The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [198]
He was right. Aryn didn't understand. However, there was one thing she did know—the weaving was subtle, skillfully done, but at last she had detected it, hanging like a shimmering curtain behind the prince.
“I will leave you then, Your Majesty,” she said. “But first you must let me give you a gift—something to remind you of your wife to be.”
Petryen frowned, and Ajhir started to protest, but Teravian waved their words away. “What is it?”
“Only this, my lord.” She sheathed the sword, and from her cloak she drew out the embroidered scarf. “It is a small thing, a token I made for you. I ask only that you place it around your neck before you ride into battle.”
Teravian hesitated, then reached out and took the scarf. “It's beautiful,” he murmured. Carefully, he unfolded it, then wound it around his neck. “Now go, Aryn. Be safe.” His words were so gentle she almost lost her resolve.
No, she would not fail. She let the cold air freeze her heart to ice.
“Please,” he said. “It's time.”
“So it is.” Behind the shield, she made a motion with her withered hand.
Teravian let out a choking sound, and his eyes bulged. His fingers fluttered up to the scarf around his neck. He tried to speak a word—it might have been Aryn—but no air passed his lips. The prince reeled in his saddle, and shouts rose from the nearest men.
“Your Majesty!” Duke Petryen cried out. He reached for the prince, but as he touched Teravian's arm there was a flash of green light, and the acrid smell of smoke permeated the air. Petryen toppled from the saddle and fell to the ground, dead.
Aryn gazed at the corpse. So the magic she had woven into the scarf was complete after all—a spell of death. It had slain Petryen, and while Teravian was resisting, it would take him as well. As Mirda had said, there was one witch more powerful than Teravian.
Aryn was that witch.
Teravian tilted back in the saddle. His eyes rolled up into his head.
“Harlot!” Ajhir cried, his face a dark mask of rage. “Murderer! What have you done to him? Remove your spell, or I'll strike you down!”
He brandished his sword at her, but Aryn ignored him. A new cry rose from those warriors who had rushed to Teravian's banner: a sound of dismay.
Aryn looked up. In the sky, the gigantic form of the bull wavered, like an image seen through rippling water. The shining beast tossed its head one last time, then a wind struck it, and it broke apart into tatters of mist that quickly scudded away to the west. The cries of dismay became shouts of terror. Men threw down their swords and spears.
Teravian had created the illusion of the bull, only now his magic was failing, along with his life. He clawed at the scarf, but it was wrapped tightly about his throat. Ajhir stared at Aryn, at the prince, at the sky, clearly unable to decide what to do. Aryn knew this was her chance. She imagined reaching out with invisible hands, gripping the curtain of magic that hung behind the prince, and ripping it aside.
New shouts rose from the warriors. As though they had appeared out of thin air, thirty-nine women in green cloaks now stood behind the prince. The young witches gazed around, their eyes and mouths becoming circles of fear as they realized their spell of concealment had been broken. However, Liendra, who stood closest to the prince, wore a look of outrage.
“Shemal!” the golden-haired witch shrieked, turning round and round. “Shemal, show yourself!”
A chill descended over Aryn, and her heart fluttered as a patch of shadow thickened and grew, until in its place stood a figure in a black robe. The robe devoured the morning light, and the figure cast no shadow. By her shape it was a woman, though her face was concealed by the robe's cowl.
The warriors who had flocked to Teravian's banner were now turning and running; the field had become a churning sea as men fled in all direction.
Treachery! the warriors cried. Witchcraft!
Liendra stalked toward Aryn's horse. “You deformed runt—you're ruining everything.”
Despite the dread in her chest, Aryn's voice did not waver. “It is you who are