by Mark Anthony
Fear crystallized in Grace’s lungs. Scar or no scar, a magnet could not lie. She would have screamed, but sound didn’t carry in a vacuum, did it? In space your skin would freeze even as your blood boiled in your veins. Fire and ice, then nothing at all, nothing for eternity. Sweet, blessed, nothing.…
“Lady Grace?”
The silence splintered, the stone charm shrank, and the roar of the great hall crashed over her in a wave.
Grace’s fingers still brushed the cup he held toward her, and the bracelet’s magnetite charm still pointed directly at his chest. Her mind flailed in panic. How long had she been frozen like this? How long had she stared at the charm? Surely he knew, surely he saw the terror in her eyes and realized what it meant. Any second he would fling aside the cup, wrap impossibly strong hands around her throat, and squeeze the life out of her.
No, the expression on his face—on his exquisitely handsome face—was only bemused. He arched an eyebrow.
Do something, Grace. You’ve got to do something.
Her fingers closed around the wine cup. He smiled and released it. She brought the cup to her mouth with both hands and let the liquid touch her lips but did not drink, did not dare for fear she would choke. Then she lowered the cup and somehow managed to get it to the table before dropping it.
Now what?
“It is a fine vintage, isn’t it?” Logren said. “This wine comes from the riverlands of western Eredane. My queen brought five casks of it with her.”
The counselor took the cup and drank from it. The gesture was so easy, so casual. Impossible to believe that such perfect evil dwelled within him. No—not impossible.
“You still have not said what it was you wished to tell me, my lady.”
She licked her lips. What could she say to him? If she opened her mouth she would surely scream. Then a voice spoke, and it hardly seemed her own.
“That I’m sorry, my lord. Terribly sorry. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I was wrong to run from you, from your chamber the other day.”
Grace sucked in air between her teeth. Where had those words come from? She didn’t know, but by the light in his eyes she had done well to say them, and her breathlessness—although brought on by fear—only lent her words an earnestness that made them all the more believable. As though it was not a part of her, she watched her hand move across the table to touch his own. He looked up at her, and his smile deepened. Grace wanted to vomit, but she forced herself to smile in return.
She had thought herself such a fine spy, she had believed herself to be so logical, so scientific. Now she knew what a mockery that was. All this time she had thought Kyrene had entangled Logren in her witch’s web, and Grace had fancied she might do the same. Now she knew the truth—it was not Kyrene who had ensnared Logren, but the opposite. Grace recalled her encounter with Kyrene before the feast, and she saw again the countess’s new, harsh beauty.
What have you done, Kyrene? What have you done?
Grace knew the answer to that—knew the only reason the countess would trade her old, revealing gowns for one as dark as blood, for one with a high, concealing collar.
Logren’s eyes locked on her own. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you speak those words, my lady.”
His voice was a husky whisper, only for her. She stiffened—when had she heard a voice like it before?
Now get yourself back to the castle, see to it you finish what we’ve started.…
Nine dark shapes cast shadows on her mind. The circle of standing stones. Yes, that was where she had heard it. Then he had whispered to disguise himself. Now it was to lure her into his secret world. But it was the same voice—the same man.
“You see, Lady Grace, ever since the day I met you it has been my fond hope that you and I would—”
The sound of trumpets echoed off high walls. Grace snatched her hand back and turned her head. King Boreas had risen from his chair, and all at the high table—and in the great hall—quieted to regard him.
“Welcome to my hall,” the king of Calavan said. “Welcome on this, the longest night of the year. Tonight we meet to rejoice, to light the Everlog, and to call back the sun. Tonight we celebrate the death of winter, and we look to the spring to come.” His blue eyes were solemn, and his deep voice rumbled on the air. “That is, if the spring comes.”
A murmur ran around the hall. The king went on.
“As we begin this Midwinter’s Eve, so too the Dominions begin their own darkest night. And we all must ask ourselves, what must we each do to see the dawn once again?”
The kings and queens at the high table shifted as he spoke. Eminda wore an open frown. Even Grace wondered at the king’s speech. What was he saying?
“A toast,” Boreas said. He raised his cup, and all those in the hall followed suit, obviously glad to do something that made sense. “May we all walk together through this night, and greet the morning as one!”
Calls of Hear, hear! rang out, but so did an equal number of mutters of dissent. Grace took a sip of wine but did not taste it. Fear was gone now, replaced by numbness. The murderer sat beside her, and Boreas’s words fell on deaf ears. The Dominions would not stand together. They would never see the dawn.
“Now,” Boreas thundered. “Bring on the players!”
Grace froze at the sound of these words, and she clutched her cup. The plan! In the terror of the moment she had utterly forgotten it. Now new dread flooded her. She searched the great hall with her eyes, but there was no sign of a pretty young woman in a gown of blue. Where was Aryn? She was to have stood in the corner, to wait for Grace’s signal once they were certain. Except Grace already knew who the murderer was—he sat beside her in finery of gray—and there was no trace of the baroness.
A side door opened, and a tiny form bounded out, turned a circle in midair, and landed on the dais to the accompaniment of gasps and applause. Trifkin Mossberry doffed his feathered cap, bowed, then rose again, a smile on his broad cherub’s face. He spread small hands and spoke in his piping voice:
“On this night old Winter dies,
As you’ll see before your eyes—
And while we work our merry art,
Each of you shall play a part.
Keep your wits now, hark and see,
Here is what we ask of thee—
As we march upon our way,
An epitaph for Winter say.
Speak it bawdy, speak it bold,
Speak it soft for Winter old—
And lay your hand upon his breast,
As we send Winter to his rest.”
Trifkin bounded away, and the play commenced. Despite her dread, Grace could not take her eyes from the players, entranced by the spell they wove.
Tree-women ran onto the dais, then stood still in their bark-brown dresses and raised twig-limbs to conjure a leafless forest. Winter walked among them in his robe and beard of white. He threw snowy petals on the tree-women, then cackled when they shivered at the chilling touch. He lifted bony hands and more petals fell from the rafters of the hall, shaken from baskets by shadowy figures above. His icy laughter froze the air—
—then fell short as a dozen goat-men bounded onto the dais: chests bare, legs clad in curly trousers, horn nubbins tied to their heads. Each gripped a stick in his hand, and as they circled around the old man the sticks burst into flame. The goat-men ran faster, and faster yet. Their circle tightened, and Winter raised his white arms and cried out. Then the goat-men touched their torches to his robe.
Grace gasped, and so did a hundred others around the hall. As if his robe were made of magician’s flash paper, Winter burst into brilliant flame. The glare blinded Grace for a heartbeat, and when her vision cleared the old man was gone.
No, that wasn’t true. In the place where Winter had stood there now rested a wooden bier. A body lay upon the bier draped from head to toe in black cloth. Four of the goat-men lifted the bier in muscular arms as the tree-women trembled in joy. Then the goat-men paraded the bier
around the great hall. They paused as they went to let each reveler lay a hand upon the corpse of Winter and speak a few words as Trifkin had instructed.
“Good riddance!” they shouted.
“Melt, old man!” others said.
“Now you’re as cold as my husband!” one elderly countess pronounced, to the obvious amusement of everyone in the hall except the gray-haired man who sat next to her.
Grace went rigid in her chair as she watched this spectacle. No, it was all wrong. Where was Travis? He was to have played a part in the drama, to have dressed as a fool and ridden along with the bier to keep watch. Once he signaled her, then Grace would signal Aryn. But neither was in sight, the plan was in shambles, and Grace was alone with the murderer beside her.
The goat-men turned, and the bier moved toward the high table. Some of the rulers frowned—notably Sorrin and Eminda—but others joined in the sport. Boreas laid a hand on the corpse, as did Kylar, and both echoed their joy at his passing. An obviously drunken Lysandir slurred something unintelligible and would have fallen on the bier if a pair of servants hadn’t pulled him back. The goat-men marched down the line.
Grace’s breath came quick and shallow. What should she do? But it was too late. The procession was almost over—there was nothing she could do.
No, Grace. That’s not true. This isn’t over yet.
The voice that spoke was dry and clinical, her doctor’s voice. Fear receded. A hard part of Grace rose to the fore, the part that wielded a scalpel with emotionless efficiency, the part that reached inside living bodies without flinching, to fix what was wrong. Time slowed, and the air was hard and clear as resin. She knew what she had to do. Once again Grace balanced upon the fulcrum. Once again she stepped across to the other side.
The bier paused before the place where Grace and Logren sat. She rose from her chair and affected a playful smile.
“But who is this all draped in black?” she said. “Should not Winter be shrouded in white?”
She took her napkin from the table, unfolded the white cloth, and draped it over the body. Then, smiling still, she turned to Logren.
He gazed at her, eyes thoughtful, then shrugged, a smile on his own lips. Logren reached out, laid a hand on the shrouded body, and spoke in his rich voice.
“I know we all will be glad when this winter is but a—”
His words were lost as a murmur coursed through the great hall. Logren frowned, then his gaze dropped to the bier.
Flowers of crimson bloomed on the white napkin.
Logren drew in a hissing breath and snatched his hand back. The crimson stains continued to grow. Gasps turned into screams. Grace gazed at the bier with strange exultation.
“What is going on?” Boreas said, his eyebrows drawn down in a glower.
Grace stood straight, power filled her. “See for yourself, Your Majesty!”
She snatched back both napkin and shroud. More screams echoed off stone, and revelers leaped to their feet. The body on the bier was not the old actor who played Winter. It was the corpse of Alerain. They had placed his head back on his shoulders. Dark blood flowed from the slit of his neck, from his eyes and his ears, and from the gory wound in his chest.
Boreas stared, his face white with horror. “What have you done, Lady Grace?”
“I have found your seneschal’s killer, Your Majesty.” Her voice rang out over the hall. “You have heard the legend, have you not? How on the darkest night of the year a corpse has the power to accuse its murderer?”
Grace wasn’t sure how she knew this, only that she did—only that Trifkin Mossberry had given her this knowledge there in his strange forest room. It was an ancient magic, primal—older than witches or runespeakers. Old as Gloaming Wood. On Midwinter’s Eve, a corpse would bleed in the presence of its killer.
Logren stepped back from the table. “This is madness! A witch’s lie!”
“It is no lie,” Grace said.
She met his eyes. For a moment his confused expression remained, then like a mask it crumbled. Evil shone in his gaze, pure and unwavering. Yes, he knew now, she could see it. There was no need for him to hide it from her any longer.
“They will never believe you,” he said in a voice more poisonous than venom.
She spoke the words with cool precision, a doctor giving her diagnosis. “I believe you are wrong, my lord.”
Shouts of anger rose from the crowd. Boreas glared at Logren, his face red with rage. Eminda rose from her chair, her face hard.
“You fool, Logren!” she said. “What have you done? You have ruined everything with this madness. You will step down from this table at once!”
Logren hesitated. He glared at the crowd, at Grace, and finally Queen Eminda. Then a hideous grin crossed his face, obliterating any traces of beauty that once had dwelled there.
“You’re not going anywhere, Eminda,” he said. “None of you are!”
The motion was so quick no one could have stopped it. Logren plucked the eating knife from his belt and made a small flick with his hand. Eminda. staggered back, her eyes wide. Her fingers fluttered to her throat and brushed the knife that now protruded there. Then she slumped back against Boreas.
Before the others could react, Logren lifted his arms and called out in a terrible voice. “Now, my fierce ones! Come to me!”
They obeyed. Through the high windows they slunk, then scrabbled down the walls. Feydrim. The great hall became a sea of fear and panic.
Logren turned his empty gaze on Grace. “You have lost, Your Radiance.”
Grace did not answer him. She could only stare as the feydrim streamed into the great hall.
102.
Travis pressed his back to the wall and gazed into the growing light. The metallic hum vibrated through him as if his body were a wire.
He clutched the iron box inside the pocket of his tunic. It was this that had betrayed him, this that had led them to him. He should have thrown it away, should have buried it in the ground, should have lost it leagues ago. However, even as he thought this, he knew he could not have done it. Jack had given him the box, and he had promised. It was his burden to bear. And in a moment it would all be over.
The light grew brighter, and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes. The incandescence streamed through his fingers as if flesh were no barrier to it. For a moment he thought of Grace and the others. He hoped they were all right, and he was sorry he would not be able to see them again, that he would not be able to say good-bye. Then all thoughts except terror fled his mind as they appeared in the center of the light: tall, willowy, evil.
“I’m afraid, Jack,” he whispered.
The wraithlings reached out slender arms and drifted toward him. He could not tell how many of them there were. All he saw was silvery skin, mouthless faces, and huge, obsidian eyes. No box of iron could protect him now.
There is strange clarity in fear, and Travis’s mind grew almost calm as the wraithlings approached. All his running, all his hiding, all his forgetting were over. No more would he have to decide what to do in his life, or what to be. This one final choice would be made for him. He drew out the iron box and cupped it in his hands.
He felt their quickening as much as saw it. Their light flickered as if in anticipation. They crowded into the corridor, drawn by what he held, yet reverent of it as well, perhaps even afraid. He stretched the box out toward them.
Stop this, Travis!
It was hard to hear the voice through the thrum in his mind. He held the box out farther.
Stop it at once!
He hesitated. Jack?
Sweet tears of Ysani, who do you think it is?
Despite his fear, Travis winced. It was Jack all right.
You must use Sinfathisar, Travis.
He clutched the iron box. The Stone? But it’s the Stone they want.
Yes, and it’s the Stone that’s your only hope. You’ve got to use it to make them whole.
I don’t understand.
They’re
twisted, Travis—twisted and corrupted. The Stone can return them to what they once were. That’s the power of Sinfathisar. Before there was light and dark, there was twilight. Use the Stone. Make them whole.
But—
Now, Travis!
The wraithlings were upon him. They reached with slender hands to touch him. There was no more time. Travis fumbled with the latch on the iron box, opened it, nearly dropped its contents, then gripped the Stone of Twilight in his hand. It was hard and smooth, and resonated with power.
The huge eyes of the wraithlings grew larger yet. The terrible light flared around them. It streaked through his skin, his flesh, his bones. Pale hands reached for him. Travis gripped the Stone and shouted the words in his mind.
Make—them—whole!
Once before he had heard the sound, in the ruins of the White Tower: a chorus of mouthless screams. It was a sound of agony, a sound of sorrow, a sound of release. The illumination of the wraithlings flared until it washed away the world. Travis floated in a place of white, a place without color, without temperature, without touch. The only sound was a rhythmic drumming which he knew to be the beating of his own heart. Then, like a movie of a shattered window running backward, the fractured shards of the corridor—walls, floor, ceiling—rushed back toward each other, and the world was whole again.
Travis fumbled with his spectacles, and his vision snapped back into focus. Gone was the harsh light of the wraithlings. In its place a gentle radiance bathed the corridor, like winter sun filtered between the branches of leafless trees. He drew in a breath of wonder.
The wraithlings were gone. In their place stood nine beings who were as beautiful as the Pale Ones had been terrible. They were clothed in gossamer that shimmered like nebulae against a dark sky. They were tall—taller than Travis—and impossibly slender. Even standing they bespoke grace. Their faces were not human, but they were fair all the same: their chins delicate, their cheeks high, their mouths and noses small. The eyes that gazed at Travis were large, but not grotesque like those of the wraithlings. Instead they shone like dark, liquid gems. They were ancient eyes.