The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [164]
“So what am I supposed to do?” Travis said. “If there's no place to hide from him, where can I possibly go?”
Brother Cy laughed, a sound that rattled the walls and caused everyone in the room to stare. Then, as they turned their gazes back to their bowls of soup, Cy pointed at the TV in the corner. The talk show was over; another program was just coming on. The camera zoomed in on a gigantic building that loomed above a river, its glass-and-steel spires soaring like cruel mountains to the sky.
Travis let out a breath of understanding.
“That's right, son,” Cy said. “There is still somewhere you can go. Into the heart of shadow itself.”
39.
Aryn paced before the window of Lirith's chamber as the sky faded to gray outside. The sun had set, and by the time it rose over the world again the Warriors of Vathris would be marching north to Gravenfist Keep.
Or would they? Surely Liendra was not simply going to stand by and wave at Boreas and his army as they set out. But what did she and her witches intend to do?
“Please sit down, sister,” Lirith said. “You're wearing out the carpet. As well as my nerves.”
“Sorry,” Aryn said and flopped into a chair. “I just can't stop wondering what Liendra is up to.”
“You're hardly alone in that.”
Lirith was tending to Sareth's face while he sat on the edge of the bed. There was a mottled bruise along his jaw as well as a nasty scrape on his cheek where Duke Petryen had struck him.
Sareth winced as Lirith pressed a damp cloth soaked in herbs against his cheek. “I thought you were on my side, not theirs, beshala. That stings.”
“Then it's working. Hold it in place.”
The Mournish man sighed. “You're as bad as my al-Mama. As a boy, every time I was sick, she'd feed me potions that tasted like dung. I've never understood why the cure has to be worse than the affliction.”
“Of course you don't,” Lirith said with an unsympathetic smile. She turned to mix together more herbs at the sideboard. “Now, be quiet, and I'll brew you something for the—”
Lirith went stiff. A crucible slipped from her fingers, falling to the sideboard with a clatter. She turned around, her eyes wide and dark.
Aryn pushed herself up from the chair. “What is it, sister?”
“Ivalaine,” Lirith gasped. “Merciful Sia, it's Queen Ivalaine.”
By the time they reached the dungeon, it was already too late.
At first the guard balked at Aryn's request to see Ivalaine, but such was the force of her ire that he quickly reconsidered. He led them down a dank corridor past cells filled with thieves and miscreants culled from the town below the castle, as well as from the gathering army of Vathris. Hands reached out from between the bars, groping at the ladies, but Sareth beat them back; the stench of vomit and urine was thick on the air. A great dread came over Aryn, so that she was shaking by the time the guard unlocked the ironbound door at the end of the corridor.
By the state of things, Ivalaine was not long dead. Her flesh, though pale and stiff as clay, was warmer to the touch than the cell's clammy air. She slumped against the wall, her flaxen hair snarled and matted, her pale eyes wide and staring. A pool of blood had formed on the stones around her, flowing from the long gashes in both of her wrists.
Lirith let out a wordless moan. She would have collapsed, but Sareth held her up, and she pressed her face against his chest. The guard stared at the queen's corpse, slack-jawed.
A peculiar feeling came over Aryn. She felt she should fall to her knees and weep. Instead she remained standing. Everything in the room seemed gray, faded. Ivalaine had been so strong, so vibrant. Surely the very fabric of the Weirding had been torn by her death.
No, it was more than that. Aryn shut her eyes. She could see the threads of the Weirding coiling and stretching, filling back in a dark void in the web of life.
Aryn's eyes snapped open. “Someone else was here!”
Her words jerked the guard out of his stupor. “Impossible, Your Highness. I've stood at the door since the queen was brought here earlier