, we might as well go get breakfast.”

27.

Aryn stood atop the battlements of Calavere and watched the band of horsemen ride toward the castle.

She had first spied them when they crested a hill more than a league from Calavere, and now they moved along the road like a dark cloud. She wondered what land they hailed from. One of the Free Cities? The Dominion of Embarr? She would find out soon, and anyway it was a small band—no more than twenty.

Then again, if one was patient, even a large bucket could be filled a drop at a time.

They had begun arriving the day after Grace left Calavere. The first was a band of thirty men who rode shaggy horses across the Darkwine Bridge. They were brutish and half-wild, clad in leather and mismatched armor. However, to Aryn's surprise, when their leader presented himself to Boreas in the lower bailey, he spoke in the well-mannered tones of a nobleman. He was a duke of Eredane, and those who followed him earls and knights. They had been driven from their keeps by the Onyx Knights over a year ago, and had spent the time since living on the edges of the Dominion, hiding from their enemies, and harrying them when they could.

“Things are worse in Eredane than you know,” the duke said after he gripped Boreas's arms in greeting. “The dark knights rule by sword and flame, but even they do not dare stand against the Raven Cult. More fall under the shadow of the Raven each day—entire villages are branded with its sign, and they take to the roads, abandoning field and home, marching I know not where. On some terrible pilgrimage, I fear.”

Each day more men arrived at the castle, some on horses, some on foot. They came alone, or in small bands, or in companies of a hundred or more. A few of them were nobles, like the duke and his men, but many more were farmers and freemen, or merchants and traders and craftsmen. Some, given their rough looks and even rougher manners, were little better than mercenaries and thieves. Boreas welcomed them all.

They hailed from every direction. Some spoke of daring escapes from Brelegond, which—like Eredane—was ruled by the Onyx Knights and plagued by the Raven Cult. Others had abandoned farms and families in Calavan, Galt, Toloria, and Perridon. They had put down hoes and spades and had traded them for old swords that had lain in chests, forgotten for years.

The only Dominion not represented so far was Embarr, which boded ill for that land. However, of all the Dominions, Embarr was farthest from Calavan. Perhaps men would yet come from there. Besides, it was not from the Dominions that most of the men would come. Like all the Mystery Cults, the Cult of Vathris Bullslayer had its origins in the ancient lands of the south, and it was to the south that King Boreas looked.

The first men from Gendarra and the other Free Cities had arrived several days ago. They were equipped with fine armor and swords, for some of the wealthiest merchants in the Free Cities were patrons of Vathris. Men from Tarras had begun to arrive as well, and yesterday the first band of men from Al-Amún had reached the castle, riding white horses with arched necks.

The men were as proud and exotic as the horses they rode. Their hair was long and black, and gold and lapis lazuli gleamed against their dark skin. Aryn thought them as fierce as they were beautiful. They saluted King Boreas with curved swords, and he invited them into the castle to speak.

Women were not welcome in the great hall when the king was meeting with his warriors, and Aryn imagined that was doubly true for witches. Nor did she have Aldeth to spy for her any longer. However, she had other ways to observe. She had cast a spell on a small amethyst, and she had left it in a niche near the king's throne at an opportune moment.

Late last night, when she was certain she wouldn't be seen, she stole back into the great hall to retrieve the gem. Once in her chamber, she held the gem in front of a candle, and in its many facets she saw reflections not of herself, but of the great hall. She watched as the men of Al-Amún approached the throne, and the gem seemed to hum in her hand as the words they and the king exchanged sounded in her mind.

You have answered my call more quickly than I could have hoped,
King Boreas had said.

One of the men bowed before him, then spoke in a richly accented voice.
I must confess, Great Man of Vathris, it was not in answer to your call for war that we first set out on the road to the north.

Boreas raised an eyebrow, and another of the men stepped forward.

A vision came to some of us in our dreams,
he said.
In it, Vathris appeared and told us the Final Battle drew near, and that it would be fought not in the south, but in the icy lands of the north. So we began our journey, and it was only as we were about to set sail across the Summer Sea that your message reached us, and by it we knew our visions were true.

And how many more are behind you?
Boreas said.

The man who had first spoken laughed.
We are but the first of many. Already they gather at the ports faster than ships can bear them across the sea, and so they build more ships. A great host comes behind us, a host larger than any this world has ever seen. The end of all things comes, and any true man of Vathris would die before he would ignore the call to war. So what if it is our destiny to fail? At least in fighting, we will know a glory greater than any other.

These words filled Aryn with awe and dread, and the amethyst tumbled from her hands, cracking as it struck the floor. It didn't matter; she had heard enough. The prophecies were true. The Warriors of Vathris would come, they would march to the Final Battle. And they would be defeated.

But how can any of this possibly make a difference if they're doomed to lose?

“There you are, sister,” said a warm voice, snapping her back to the present. “I thought I might find you here.”

Aryn looked up to see Mirda walking along the battlement. The witch wore only a light cloak against the cold, and her multihued gown fluttered in the wind. Aryn smiled as the elder witch halted beside her, then her smile faded.

“What is it, sister?” Mirda said.

“I don't know. I think, despite everything that's happened, I still wanted to believe it was all just a story. But it's not a story, is it? The Final Battle is coming, if it hasn't already begun.” Aryn pointed. “Look—more warriors ride to the castle even now.”

Mirda sighed. “You're right, sister. It isn't simply a story, much as you or I might wish it were. There are dark times ahead of us, but there is yet hope that we will find light on the other side.” A smile touched her lips. “And are you so certain it is a group of warriors who rides to the castle now? Your eyes are keen, but you have sharper senses.”

Aryn shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch. Swift as a sparrow, she let her consciousness fly along the threads of the Weirding toward the band of riders. She could see them far more clearly than before, outlined in shimmering green . . .

Aryn gasped as her eyes flew open. “We have to find Lirith at once.”

Mirda nodded, her smile gone.

As it turned out, Lirith found them first, coming upon them as they rushed down a corridor. Aryn met her dark eyes and saw the knowledge in them.

“You already know,” Aryn said. “You've had a vision, haven't you?”

Lirith nodded. “It's Queen Ivalaine. I saw her in my mind. She'll reach the castle in minutes.”

Aryn's chest grew tight. “Do you think she knows about us? About our—?” She didn't dare speak the words
shadow coven
.

Mirda started down the corridor. “Come, sisters. Let us hope we can meet the queen before she takes an audience with King Boreas.”

When they reached the massive set of doors that led to the great hall, Aryn let out a breath of relief. The doors were open. She picked up the hem of her gown and started toward them.

“Now that's a funny sight,” said a sardonic voice just to Aryn's left. “I thought witches were supposed to be so mysterious and powerful, but you look more like three field mice who've just seen the shadow of a hawk.”

Aryn pressed a hand to her chest. A shadow separated itself from the dimness of an alcove and stalked toward her.

“Prince Teravian!” she said, and surprise gave way to annoyance.

A smirk crossed his face, marring its handsomeness. “That was fabulous. I thought you were going to faint.”

She gave him a stiff bow. “Anything to please you, Your Highness. Shall I fall and crack my head open on the stones for your further amusement?”

He rolled his eyes. “Gods, Aryn. I thought you had learned how to take a joke.”

“Perhaps it would help if you actually learned how to tell one, Your Highness,” Lirith said, moving closer. “You seem to subscribe to a rather abnormal definition of humor. I can mix a potion that will cure you of that affliction, if you like.”

Teravian grinned. “Now
that's
funny.”

Aryn gave Lirith a grateful look. The dark-eyed witch had a deft way with the prince. Of course, the fact that he had a crush on her certainly helped. Aryn wished she was as good at dealing with him, especially since he was soon to be her husband. True, they had made strides in their relationship—Teravian had even helped her on one occasion. However, conversations like this were still the norm rather than the exception, and in the last week he had seemed more sullen and solitary than usual.

Aryn decided to start over. “What are you doing here, Your Highness?”

He scowled. “You know perfectly well why I'm here. Queen Ivalaine will ask to see me—she always does. I was fostered at her court, after all.”

Mirda gave him a sharp look. “And how did you know the queen was coming?”

A startled look crossed his face, but it was replaced so quickly by anger that Aryn wasn't certain she had seen it.

“Why bother asking me?” he said, glaring at the elder witch. “Can't you just use a spell to pick apart my brain and find the answer for yourself?”

Mirda gazed at him with her wise eyes.

Teravian looked away first. “I'm going to wait with my father.” He turned and strode into the great hall—so swiftly he didn't notice as something fell to the floor. Aryn bent to retrieve it. It was a glove; he must have had a pair tucked into his belt. Except why had he been carrying gloves inside the castle?

Aryn didn't care. She would return it to him later. “Every time I think maybe he's not so awful as I thought, he does something to prove me wrong.”

“Do not judge him too harshly, sister,” Mirda said, touching Aryn's shoulder. “There is much that troubles him.”

“Yes, but what? He's been acting strangely lately. More strangely, I mean. I often see him riding out of the castle alone. I think he's up to something.”

Lirith gave a rich laugh. “I believe the prince is always up to something. It's his nature.” She glanced at Mirda. “But Aryn is right. He is changed of late, and his power is growing. He seems able to disappear into shadows at will, and I would wager a month of
maddok
he's weaving a spell of illusion to do it.”

Mirda gazed after the prince. “In the end, he may be stronger than all of us.” She glanced at Aryn. “Or nearly all. However, he will not come into the true fullness of his power until he is a man.”

Aryn frowned. “But the prince is eighteen now. Surely that's old enough to be considered a man.”

“I do not speak of his age,” Mirda said.

Lirith raised an eyebrow. “I see. But he is a prince. Any number of bold young women in the castle would be glad to make themselves available to him. I'm surprised he has not already lost his maidenhead.”

“Perhaps he knows what it will make of him,” Mirda said.

Before Aryn could ask what that meant, one of the king's guards pounded down the corridor and dashed into the great hall. Moments later, Queen Ivalaine appeared around a corner, accompanied by a pair of knights. She still wore her mud-stained riding gown, and her flaxen hair was tangled from wind. Whatever her business here was, it must be urgent indeed.

Ivalaine strode swiftly down the corridor, her pale eyes fixed on the doors of the great hall. It seemed she would walk right by the three women.

“Your Majesty, please!” Aryn gasped.

Ivalaine hesitated, then turned to look at her. The queen's eyes were feverish, and they darted about, not focusing on anything for more than a moment.

“Do not approach me again,” Ivalaine said, her voice flat and cold. Her hands twitched against her gown; her fingernails were dirty, worried down to the quick. “I have nothing to say to any of you. I come here for one and for one only.”

Aryn felt Lirith go stiff beside her. “But, sister, we ask only that—”

“Do not call me that ever again,” Ivalaine hissed. “I am no one's sister anymore. Nor am I Matron. Though perhaps, if it is not too late, if I have not ruined everything with my folly, I may still be a mother.”

With that the queen strode into the great hall. The doors shut with a boom like thunder, leaving the three women to stare in astonishment.

That night, Aryn hoped to get another chance to speak with Ivalaine at supper. However, the seat at the high table to King Boreas's left remained empty; there was no sign of the queen anywhere in the great hall. Or of Prince Teravian, not that his absence was a surprise. He rarely took the seat to Boreas's right these days, though it was always reserved for him.

The king sat in the center of the high table, glowering at no one in particular. Despite the many warriors who streamed into the rapidly growing camp below the castle, Boreas had been in a bleak mood ever since the day of Lady Grace's departure. And it wasn't just Grace's absence that troubled him, for it was later that same day that Beltan had disappeared, along with Vani. No doubt Boreas missed having his nephew for a commander.

“They've gone to find Runebreaker,” Mirda had said. “They're going to bring him back to Eldh.”

The gate artifact had gone missing with Vani and Beltan. Somehow they had found a way to activate it, and they had left without telling anyone, though where they had gone was not in question. Both loved Travis Wilder. Surely they had gone to him as Mirda said.