The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  She had slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Tira, who was curled in a tight ball under the covers, and without making a sound had opened then shut the chamber door.

  Now she padded through the castle's entry hall and down a passage until she reached an enormous oaken door carved with the crest of Calavere: a pair of swords crossed beneath a crown with nine points. Only the crown shouldn't have nine points anymore, it occurred to Grace. Two of the castle's towers were gone, fallen to rubble. Would there ever be a time to repair them?

  There wouldn't be if she didn't do this. Grace pushed against the door and opened it just enough to slip into the space beyond. Once in, she leaned against the door to shut it, grateful that some servant must have oiled the hinges in the recent past.

  Enough light came through the high windows to let her make out the rows of raised seats that ringed the chamber, as well as the circular table that dominated the center. This was the place where the Council of Kings had been held over a year ago. The space had been used little since then, and the air was frigid and musty. Grace hurried to the table, then glanced over her shoulder. She felt like a teenager sneaking into school after hours.

  That's ridiculous, Grace. If the forest queen was right, then you belong here.

  She walked around the table. Inlaid in the center was the rune of hope, which Travis had bound there after he broke the rune of peace. Eight ornate wooden chairs surrounded the table, royal crests carved into the back of each one. There was Chair Calavan next to Chair Toloria, and chairs for the rest of the seven Dominions.

  Grace came to a halt behind the final chair. It was newer in appearance than the others, glossier. But then, over the centuries, it had never been sat in, had it? Legend told that a witch had cast a spell on this chair, and that only the true heir to the throne of Malachor might dare sit in it, for one who was false would surely be struck dead.

  Mad mirth bubbled up inside Grace. Falken and the others were absolutely convinced she was the last descendant of the royal house of Malachor. What if she sat in this seat and ended up getting fried to a crisp?

  “That would certainly show them, wouldn't it?” she murmured, and had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  Grace brushed the symbol carved on the back of the chair: a stylized knot with four loops surrounding a four-pointed star. There was no jolt of magic. Her fingers came away dusty, not burnt. She edged around to the front of the chair.

  “Well, here goes nothing.”

  Grace sat down. If Chair Malachor had a curse, it was simply that it was extremely uncomfortable. The seat was hard, and the carvings in the back poked her from behind. Other than that—and the fact that the chair seemed to have been constructed for someone three feet taller than she—there seemed to be nothing special about it.

  But there had to be something here. Sit in the chair that is forbidden to all others, the forest queen had said, and the key shall be revealed to you.

  Grace didn't see anything sticking out of the chair that looked remotely keylike, and all of the knobs and protrusions were firmly attached. Perhaps it was a riddle of some sort—perhaps there was something that could be seen only when sitting in this chair. Except the chamber looked the same from this angle as it did from any other.

  All right, so maybe there was something about the table in front of the chair. She groped along the underside of the table with a hand, half-expecting to encounter a chewed piece of gum someone had stuck there, but there was nothing. Grace sighed, feeling cold and tired and more than a little sick. What had she really expected? It was just a chair, and she doubted that the story of the witch who had cursed it was true.

  “Tell that to the Earl of Wetterly,” said a croaking voice. “He fancied himself descended of King Ulther, and he tried sitting in the chair a few centuries ago. All they found of him the next morning were his teeth. No one's touched the chair since. Until now.”

  Grace gasped and looked around, but she could not see the speaker. “Who's there? Show yourself!”

  “Why, I'm right here, Your Majesty.” A lumpy form clad in gray rags shambled around from behind the chair.

  “Vayla,” Grace said. She cocked her head, thinking of the hag she had met in King Kel's camp. “Or is it Grisla?”

  The crone shrugged knife-edged shoulders. “Why don't you decide, Your Majesty?”

  “Let's stick with Vayla for now. She's a bit less . . .”

  “Fun?” the old woman said.

  Grace smiled. “I was going to say impertinent.”

  Vayla let out a snort. “Suit yourself, Your Majesty. But maybe it would be better if it was Grisla who was here and not me. You see, she wouldn't hesitate for a second to tell you what an enormous dolt you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” Vayla jabbed a bony finger at her chest. “You're always so sure there's no hope. After all you've seen, do you really think so little of magic? So little of life? By the first and the last, sometimes you make that Embarran fellow look like a ray of sunshine. Perhaps you should change your name to Lady Lamentsalot?”

  Grace's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you aren't really Grisla?”

  “We all have different faces. It's just a matter of which face we choose to wear at any given moment.” The crone peered at Grace with her one bulbous eye. “So which face are you going to put on today?”

  Grace started to say that she didn't have different faces, but that wasn't true, was it? She was a doctor and a witch. And, whether she wanted it or not, a queen. She was a woman as well, frightened and alone. But which of them was really her?

  “I don't know what I'm going to be.”

  “Humph,” Vayla said, hands on her shapeless hips. “You'd better decide.”

  “What will happen if I don't?”

  “Madness, that's what. Doom and death.” The crone leaned into the chair; she smelled like old leaves. “We have many faces, but we can wear only one at a time. If you try to be everything to everyone, then you'll end up being nothing at all. So pick one and stick with it.”

  “Even if it's not the right one?”

  “And if what you choose comes from within you, daughter, how can it possibly be wrong?”

  These words startled Grace—and filled her with a strange excitement as well. Ever since her heritage was revealed, she had resisted the idea that she was a queen. But what was the true reason for that?

  Queens are supposed to be proud and regal and fearless, Grace. They order people about with a flick of a finger. And they always know exactly what they're doing.

  Or was that just some silly notion of what a queen was supposed to be—something culled from books and movies? Maybe Grace didn't have to be any of those things to be a queen. Maybe all she had to do was put those unattainable ideas aside and be her own sort of royalty—one with a bad haircut, a serious maddok addiction, and a complete inability to curtsy. And one blessed with wondrous friends who could help her through just about anything. Maybe, just maybe, she really could be a queen.

  A gasp escaped her—a sound of realization, and of letting go.

  Vayla patted Grace's cheek with a crooked hand. “That's it, daughter—no one can tell you who you're going to be. Not bards or gods or pale kings. That's for you to decide.”

  The old crone turned and shuffled toward the chamber door.

  Grace stared, then panic gripped her. “Wait! I need you. I have to find the key!”

  “You don't need me for that!” the old woman called over her shoulder in a surly voice. “It's been right under your thumb all this time.”

  Under her thumb? Grace looked down at her hands, which rested on the arms of the chair. The wood was smooth beneath both thumbs, though next to the right was a small carving of—what? She bent closer, and her heart leaped into her throat.

  It was a carving of a walled fortress atop a high mountain. Her thumb gave an involuntary twitch against the carving. There was a click, and a small section of wood beneath her
thumb pressed inward. Startled, she pulled her hand away, and a small drawer popped out of the arm of the chair.

  Once her heart decided to start beating again, Grace peered into the drawer. Inside was a creamy disk of stone about the size of a quarter, but many times thicker. She hesitated, then picked it up. Immediately she saw it was a rune. Three parallel lines incised the surface of the disk, identical to the rune in the center of the council table. Grace recognized the symbol. It was hope.

  Of course. Wasn't hope always the key? With hope, anything was possible.

  “So how do I use it?”

  Silence. She looked up. Vayla was nowhere in sight. However, there was only one way the crone could have gone. Grace rose and tucked the rune into a pocket, then slipped through the crack in the door. Shawl flapping, she ran down the passage until she came to an intersection. Which way?

  Grace caught motion out of the corner of her eye and turned in time to see a flutter of gray cloth vanishing around a bend. She sprinted down the corridor and rounded the corner. A lumpy shadow was just passing into an archway ahead. Grace hurried after.

  She found herself in a dim hall lined with suits of armor. At the other end was a doorway, glowing with gold light. For a moment a shapeless silhouette was outlined in the doorway, then it passed through. Grace leaned forward, raced down the hall, and ran through the doorway.

  “Going somewhere?” said a voice. It was gentle and serene but slightly bemused, a woman's voice.

  Grace skidded on her heels, halting just short of a spear that a suit of armor gripped at a decidedly perilous angle. She was in a small antechamber. There were a few chairs, and several time-darkened portraits of dukes, earls, and princes adorned the walls. Saffron-colored light spilled through the window; outside, the sun had just risen.

  “Are you well, sister?”

  Grace turned. The woman was not tall, but she was elegant all the same, clad in a gown that seemed to catch the morning light and spin it into a dozen different hues of purple, green, and peacock blue. Her black hair was marked by a single streak of white, and wise lines accented her almond-shaped eyes. Was she a noblewoman? Perhaps, though her dress seemed a bit unusual.

  Realizing she should probably say something, Grace drew in a breath. “I'm looking for someone. She came in here.”

  “Really?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “That's curious. For as you can see, I am the only one here besides yourself, and there are no doors to this chamber other than the one you came through.”

  Grace frowned. Where could Vayla have gone?

  Probably anywhere. There's no telling who Vayla really is. Or Grisla, or whatever she calls herself. But there's certainly more to her than meets the eye. You won't see her again until she wants you to.

  “I ask again, are you well, sister?” the woman said in a motherly voice, taking a step closer.

  Grace nodded. “I'm fine, really. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all. I'm sorry to have bothered you.” She started toward the door.

  The woman smiled. “It's no bother. I arrived at the castle early this morning, and I've simply been waiting for people to wake up.”

  Grace hesitated. “What people?”

  The other's smile deepened. “Why, people like you, sister.”

  Grace took a step back into the room. For some reason the woman reminded her of Vayla, though the other was certainly no hag. Instead, she was beautiful and mature, a woman in the prime of life.

  “Excuse me,” Grace said, “but have we met before?”

  The other nodded. “In spirit, yes, if not in person.”

  Grace stared, then it hit her. On the white ship, when she had struggled against the runelord Kelephon, Aryn had reached across countless leagues to help her weave a spell. But there had been another presence along with Aryn's, one that was deep, calm, and wise. It was . . .

  “You!” Grace said with a gasp. “Aryn and Lirith told me all about you. Your name is Sister Mirda, and you're the witch who helped change the weaving of the Pattern at Ar-tolor. And you were the one who convinced Aryn to join the—” Grace dropped her voice to a whisper. “—to join the shadow coven.”

  Mirda nodded, her expression knowing. “I see Sister Aryn has told you much.”

  “No, don't worry,” Grace said, moving forward. “You see, we've joined the shadow coven, too. Lirith and I.”

  Mirda pressed a hand to her chest. “I know not whether to be glad for myself, sister, or afraid for you. It is no simple thing to join a coven such as ours. The shadow covens were forbidden over a century ago, and if we are ever discovered, we shall all be cut off from the Weirding forever.”

  “Aryn told us the risks,” Grace said, trying to sound confident. “But we've joined, and what's done is done.”

  Mirda's smile returned, then in an action that surprised Grace, the elder witch glided forward and caught her in an embrace. Despite her shock, Grace found herself smiling as well.

  “We are lucky,” Mirda said, stepping back, “to be joined by three witches such as you and your sisters. Each of you is so talented in your own way.”

  Grace stiffened and tried to pull away, but Mirda held her hands tight.

  “No, sister, you must not deny your gifts, not now when they are most needed. You are a great healer, and you have skill such as I have never seen before. You weave the Weirding in new and wondrous ways.”

  At least Grace freed her hands. “I'm nothing compared to Lirith and Aryn.”

  “I would hardly say that. But it is true that Sister Lirith is strong in the Sight, and Sister Aryn's power is deep—deeper than any other's, I think. With you three, perhaps there is hope for our impossible task after all.”

  Hope. Grace touched the pocket where she had slipped the rune.

  “Where have you been, Mirda?” Grace asked. “Aryn said you left just before we arrived in Calavere.”

  Mirda turned toward one of the windows. “I'm afraid an urgent task called me away. But it is done, and I've returned, and I'll not be leaving again.” She turned back. “Unlike yourself, sister.”

  Grace sank into one of the chairs. “I have to go north, to Gravenfist Keep. I'm supposed to stop the Pale King from riding forth when the Rune Gate opens. But I don't know how I'm possibly going to do that. All I have is an old sword and five hundred men. And this.” She drew out the rune.

  Mirda studied the rune but did not touch it. “It seems you have much to me. Remember that you do not need to defeat the Pale King. Your part in this shadow coven is to hold him back until the Runebreaker can fulfill his destiny.”

  A shiver coursed through Grace. “Until he breaks the world, you mean.”

  “Or saves it,” Mirda said, meeting her gaze.

  How could it be both? Grace still didn't understand that. But there was one thing she did know—there was no person on any world kinder or truer than Travis Wilder. He would not harm Eldh; she would not believe that he could.

  “He's gone, you know.” Grace leaned her head against the back of the musty chair.

  “He will return,” Mirda said.

  Grace shut her eyes. “But how can you know that?”

  “Because prophecy demands it. The Runebreaker will be there at the end.”

  “But what if it's not Travis? What if it's the other Runebreaker who's there at the end?”

  “Then,” Mirda said, her words hard as stones, “all the world is doomed.”

  Grace sighed and opened her eyes. She couldn't know who was going to reach the First Rune first—Travis or Mohg or the other Runebreaker. However, even if Travis did manage to save the world, there would be nothing left to save if the Pale King had already ridden across it and enslaved all of its people. She had to face Berash. Not because she was better than anyone else, or stronger. Simply because someone had to stand against the Pale King, so it might as well be her.

  Her thoughts must have been clear upon her face.

  “Is it not time for you to go, sister?”

  Grace stood, fe
eling a bit shaky, but surprisingly strong. “I suppose it is.”

  Mirda touched her cheek. “Do not fear. We will keep watch here while you are gone. Sister Liendra and the other Witches would work to hinder the Warriors of Vathris, so it is the task of Sister Aryn, Sister Lirith, and myself to make certain that does not come to pass. Once the Warriors have answered King Boreas's call to muster, they will march north, and you will have a vast force at your command.”

  Grace didn't know whether to be reassured by that thought or terrified. She started to pull away, then a thought occurred to her. Mirda's knowledge seemed to run so deep. Perhaps she would have an answer to the other shadow that weighed upon Grace.

  “Sister Mirda,” she said. “My friend, the knight Durge—there's something wrong with him.”

  “There is none whose skills at healing are greater than your own, sister,” Mirda said. “Can you not care for him?”

  Grace felt a sob rising in her chest, but she swallowed it down. “No, I can't. At least, I don't know how, but maybe you can help me. You see, it's his heart.” Forcing herself to speak in a clinical tone, Grace described what had been done to Durge.

  Mirda was silent for a moment, then a sigh escaped her. “That is how evil works—by taking what is good and true and corrupting it. That your friend has resisted so long tells me his spirit is one of unsurpassed strength and goodness.”

  “Then there's hope for him,” Grace said, her words hoarse.

  Mirda shook her head. “I fear not, sister. In the end, the splinter will work its magic. All the goodness in his heart, all the loyalty and kindness, will be replaced by shadow. There is nothing that can be done for him. Except for one thing.”

  Grace staggered back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Take this.” Mirda pressed a small vial into her hand. “It is a tincture of barrow root. A single drop brings an end, swift and painless. Keep watch on your friend, and before it is too late, you must give it to him.”

  Grace stared, cold horror spilling into her chest. “I can't,” she said, choking. “I won't.”