The Gates of Winter (5 page)

Beltan gazed at him, only what his look contained—love? pride? fear?—Travis couldn't say. “Where do we dig?” the knight said to Aryn.

She scrambled around the side of the rubble heap. “Here. They're under here. Six of them. You have to hurry.”

Some of the guards had fetched shovels and picks, but they were worthless against the heavy stones. Instead the men used bare hands to push aside the rocks, as well as levers fashioned from broken planks. It was dreadful work. Acrid smoke rose from the still-smoldering beams, and dust caked their faces and filtered into their lungs until all of them were coughing.

Travis was awed by the tirelessness of the three knights. Beltan and Tarus stood shoulder to shoulder, working together to move stones that had to weigh a quarter ton or more. Durge moved stones nearly as heavy on his own. Soon the dusty mask of Durge's face was creased from effort, and his knuckles were raw and bleeding, but he didn't stop. None of them did.

As Aryn guided the diggers, Travis kept his hands on the debris, speaking
Sar
and
Meleq
under his breath. He felt every vibration through the beams, every shift in the blocks of stone. The more wreckage the men removed, the more unstable the heap became.

You must hold on, Travis.
He wasn't sure if the voice that spoke in his mind was his own, or that of Jack Graystone and the other runelords whose power flowed in his veins.
If you cease speaking the runes, the stones will come crashing down, taking all of you with it. It will be your burial mound.

Travis kept muttering runes.

It was only when Beltan called out “I need light!” that Travis realized it was growing dark.

“
Lir
,” he croaked, his lips cracked and dry from his endless litany of runes.

Silver radiance sprang into being, shining into the gap in the rubble the men had made. Frightened eyes peered out. Beltan and Tarus reached in and pulled out a guardsman, scraped and battered but alive. Five more times they reached in, and five more men came out. Some held broken limbs or clutched the stumps of missing fingers, but all were alive.

A groan rose up through the debris mound. Travis felt terribly heavy. “You have to get out of here,” he gritted the words through his teeth. “I can't hold on much longer.”

Tarus barked orders. The guardsmen who had been digging helped their wounded brethren over the beam and down the passage that led outside. Tarus and Durge accompanied Aryn, then it was only Beltan and Travis.

Travis was so weary. All he wanted was to sink to the ground with the stones, to let them bury him. It would be cool beneath, and still. He could never hurt anyone there, he could never break an entire world. “Go, Beltan. I'll hold the stones back until you reach the other side.”

“That's not how it works, Travis. We're going together or not at all.”

Travis looked up, and the light in Beltan's eyes was so fierce and so tender that his breath caught on his lips, and he could speak neither runes nor mundane words. The magic he had forged with
Sar
and
Meleq
shattered. The mound slumped in on itself.

Beltan grabbed Travis's arm and hauled him across the beam. They reached the other side just as the beam slid backward, pulled in by the cascade of stone. Hand in hand, Travis and Beltan pounded down the passage and burst into the lower bailey along with a cloud of pulverized rock. He staggered around in time to see the walls of the guard tower sheet downward, sending a gray plume into the sky.

“I couldn't save it,” Travis said. His mouth was full of dust. “I tried, but in the end I couldn't stop the tower from falling down.”

Beltan wrapped a strong arm around his shoulder. “It was beyond saving, Travis. And this way it can be rebuilt. Sometimes, when something's ruined, the only way to repair it is to destroy it first.”

These words sent a chill through Travis, only he couldn't say why. He tried to speak, but his tongue was dry as chalk.

6.

They gathered in Calavere's great hall for a late supper, though no one had much of an appetite. However, Grace knew it was important that they eat; they had to keep up their strength. She gagged down a bite of cold venison to set a good example, though only a generous swallow of wine kept it from coming right back up.

She surveyed the familiar faces around the high table, and it was easy to make a diagnosis: exhaustion and emotional trauma. They had all witnessed terrible sights in their journeys over the last year.
Feydrim
and wraithlings. Dragons and plagues. Demons and sorcerers. But it was different when the perils followed you back to the place you called home. If the darkness could reach them here, then no place was safe.

Grace knew she should feel every bit as exhausted as the others; instead she felt strangely, keenly alive. Not since her days in the Emergency Department at Denver Memorial Hospital had she worked so hard and for so long to save so many lives. She had labored on nearly twenty patients that day, though she could never have done it without help. Sareth and Falken had made excellent triage nurses, and Lirith was able to set broken bones and stitch wounds, allowing Grace to see to the worst cases. More than that, the dark-eyed witch was able to soothe away fear and pain with the cool touch of her hand in a way Grace had never been able to do.

Grace had kept Melia and several guards constantly running for supplies, and soon even Tira would come dashing back into the bailey, her small arms filled with bandages. By the time the sun sank behind the castle walls, it was over. Grace had lost just three of her patients—though there were nine more who had died in the explosion and whose bodies had been pulled from the rubble. A dozen in all. Still, when she thought of the crowded castle, it was hard to believe it hadn't been worse.

It would have been, if people hadn't run into the middle of the bailey after the first explosion to try to see what had happened. But what exactly
had
happened? In the aftermath of the explosions, all of their energy had gone into plucking people from the debris and treating their wounds. Only what had caused the explosions in the first place?

Just as she opened her mouth to ask the others what they thought, a tapestry fluttered, and Vani was there. She stalked toward the high table, silent in her form-fitting black leathers. She carried a small cloth sack. Grace hadn't seen her since just after the last explosion. Where had she been?

Travis smiled at Vani, a look that was weary but warm. “It's good to see you,” he said, and at the same time Beltan said, “Did you find anything?”

Vani gazed at Travis, and for a moment her face softened. Grace often forgot how beautiful the
T'gol
was. Intertwining tattoos accentuated the graceful line of her neck, and thirteen gold earrings glittered on her left ear. Then Vani looked at Beltan, and her features sharpened. “Yes, we did find something.”

“We?” Durge said, stroking his mustaches; they were gray with dust. “Who else was with you?”

Vani glanced at the wall. Grace saw only blank gray stones. Then the stones rippled, and a man stepped away from the wall. He was slightly built, with a pointed blond beard, and flicked back a shimmering gray cloak that had blended seamlessly with the wall.

“There you are, Aldeth,” Aryn said, setting down her wine goblet. “I was wondering if you would show yourself.”

“Actually, I wasn't really planning on it, Your Highness. However, it seems someone had other ideas.” He cast a sidelong glance at Vani.

The
T'gol
shrugged. “I cannot be blamed because you did a poor job of hiding.”

“I let you find me in the north tower,” the Spider said hotly.

“You mean in the same way a sheep graciously allows a wolf to catch it?”

The Spider glared at the assassin but seemed unable to formulate a rejoinder. Grace shot Aryn a questioning look. How had the baroness known Aldeth was here in Calavere? The last time they had seen him had been many months ago in Castle Spardis. He was a Spider, one of Queen Inara's personal spies; surely he was a long way from home. It seemed Aryn had not told Grace everything in their conversations over the Weirding.

“I'd like to know what you uncovered,” Falken said. “That is, if you two can stop hissing and spitting long enough to tell us.” The bard held his lute but had yet to play a note. As usual, a black glove covered his right hand. Melia sat next to him, amber eyes thoughtful, Tira on her lap. The girl hugged a black kitten with eyes the same color as Melia's.

“We found this,” Vani said, setting the sack on the table.

Aldeth rubbed his neck. “Actually, I found it, and you shook it off of me like a common cutpurse.”

Despite all that had happened, Grace found herself smiling. Something told her two shadowy types were one more than a single castle could comfortably contain.

“What is it?” Tarus said.

Vani untied the sack and turned it over. Fine black dust poured out in a steady stream.

Durge shoved back his chair and leaped to his feet. “Get the candles away!”

Lirith and Sareth hastily snatched a pair of candles from the table and snuffed them out. Most of the others looked at Durge in confusion, but Grace understood. She had smelled the sharp, acrid odor on countless gunshot victims in the ED.

“It's gunpowder,” she said.

Durge nodded. “I worked with black powder such as this in Castle City. It is a perilous alchemy, one used to power dangerous weapons called guns. There is enough powder here to kill many men.”

“Or to destroy two towers?” said a booming voice.

They all looked up to see Boreas striding across the hall toward the high table. Behind him came a pair of guards and Prince Teravian. All those around the table leaped to their feet. Aldeth wove first one way then another, hunting for a path of escape.

“Don't act as if I don't see you there, Spider,” Boreas said as he ascended the dais. “No matter what you might believe, I'm not that dense. Besides, Queen Inara told me in her last missive you were here.”

Aldeth stopped in his tracks and stared at the king. Aryn stared as well.

Boreas gave them a smug smile. “I'm not the only one around here who has secrets.”

“You should be resting, Your Majesty,” Grace said.

Teravian rolled his eyes. “That's what I tried to tell him.”

“And when you're king, if you should be so fortunate, people will obey you,” Boreas snapped, and the young man turned away, his shoulders crunching in.

Lirith gave the young prince a worried look, and Grace agreed that the king's words seemed harsh. Then again, it had been anything but a good day for Boreas. Grace moved to him, probing the bandage on his head. Belatedly she realized she should have begged his permission to touch him, but it was too late now, so she finished her examination.

“You're going to be fine,” she said. “I imagine you'll live forever.”

“That's an ill curse for a warrior, my lady,” Boreas growled. “I'm not familiar with this
g'hun
powder you speak of, Sir Durge, but it's capable of working great deviltry, as we saw today. I wonder how it got into my castle.”

“Perhaps we should ask the one who brought it,” Aldeth said, and all eyes were instantly on the spy.

Vani advanced on the Spider. “Did you see someone? Why did you not tell me?”

“It's surprisingly difficult to talk when you're being strangled,” Aldeth said, giving her a sour look. “I saw him not long before the explosions, leaving the room where we later discovered the sack of black powder. Several guardsmen were passing nearby, making a good deal of noise, and the fellow ran off. I suppose he left the powder in his haste.”

Beltan stole the uneaten venison from Lirith's trencher. “So that's why there was only one explosion in the guard tower instead of two. He hadn't finished his work.”

“It seems to me he did well enough,” Sareth said, gazing at his hands. He had washed them clean, but the sleeves of his shirt were still spotted with blood.

Grace rubbed her aching temples. There was something peculiar about Aldeth's story, and not just the fact that someone in a medieval castle had managed to acquire large quantities of gunpowder and fashion it into bombs.

“This man you saw,” she said to Aldeth. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

The Spider stroked his beard. “Vaguely. There was nothing remarkable about him. He was dressed like a peasant.”

“Was he tall? And with good skin?”

“Now that you mention it, yes. Why?”

Grace moved to Durge and gripped his arm. “The bundle you found on the road—the one that peasant who ran into you dropped. Do you still have it?”

“I had forgotten about it, my lady. But I believe so.” He rummaged inside his tunic and drew out the small leather purse the man had dropped in his haste.

“Open it,” she said.

Durge fumbled with the strings and upended the purse. Something sleek and black clattered on the table.

“What is it?” Lirith said, drawing closer.

Grace picked it up. It was smooth and hard, shaped like a river pebble, but made of plastic, and fit easily into her hand. There were two buttons on one edge, and a circle of small holes on one side. Her finger brushed the topmost button.

There was a hiss of static, then a man's voice—tinny but clear—said, “Base here. Is that you, Hudson? Over.”

Grace flung the device down as if it had stung her. It lay on the table, silent now. She looked up and met Travis's startled eyes.

“It's some kind of radio, Grace.”

The torches had burned low, making a shadowed cave of the great hall, by the time Grace and Travis finished explaining what a radio was, what it could do, and how such things were common on Earth. As they spoke, Grace cast frequent glances at Boreas and his son. All of the others knew about Earth, but she had never told the king she had spent most of her life on a world other than Eldh, or that Travis was not from Eldh at all. However, Boreas listened with interest rather than surprise. Prince Teravian, in contrast, was obviously shocked—but only for a minute, and after that he watched in narrow-eyed fascination.

“This makes little sense to me,” Durge said in his somber voice. “Surely the intruder could have caused more damage if he had placed the incendiaries in the castle's main keep.”

Beltan shook his head. “There are more guards in the main keep. Someone would have seen him.”

“No, that's not the reason,” Aryn said. The young woman's blue eyes were strangely hard. “His goal wasn't to destroy the castle.”

Beltan gave her a puzzled look. “Then what is his goal, cousin?”

“Fear.”

A cold needle pierced Grace's heart. Yes, she understood, but Travis voiced it before she could.

“If we're frightened, we won't fight,” he said, his words soft, so that they all had to lean in to catch them. “That's what they want. They're trying to distract us, to make us afraid so we won't fight.”

The king gave him a sharp look. “Whom do you speak of, Goodman Wilder? Who is trying to do these things?”

Travis stared at the communication device on the table, then picked it up. He clenched his fingers around it and whispered a word.
“Reth.”

Travis opened his hand; like the shell of a walnut, the black plastic had been shattered. He picked through the black shards and pulled out a green circuit board covered with transistors. A sharp laugh escaped him. Printed on the circuit board, white on green, was the shape of a crescent moon merging with a capital D.

“Duratek,” Beltan said as if he were chewing stones. He seemed not to notice as he pressed a hand to the inside of his left elbow.

That's where they would have attached the IVs, Grace, the ones that infused him with the blood of the fairy.

Boreas gave Beltan a keen look. “You have encountered this enemy before, Nephew? Then you know how we can fight them.”

“No,” Travis said, letting the shards of plastic slip through his fingers. “You don't understand, you can't fight them. They have everything—weapons, technology—things you can't even imagine, things that would seem like magic to you. They could take this Dominion apart stone by stone. And they will. They want to take everything they can from Eldh and sell it on Earth at a profit.”

Boreas fingered the knife tucked into his belt. “Whatever weapons they might have, these men of the kingdom of Duratek sound like bandits. I do not know how things are on your world, Goodman Wilder, but here we know what to do with bandits.”

Travis shook his head, and Grace gave him what she hoped was a look of understanding. She could talk to Boreas tomorrow, but not right now. She felt so terribly heavy.

A small form crawled into her lap. Tira. The girl looked up and yawned, and Grace yawned back.

“We can speak more of this in the morning,” Melia said, rising. “It has been a dark day.”

Lirith met the lady's eyes. “I can concoct a tea for anyone who wishes for sleep . . . without dreams.”

“I believe we could all do with a cup, dear.”

As they rose from the table, Aldeth cast a look at Vani. “I'm sure you're thinking what I'm thinking, so we might as well go together.”

She rested her hands on lean hips. “The intruder you saw will not have gone far. The voice that spoke through the device implied that the one called Hudson had not yet returned to their base, wherever it is. No doubt he wishes to stay close to the castle to see the result of his handiwork.”

The Spider and the
T'gol
exchanged looks, then both vanished into the dim air.

“Who else thinks their habit of disappearing is getting a little annoying?” Falken said.

A number of hands went up around the table.

The bard sighed. “Come on, Melia, let's do our own vanishing act.”

The two rose and departed the hall, along with Sir Tarus. Boreas was asking Travis more questions about Earth as they walked from the hall, with Beltan, Durge, and Teravian following behind. Grace picked up Tira's limp form and headed after them, along with Sareth, Lirith, and Aryn.

Grace had just reached the doors of the great hall—the others had already passed through—when she heard a snarl echo off stone. It was like the feral sound of a wolf, but higher-pitched, and full of malice. There were shouts, and the ringing of a sword being drawn.