The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [192]
43.
It is time, sister.
Aryn's eyes snapped open, and she sat up straight in the chair. Her chamber was cold; the fire must have burned out long ago. What was the hour? She had not meant to fall asleep. She had intended to sew all night long, to weave magic into the cloth with every stitch, but she must have dozed off in the end. She glanced at the window. Gray light seeped through the glass.
Please, sister, can you hear me?
“Lirith, is that you?” she croaked, too bleary to simply think the words.
Lirith's familiar voice sounded in her mind. Thank Sia you're awake. There's no time to waste. Already the Warriors gather on the field below the castle. They will march with the rising of the sun. Sareth and I go now to the upper bailey. Meet us there.
Before Aryn's foggy brain could fashion a reply, Lirith's presence was gone. Aryn let out a sound of dismay; there was so much she wanted to ask the witch. However, it was too dangerous to speak over the Weirding, as Lirith surely knew; there was no telling who might be listening.
Besides, Aryn, you can't lie when you speak across the threads of the Weirding. So are you going to tell Lirith that you spied on her and Teravian last night? Are you going to tell her how you used magic to watch while they . . .
Despite the chill, a hot wave of shame coursed through her. Or was it another, different sensation of warmth she was feeling? In her mind she saw again the way Teravian's lean, pale body had moved against Lirith's soft, dark flesh.
Aryn shook her head. She did not know how this day was going to unfold, but if things transpired as she feared, she would have to put any thoughts of mercy, of tenderness, out of her mind. The Pale King had his slaves with hearts of iron to serve him. If the Dominions were to have any hope, Aryn would have to harden her own heart—if not into a lump of iron, then at least into a thing of ice.
She touched the scarf that lay across her lap. It was covered with embroidery now, the fine stitches forming intricate patterns of crimson and gold. So skillfully had she sewn that the bloodstain could hardly be seen amid the pattern. In her mind's eye, shimmering green threads of magic shone alongside the mundane strands of red and yellow. However, it was not finished; there was still one section of the scarf she had not managed to embroider, and now there was no more time. She would have to hope it was enough.
You'll have to get close to him, Aryn. This magic is part of you. To invoke it, you'll have to give it to him yourself.
She prayed to Sia it wouldn't come to that. Perhaps they had misjudged him; perhaps the prince was loyal to his father after all, loyal to the Dominions. Perhaps . . .
Aryn carefully folded the scarf, then rose from the chair, stretched her stiff limbs, and hastily readied herself for the outdoors. She donned a wool gown the color of the winter sky, and over it threw a dark blue cloak lined with fox fur. The light outside the window had changed from gray to silver. She had to hurry.
As she moved to the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in a polished mirror propped in the corner. The woman who gazed back at her looked older than Aryn would have expected, her face pale and regal.
Aryn turned, opened the door, and left her chamber.
The castle was empty as she rushed through the corridors; when she reached the entrance hall she found the doors unguarded. She passed into the upper bailey. Frost dusted the world, making everything a ghost of itself. Clouds scudded across the hard sky above. Already their edges were tinged with copper.
She found Lirith and Sareth waiting for her just outside the king's stables.
“We can speak as we go,” Lirith said, her breath white on the air. “We must reach the field below the castle before the Warriors make ready to depart.”
“What do you intend to do?” Aryn said as they started across the bailey.
“To watch, and to be ready. If Liendra plans something, it will happen before they begin their march.”
Aryn gasped. “You've seen this?”
“No,” Lirith said with a