The Gates Of Winter Part 10

Several more times Grace heard the call of the trumpet, and each time it was fainter than the last. She lost Durge's trail on a stony patch of ground, and when she heard the trumpet call again, it was off to her left, and so distant she could hardly make out the sound over the thudding of her heart.

Grace staggered in that direction, but after that she did not hear the sound of the trumpet again. The sweat froze her dress stiff as her pace slowed, and she grew clumsy with the cold. At last she could go no farther, and she leaned against the trunk of a gigantic tree. She listened, but there was no trumpet call, no trilling of high laughter; the forest air was still and silent.

"I've lost him," she mumbled with numb lips.

Pain stabbed at her heart. Durge was gone-the kindest, truest, and dearest friend she had on this or any world-and it was her fault. The agony of that thought was too much to bear. Grace threw her arms around the tree, pressed her face to its trunk, and wept.

"Are you well, daughter?" said a kindly voice behind her.

Grace pushed herself from the tree. A moment ago the forest had been gray and bleak, but now green-gold light sparkled through her tears. She wiped her eyes and gasped.

"Whyever do you weep so?" said the old woman who stood before her. "Is it for this great father of trees you embrace? If so, then dry your tears, for he is not dead. When spring comes, he will be green and full of life again."

Grace stared, sorrow and shock receding. Like the light, a feeling of peace radiated from the old woman. She was tiny and withered and beautiful, her skin as delicate as flower petals, her hair as fine as spider's silk. She wore a robe the color of snow, and in her hands was a wooden staff every bit as gnarled as the fingers that gripped it.

"Who are you?" Grace said.

The old woman smiled, and her eyes-the same color as the light-sparkled. "I suppose you may say I am the queen here, even as you are queen out there." She made a sweeping gesture with the staff. "Of course, my reign is nearly at an end, and yours is only about to begin, daughter."

Grace struggled to comprehend these words, but she couldn't, not quite. Her brain was dull and slow from fear and cold. "I'm not crying for the tree."

"Then for whom is it you weep?"

The words tumbled out of her in a rush. "It's Durge. The boy-the one with red hair-he and the other hunters are chasing him through the forest. And they've done something to him. They tied a pair of antlers to his head, only they aren't just tied in place anymore. They're real. The hunters are going to kill him, and it's all my fault."

The old woman c.o.c.ked her head. "Your fault, daughter? Now how can that be?"

Grace felt more tears welling up. "I lied about the white stag. I told them he ran one way when he ran the other. But he was so beautiful. I didn't want them to kill him."

The other shut her eyes and gripped her staff. "Yes," she murmured. "I see it now, and I should have known that Quellior was part of all this." She opened her eyes. "That was kind and selfless of you to help my husband escape."

Grace shook her head. "Your husband?"

"As I said, I am the queen of this place. And is he not the king?"

Yes, that was what the red-haired boy had called the stag-the forest king. "So he's safe, then?" Grace said. "The stag? I mean, the king?"

The old woman nodded. "For now. But in time Quellior and his hunters will catch him, and they will slay him."

"No!" Grace said, cold with horror. "They can't!"

The old woman gave a soft sigh. "It is the way of the wood, daughter. Every year Quellior and his hunters pursue the forest king, every year they slay him, and every year he returns again. However, the king is newly risen. It is not yet time for them to catch him, and it is because of you that he escaped. So for your good-hearted deed, I will help you."

"What can you do?" However, before Grace finished uttering the words, the old woman moved her staff, and a thicket of trees parted like a curtain. Beyond was a glade, and a scene that made Grace's heart stop.

The red-haired boy-Quellior-sat on his black horse, an arrow fitted to his bow. The other hunters gathered around him. Like a fallen beast on the ground, Durge lay below them. His eyes were shut, his hair tangled with leaves and twigs, the antlers jutting from his brow. A dozen tiny darts pierced his skin. Quellior laughed and pulled the arrow back to his ear, ready to send it flying down into Durge's heart.

"Stop!" Grace cried out, tripping over roots as she dashed forward. She fell to her knees beside Durge, covering his body with her arms. "Leave him alone!"

"Wood and bone, how did you get here?" Quellior sneered in his high voice. "But it's no matter. My arrow can pierce two as easily as one."

"I should think it will pierce none at all," said a sharp voice, and at the same moment the arrow in Quellior's bow sprouted leaves and tendrils. The tendrils coiled around the boy's hands like green snakes, binding them. The other hunters gasped and chattered and fluttered their wings.

Quellior glared at the old woman. "Blood and stone, Mother! I nearly had him!"

Grace blinked in astonishment. Mother?

The old woman marched into the glade, staff in hand. "Shame on you, Quellior." She cast a stern eye at all of the hunters, and they quailed under her ire. "Shame on all of you. Is this mortal man the quarry you are bound to hunt?"

"She denied us our quarry," the red-haired boy said, glaring at Grace. "So we were hunting this one instead."

The forest queen's eyes flashed. "Answer my question. Is this mortal your true quarry?"

Quellior hung his head and sighed. "No, Mother."

"I should think not. Now off with you." She gave a flick of her staff. "All of you. You shall find the forest king again when summer comes and is in its waning days."

Quellior lifted his head, and there was a queer look in his eyes. "If summer ever comes again, Mother." He cast one hateful glance at Grace, then his horse bounded away through the trees, and the other fey hunters followed.

Grace cradled Durge's head in her lap. She smoothed his mousy hair from his brow, and she could not help marveling at the way the antlers melded with his skin and skull. She touched a tiny arrow that jutted from the skin just above his collarbone but could not bring herself to check his pulse.

"Is he dead?"

"No, daughter," said the forest queen, standing above her. "The darts of the winged ones bring sleep, not death."

"Then how can I wake him up?"

"Are you sure you wish to, daughter?"

Grace stared in blank confusion.

Sorrow lined the old woman's face. "A mortal man is not a beast, but he may be made to act like one. I fear Quellior has played a wicked trick upon your friend. If he were to wake now, he would not remember he was a man at all, but rather would think himself an animal."

In a way he did look like a beast-naked, dirty, and wild. But Grace knew the true man that lay beneath. Her tears fell on his face, was.h.i.+ng away some of the dirt. "He's not a beast. He is the kindest, bravest, and truest man in the world."

"If you can see that in him, then perhaps there is a way you can help him."

Grace looked up, hope surging in her. "How?"

"You must join your spirit with his. You must show him how you see him-not as a beast, but as a man. If you do, he may remember himself."

For a moment Grace trembled. All her life she had kept others at a distance, afraid that if they drew too close they would see what she really was and would recoil in horror. But Durge was her friend; if she could see good in him, she had to believe he would see it in her as well.

She steeled her will and ran her fingers over Durge, plucking out the darts where she found them. A groan escaped him, and he stirred, eyelids fluttering. He was waking up. If he did, he would run from her, she was sure of it; she had to hurry.

Grace pressed her hands against Durge's chest and shut her eyes. Instantly she saw his life thread. It was somber gray, as she remembered it, only marked with a wild streak of crimson. He let out a grunt, moving beneath her, but before he could twist away she reached out and gripped his thread, bringing it close to her own s.h.i.+mmering strand. In her mind she pictured Durge as she knew him: kind, strong. Good. Then, with a thought, she braided the two strands together.

I love you Durge! she called out. she called out. Come back to me! Come back to me!

For a single moment she could not discern Durge's thread as a separate thing from her own. They were a single strand, gleaming and perfect.

No, not perfect. There was something else there. Something sharp and dark and terrible, pressing dangerously close. What was it? Before Grace could tell, a gold light welled forth, encapsulating her, and she knew no more.

She must have fallen asleep. Grace pushed herself up to her elbow and used her fingers to comb leaves from her hair. The gold light was dimmer now, but still comforting, and she felt warm. Durge lay beside her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The antlers had fallen away to either side. She laid a hand on his forehead; the skin of his brow was unblemished, save for the lines of worry that furrowed it even in repose.

Grace smiled, then rose. Her cloak, which she had lost earlier, now hung on a nearby branch. She cast it over Durge, covering his nakedness, then knelt beside him. Her smile faded as she touched the center of his chest. When their threads were one, she had sensed something inside him-like a shadow, but different. Harder, colder.

"So you've seen it within him, daughter. I thought you might."

Grace looked up. The old woman-the forest queen-stood above her.

"You can see it, too?" Grace said.

The old woman nodded. "It was clear to my eyes the first moment I saw him. But then, ever have we hated the cruel touch of iron, and we know it when it comes near us."

Grace was no longer warm. "What are you talking about?"

"There is a splinter of iron in his chest. It lies dangerously near his heart. And it works its way nearer each day."

No, it was impossible. Durge couldn't be one of them them. Then Grace remembered the pains he had felt in his chest the night of the attack on Calavere. She examined his chest. A dozen scars traced white lines beneath dark hair, but she recognized them as the remnants of the wounds he had received on Midwinter's Eve over a year ago, when he was attacked by a band of feydrim feydrim.

Durge was a marvelous warrior, but all the same she had been amazed he had been able to fend off so many feydrim feydrim by himself. Grace had always wondered how he had managed to get away from the creatures. . . . by himself. Grace had always wondered how he had managed to get away from the creatures. . . .

But what if he didn't, Grace? What if he didn't get away-at least not until they let him go?

She shut her eyes, and though dread filled her at what she might see, she reached out with the Touch, gazing into Durge's body. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw it immediately, an inch from his heart. The splinter was no bigger than the tip of her little finger, but it was cold, so terribly cold.

She opened her eyes. "Oh, Durge, what did they do to you?"

She could see it clearly, as if the memory had lingered in his flesh and she had glimpsed it like a ghost image on an X ray. Even his greatsword was not enough to keep so many feydrim feydrim away. They swarmed over the brave Embarran, dragging him down, knocking him unconscious. Only they did not kill him. Instead they fell back as a figure strode into the chamber, clad in a bloodred gown, a smile on her pale face. It was Lady Kyrene, who had been Grace's first teacher as a witch, and who had traded her living heart for one of iron. Kyrene knelt, taking something small and dark, and pressing it deep into a wound in Durge's left side. He cried out, a sound of despair and agony, only by the time his eyes opened, the others were gone. He couldn't have known what they had done to him, why they let him survive. away. They swarmed over the brave Embarran, dragging him down, knocking him unconscious. Only they did not kill him. Instead they fell back as a figure strode into the chamber, clad in a bloodred gown, a smile on her pale face. It was Lady Kyrene, who had been Grace's first teacher as a witch, and who had traded her living heart for one of iron. Kyrene knelt, taking something small and dark, and pressing it deep into a wound in Durge's left side. He cried out, a sound of despair and agony, only by the time his eyes opened, the others were gone. He couldn't have known what they had done to him, why they let him survive.

"They wanted to turn him into a traitor," Grace said, and it felt like a splinter of metal had pierced her own heart. "Only they wanted to do it without us knowing."

"Yes," the old woman said above her. "But his heart is far stronger than they believed. Evil always underestimates the power of good-that is its greatest weakness. All this while, he has resisted."

"Then he can keep resisting it," Grace said, grasping for hope.

The forest queen shook her head. "He is mortal, daughter. Even a man so strong as he cannot resist forever. Soon now, the splinter will reach his heart."

Grace could barely speak the words. "What will happen when it does?"

The old woman met her eyes. "His heart will turn to ice, and he will become the willing slave of the Lord of Winter-the one whom you call the Pale King."

A moan escaped Grace. "I have to get it out of him. I have to operate before it's too late."

"It's already too late, daughter. He should have perished that night. It is only the enchantment of the splinter that has kept him alive. If you remove it, he will die."

Grace couldn't believe it. She wouldn't. Except she had to. She wiped tears from her cheeks and looked up. "You do it, then. You can help him with your magic."

"I fear that is not so," the forest queen said, sorrow on her wizened visage. "Iron is a thing whose touch none of us can bear. I have no power over it."

Anger boiled up in Grace, and she seized on it as she stood, because it was so much easier to endure than despair. "I came here to find Trifkin Mossberry and the Little People. I wanted to ask them for help in standing against the Pale King, and I found you. But you're no help at all. You don't even care. You ran away from the world to hide here in your forest, and now I can see why. Your magic is old and weak and useless."

For a moment, anger touched the old woman's face, and her eyes blazed like the noonday sun. It was a terrible sight, but such was Grace's own rage that she did not flinch.

At last the forest queen shook her head, and her eyes dimmed. "Perhaps you are right, perhaps we have grown too distant from the world outside. Yet you are wrong if you think we do not care. Quellior is brash and foolish, but he was right-if you cannot stop the Lord of Winter from riding forth, summer will never come again. And while we cannot stand beside you in the way you hoped, perhaps I can help you discover a way to help yourself." She met Grace's eyes. "You seek a key, do you not, one that can aid you in the war you must fight? Sit in the chair that is forbidden to all others, and the key shall be revealed to you."

It wasn't enough, Grace wanted to say. She wanted the Little People to fight beside her when the Rune Gate opened. And she wanted Durge to be solid and whole, to be there for her as he always was. All the same, Grace felt her anger melting. She turned away.

"Do not lose all hope, daughter," the old woman said behind her. "The splinter has not yet reached his heart. You will yet have time with your knight before the end." Her voice was receding now. "Farewell. And remember the chair."

Grace turned around, but the gold light filled the forest, and she couldn't see the old woman. Then the light dimmed, and she turned back to see a silver snake slither up against Durge's side. Only it wasn't a snake at all, but his greatsword. He was clothed again, his garments bearing no sign of rip or stain.

"My lady, what has happened?" Durge sat up, blinking gentle brown eyes as he stared in all directions.

Grace knelt beside him and gripped his hand. Her breath fogged on the air; the bitter cold had returned. "What do you remember?"

"I'm not entirely certain." His mustaches pulled down into a frown. "I recall riding to the forest with you. And then . . ." He shook his head, his expression one of wonder. "I fear the Little People must have been at work, my lady, even if we never saw them, for I had the most peculiar dream. I dreamed I was a stag running through the forest, and that hunters wanted to slay me. Only a beautiful maiden threw herself upon me, protecting me from their arrows. It was all most queer."

Relief flooded Grace. He didn't remember what had really happened. "Don't think about it, Durge. You're fine now." Only that wasn't true, was it? Even now the splinter of iron was working its way nearer his heart.

Grace didn't even realize she was crying until he wiped the tears from her cheek.

"What is this, my lady?" he said in a chiding tone. "You must not weep. After all, there was never any hope the Little People would help us. Nor does it matter. I can't imagine we'll ever find a way to stop the Pale King from riding forth, but at least we'll not find it together."

"Oh, Durge," Grace said, and to his clear astonishment she threw her arms around him and wept.

[image]

There was a package from the Seekers waiting for Deirdre Falling Hawk when she stepped through the door of her flat. She set her keys next to the cardboard box on the Formica dinette table. The landlady must have let them in.

Or maybe the Seekers have a skeleton key that works for all of London.

Regardless, the package could wait. She squeezed into the closet with a stove and a sink that served for a kitchen, put on a pot for tea, then headed to the adjoining bathroom. She took a shower, letting the hot water pound her, as if it had the power to wake her when she knew perfectly well she wasn't sleeping.

She toweled off, wrapped herself in a terry robe, and padded back to the kitchen to fix a cup of Earl Grey with lemon. Cup in hand, she curled on the threadbare sofa. She sipped tea, watching the day drizzle away outside the window, and wondered if she would ever see Hadrian Farr again. Over and over, she thought through their conversation at the pub earlier that day. It was no use; nothing she could have said would have stopped him from leaving.

It rained until night fell. Deirdre rose and switched on a ta.s.seled floor lamp. Whoever decorated this place for the Seekers had clearly possessed a penchant for vintage stores-along with a fierce and single-minded need to make sure every object in the flat was a completely different color.

She donned jeans, a lamb's wool sweater she had picked up in Oslo a few years ago, and her leather jacket. She left the flat, walking down streets made black mirrors by the rain. After a few blocks she pa.s.sed a neon-lit nightclub. Pounding music spilled out the door, running down the gutters like rainwater. Laughter floated on the moist air. Hands in pockets, she walked on.

She bought Indian takeout at a small shop and headed back to the flat. The Seekers' box took up almost the entire table, so she moved it to the floor. There was no mark on it, not even a mailing label-only a small symbol stamped in one corner: a hand with three flames.

Deirdre sat at the dinette and ate slowly, breathing in the heady aromas of cardamom and clove. As she ate, she looked at the newspaper she had bought from a box, only noticing after she had nearly finished going through it that it was yesterday's edition. Not that it mattered. These days, the news was always the same: more fear and unrest, more shootings and suicide bombings, more rumors of war.