The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Travis tightened his fingers around the two Stones and threw himself forward, into the blue fire of the gate. As he jumped, he shouted a single word.

  “Reth!”

  High-pitched cries sounded behind him, a chorus of rage, of hatred, of despair. Then the screams were drowned out by a sound like shattering glass. Shards of blue magic flew in all directions, slicing apart the darkness, then were gone, and nothing remained but the Void.

  Travis’s mind was already shrinking. The coldness of the Void froze him. All the same, he felt one faint, warm spark of satisfaction.

  You did it, Travis. You’ve destroyed the gate. Mohg will never use it to get to—

  The Void was no longer empty. A sound thrummed through it, far louder than the sound of the gate shattering. It was like the rending sound of an earthquake, only there was no land in this place, nothing to break apart.

  Travis felt a deep wrenching sensation. At the same moment a crack appeared in the Void, a jagged line of gray light. Even as horror filled him, the crack snaked across the darkness, growing wider as it went. Travis felt himself being sucked toward its center. He fought, but there was no resisting. The crack yawned like a mouth; through it he saw a valley surrounded by knife-edged mountains.

  Vani! He tried to cry out. Beltan!

  He had no voice. The crack swallowed him, and Travis fell through a hole in the sky.

  53.

  Durge stood rigid and unblinking as the feydrim slunk into the hall. Grace searched his face, looking for any trace of the man she knew, any sign that she might still reach him.

  There was nothing. His features were the same as they had always been—craggy and careworn—only vacant of the nobility that had always resided there, like a castle where the kindly lord no longer lived, where only shadows now dwelled.

  Aryn let out another cry as several of the feydrim sidled toward her, talons scraping against the floor. She retreated until her back was to the wall, then thrust out her withered right hand. The two closest beasts fell back, snarling and whining, biting and clawing at their own flesh. Grace didn’t know what spell Aryn had cast, but it had worked. However, more of the creatures poured through the door until the hall was a sea of writhing gray fur. Hisses and growls echoed off stone.

  I don’t understand, Grace. Aryn’s frightened voice sounded in her mind. What’s wrong with Durge?

  There was no time for words. The Pale King wanted Grace alive, to torture and corrupt; the feydrim might harm her, but they wouldn’t kill her. They had no such orders regarding Aryn. Grace gathered everything that had happened since the day she and Durge rode into Gloaming Wood together and wove it into a single, shining globe. She sent it spinning along the Weirding toward Aryn.

  Oh, came Aryn’s astonished reply. And then again, only this time as a sound of sorrow, of horror. Oh . . .

  Aryn knew now. She knew what lay in Durge’s chest. She knew what he had become. And she knew that he had loved her with all his heart.

  Another scream ripped itself from Aryn, only this one was not a sound of fear, but of fury. She thrust out with both hands, and the air rippled like a pool into which a rock had been thrown. Grace felt the threads of the Weirding go taut as power was pulled from them. The six feydrim closest to Aryn shrieked, then fell over, brain and blood oozing from their snouts.

  Wary now, the creatures retreated from Aryn. She rose to her feet, her face a porcelain mask, her eyes brilliant as gems. Power crackled around her, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Some of the feydrim now turned their attention on the unconscious forms of Oragien and Graedin. They began to paw at their bodies. Grace drew Fellring and swung it with all her strength. Most of the feydrim were quick enough to scramble out of the blade’s reach, but one was not; its head rolled away across the floor, trailing blood.

  The blood shimmered, then vanished as if evaporating.

  No, that wasn’t it. Rather it was as if the blood had been absorbed into the stones of the floor. However, there was no time to think about it.

  “The Master knew you would resist,” Durge said, his voice hollow and empty as his gaze. “Yet there is no use in it. I have dealt with those who stood guard at the secret door. The way is now open. Already the servants of the Master work to enlarge it. They will pour into this keep like a dark river, and all your men will perish in the flood.”

  Aryn looked up from the corpses of the feydrim around her. She stepped over them and walked across the hall, toward Grace and Durge. The creatures scuttled out of her way; they knew her touch was death to them. Grace tried to call out to her to stay back, but she couldn’t form the words. Blood flooded her mouth, and fragments of a tooth.

  The young witch stopped before Durge. She reached out her left hand, as if to touch his cheek, then pulled back. “What have they done to you, Durge?”

  His eyes were stones. “They have made me perfect, my lady.”

  Grief lined Aryn’s face. “No, Durge. You were perfect.” A broken smile touched her lips. “Only why didn’t you tell me that you loved me? Why did you keep it a secret?”

  Durge’s cheek twitched, and it seemed an expression—a flicker of pain?—passed across his face. Had Aryn somehow gotten through to him?

  No. Durge’s lip curled back from his teeth. “It matters not. Love is a weakness—an affliction of which the Master will cure the world.”

  Aryn shook her head. “You’re wrong. Love is the only thing that ever had the power to save us. ‘Love shall yet defy you.’ That was what the witch Cirsa said when Mohg betrayed her. And I say it to you now, Durge, and to the Pale King.” She raised her withered hand and pointed at the center of his chest. “Love shall yet defy you.”

  Durge turned away from her. A sizzling sound rose on the air, and silver light welled from the side door. The feydrim hissed and cowered.

  “He comes for you now,” Durge said to Grace.

  The light grew brighter; the sizzling rose to a metallic whine.

  Now, Grace. You have to do something now.

  There—on Durge’s right hand was a scratch. He must have received it in the struggle at the secret door. It was shallow but still oozed blood. It would be enough. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her gown, found the vial of barrow root, and unstopped it with her fingers.

  She stepped forward, closing the gap between her and Durge. “If your precious master wants me so badly, why don’t you give me to him yourself? Surely you’ll get a reward.”

  She reached for him, and—as she had hoped—he snaked out his right hand and caught her wrist. He squeezed, and a gasp of pain escaped her as the bones of her wrist ground together. However, she let the pain clear the fear and anguish from her brain. This thing was not Durge. In a motion of surgical precision, she pulled out the vial with her free hand and splashed the purple elixir over his wound.

  Durge let out a roar. He reeled back, clutching his right hand, his eyes filled with hate. “What have you done to me, witch?”

  The words were a hiss of rage, but slurred. Already his muscles were beginning to spasm; the cords of his neck stood out. He tried to strike at her, but he stumbled and fell to his knees.

  Aryn stared, her mouth open. By Sia, what have you done, Grace? You’re killing Durge.

  Each word of Grace’s reply was like a dagger in her own heart. No, I’m saving him.

  Durge fell over onto his hands. Foam boiled from his mouth; his body shook as if beaten by unseen hands.

  “Grace!”

  Aryn’s frightened shout did not come across the Weirding. Grace looked up. The side door was a rectangle of blazing silver. Then a silhouette appeared against the brilliance. It drifted into the hall: tall, slender, deadly.

  The feydrim howled and pissed on the floor as the wraithling drifted across the hall toward Grace. Its lidless eyes were like black jewels. It had no mouth, but all the same she heard its voice, and the words froze her blood.

  You will be the Master’s bride. You will be the Queen o
f Ice, pale and beautiful and terrible. Together you and the King will rule forever. . . .

  No, Grace wanted to say, but she couldn’t speak. She tried to reach for Fellring, sheathed at her side, but she couldn’t move. She heard a boom as the main doors of the hall burst open, but the sound was oddly muffled.

  It seemed Aryn called out, and the sound of swords being drawn rang on the air. A group of men were trying to fight past the feydrim and into the hall. Were Sir Tarus and Commander Paladus among them? Grace couldn’t be sure; she saw them only dimly, as if they were shadows. The wraithling drifted closer, the silver light blinding her.

  A strange peace came over Grace. Yes, there was nothing to fear when all hope was gone. She would wed the Pale King. He would take away her frail, human heart and all the pain that went with it, and he would give her a new heart of enchanted iron, a heart that would never feel pain or sorrow or fear again.

  Or love. Or laughter. Or joy.

  “Get away from her!”

  Grace blinked, trying to see through the glare. Aryn rushed forward, both of her hands, whole and twisted, weaving together in a spell. The threads of the Weirding hummed with the power of it. She cast the spell at the wraithling. It threw its hands up, letting out a mouthless cry of agony. The silver corona of light wavered—

  —then grew strong again. Before Aryn could weave the strands of the Weirding into another spell, the pale one lashed out with spindly arms.

  This time it was Aryn who screamed. The sound of the young witch’s agony shattered Grace’s torpor, so that she perceived everything with perfect clarity. Aryn’s eyes fluttered shut, then she slumped to the floor. Her body was still, her flesh as pale as snow.

  Grace started to reach out with the Touch, to try to grasp Aryn’s thread, to see if she yet lived, but there was no time. The wraithling drifted toward her. However, there were dark gaps in the corona of light surrounding it. Aryn had wounded the thing with her spell.

  “Tell the Pale King this is my answer,” Grace said.

  She drew Fellring and thrust it into the wraithling. The blade passed through the being’s slender body. Bitter cold numbed Grace’s arm, but she ignored it and twisted the blade.

  The wraithling’s cry ceased; the corona of light winked out. The thing slipped from Grace’s sword and fell to the floor, dark and thin as a bundle of burnt sticks. It was dead.

  Durge wasn’t. Grace sucked in a breath as the knight rose to his feet. He held out his arms and gazed at his hands. The spasms had ceased. He looked up, and the pain was gone from his face.

  That was impossible. The amount of barrow root she had poured on his wound would have dropped a horse. It should have stopped his heart cold.

  But it’s already stopped, isn’t it, Grace?

  She should have known. He wasn’t a true ironheart—it was only a splinter of metal in his chest—but the effect was the same. He felt pain, but not for long, and no poison could kill him. Because Durge was already dead.

  Grace held Fellring before her, then the tip drooped back to the floor. It was no use; what strength she had possessed had fled her. Tarus and Paladus and the others were making headway against the feydrim, but they would never break through in time. Aryn lay on the floor, as still and pale as if carved of ice. In a moment, Grace would join her.

  “I can’t do it, Durge,” she said softly. “I know what you are, but I still can’t do it.” Fellring slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. “I can’t kill you.”

  Durge gazed at Aryn’s motionless form. “Love is a weakness.” A shudder passed through him, his shoulders shaking with it. Was that one last effect of the barrow root?

  It didn’t matter. The tremor passed. Durge pulled a knife from his belt and clenched the hilt, his knuckles going white.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said.

  Before Grace could wonder at these words, Durge stabbed her with the knife.

  A voice shouted out in anger. Grace thought perhaps it was Sir Tarus, she couldn’t be sure. The sound of swords and the screams of feydrim echoed off the walls. Another figure appeared in the side door, all in gray. At first she thought it was another wraithling, only there was no silver light. Something hissed through the air. Suddenly an arrow stuck out from Durge’s side, then another, and another. The knight fell to the floor. Blood flowed from the wounds.

  Then, just as before, the blood vanished. The stone floor was smooth and unstained.

  “Your Majesty!” a voice cried out.

  The figure in gray was moving from the door, fighting past the feydrim. Dozens of the creatures lay sprawled on the floor. The men were breaking through. It was almost over.

  Almost over . . .

  Grace looked down. She expected to see the hilt of the knife jutting from the center of her chest. Instead, the blade had pierced the fabric of her gown just above her left collarbone. The blow had gone far wide of her heart, nor was it deep. Even as she touched the knife it slipped free, and blood welled forth, smearing her fingers.

  Blood. Like Durge’s blood, which the stones had seemed to drink. Grace sank to her knees. She gazed at the floor, cleared of the rushes. Five parallel marks gouged the stones, too sharp and precise to be accidental. She had seen the same pattern before, on Kelephon’s ship, when he had tried to steal her blood so he could wield Fellring.

  At last Grace understood. She started to reach her hand toward the floor, then halted.

  Durge was looking at her. He sprawled with limbs twisted, his cheek pressed against the floor, the arrows jutting from his body. His brown eyes were fixed on her. One was dead and lifeless, but the other shone with a familiar light, gentle and true. She had not felt the pain of the knife wound, but she felt this pain, and it was unbearable.

  “Do it, my lady.” Durge’s voice was a croak, but it was not flat, not dead. It was he. It was really he. “Awaken the defenses of the keep. Slay the servants of the Pale King.”

  Tears trailed down her cheeks, bitter as they touched her lips. “It will kill you, too, Durge.”

  “I am already dead, my lady. I died over a year ago, on Midwinter’s Eve. That I was granted so much time after that to serve you was a reward I did not deserve, though it was one I cherished beyond measure. But now all I deserve is death. I have betrayed you. And I . . . I have slain Lady Aryn.”

  “No,” said a soft voice, “you haven’t.”

  Aryn knelt beside Durge. Her face was ghostly and tight with pain, but her blue eyes were as brilliant as sapphires. She lifted his head, cradling it on her lap.

  Durge wept, though from only one eye. “No, my lady. I beg you, do not do this. Do not show me such tenderness, not after what I have done.”

  She smoothed his hair from his brow. “You should have told me, Durge. You should have told me you loved me.”

  “I did not wish to bother you, my lady.”

  Despite her tears, Aryn laughed. “And how could it possibly have been a bother, to be loved by a man as noble and good as you, Durge of Embarr?”

  “I am not so noble, my lady. And you could never have returned such a love.”

  Her eyes went distant. “I might have,” she said quietly. “I might have.”

  His body jerked. “You must go, my lady. I can feel it, digging deeper. In a moment I will be lost again.”

  “No, Durge,” Aryn said, gazing into his eyes. “You will never be lost to us. Never.” She hesitated, then bent down and pressed her lips to his.

  Aryn lifted her head. A sigh escaped Durge, and a stillness came over his body. The lines that had always rendered his face so grim were smoothed away. His eyes stared without seeing.

  “I am a lucky man,” he said, his voice soft with amazement. “I am such . . . a lucky man.”

  Aryn wept silently. Durge groped with a blind hand toward Grace.

  “Tell me, my fairy queen, what is your command?”

  Grace kissed his brow. “Sleep, my sweet knight,” she murmured. “Sleep.”

  Then sh
e pressed her bloody hand to the floor.

  54.

  Grace straddled a gap in the line of sharp-toothed peaks. Her arms braced against the cliffs to either side, so that her broad shoulders guarded the pass. And her head reached up toward the sky, so that she could gaze for leagues around.

  She could see—could sense—the small sparks of life that moved within her. Hundreds of men stood atop the high wall that skirted her, and a thousand more gathered behind, ready to take the place of those who fell. More men moved in the yard between her encircling arms, fletching arrows, sharpening swords. She was pleased; not in seven hundred years had she hosted a force so proud as this.

  Thunder shook the air like the sound of drums. Dark clouds churned in the sky. Grace turned her gaze out over the vale of Shadowsdeep. Three leagues away, outlined by a livid glow, were the sharp spires of the Ironfang Mountains: the walls of the prison in which the Pale King had been trapped for a thousand years.

  Trapped no longer. There was a shadowy hole in the Fal Threndur. The Rune Gate—forged by the same wizards who had bound Grace’s stones with magic—had opened. The army of the Pale King streamed forth. Gouts of fire shot up to the black sky. The army marched toward the keep.

  Let them come. She was ready.

  But what was this? Servants of evil already prowled within her. Dozens of them were in the main hall at her very heart, though most them were already dead. However, hundreds more slunk down the passage leading from the secret door that opened into Shadowsdeep five furlongs from the wall. The way had been widened by brute force and the power of runes. The enemy sought to take the keep from within.

  Grace would not allow that. Countless runes carved into the stones that made up her body blazed to life with blue-white fire. A sound like the call of a thousand trumpets rang out, echoing off the cliffs, so that the warriors stopped what they were doing and looked up, while across the vale the river of darkness halted for a moment, the flood becoming a trickle.