The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [199]
For a moment the hatred in Liendra's eyes was replaced by another emotion: fear. Then her visage hardened again, and she turned toward the one in black. “Stop her! The horrid little bitch is killing him. Cast the spell back on her.”
Shemal glided forward, the hem of her robe not touching the ground. “Such a magic cannot be turned on its maker. If you were not so weak in the Touch, you would know that.”
Teravian's lips were blue now. He slumped in the saddle, no longer struggling.
All traces of beauty fled Liendra's face, replaced by the ugliness of rage. “Then do something else! I don't care what it is. Just keep her from killing him!”
“As you wish,” Shemal's voice hissed from the cowl. A pale hand extended from the sleeve of her robe. She flicked a finger, and Aryn watched in horror as the embroidered pattern on the scarf vanished, as if the threads had been plucked out. The cloth was white and unmarked. Teravian drew in a gasping breath, clutching the mane of his horse. His eyes were hazed with pain as he looked up at Aryn, but there was life in them. The spell had been broken.
“Sisters, help me!”
The wail pierced the air. Aryn looked at Liendra. So the spell had not been broken after all, only transferred to another.
The same embroidered pattern that had vanished from the scarf now appeared on Liendra's robe—swiftly, as if sewn by a hundred hands. She flailed at the threads, trying to brush them away as though they were insects, but to no avail. The pattern continued to grow until it was complete. Liendra's eyes protruded from their sockets, and she gnashed her teeth, biting her own tongue. Blood ran down her chin. Several of the young witches drew close to her, then as she reached out for them they recoiled, their eyes on Duke Petryen's body.
The golden-haired witch reached a hand toward Aryn. “Die,” she said.
Aryn shook her head.
Liendra went stiff, then fell over, a corpse before she hit the ground. The young witches screamed and cried, sinking to their knees. Warriors raced past them in all directions. Many were fleeing the field, but not all.
“Come to me!” Ajhir was shouting. “We must protect the prince. Come to me!”
A few of the men gathered around him, but others kept moving past. The clang of swords sundered the air, along with cries of pain. Somewhere trumpets sounded. Aryn started to turn her mount around, to see what was happening—then froze.
The figure in black glided toward her.
Aryn's horse let out a scream and reared onto its hind legs. She tried to grab the saddle, but she had only one hand; it wasn't enough. She tumbled to the frozen ground, and her breath rushed out of her in a painful gasp. For a moment she was unable to move. Then, with effort, she untangled herself from her cloak and pushed herself to her knees.
The Necromancer stood above her. Despite the wind, Shemal's black robe hung still. From her position on the ground, Aryn could see inside the hood, and what she glimpsed there froze her blood. A smile, thin and sharp as a knife wound, cut across a face as white, as lifeless, as marble. Aryn gazed into black eyes and saw in them an eon of hatred, of death, of suffering. A moan escaped her.
“What an ugly little arm you have. Such a small and twisted thing. How you must hate it.”
Shemal pointed a white finger. Aryn had lost the shield in the fall, and her withered right arm was exposed.
Somehow, despite her fear, Aryn smiled. Shemal was wrong. She had done what she had to; she knew who she was. “No, I don't hate it. It's part of who I am.”
Shemal's thin lips curled in a sneer. “Really? Well, if you fancy that hideous little arm so much, then I shall mold the rest of you to match.”
Aryn's smile shattered as Shemal brushed her cheek with a finger; her touch was like a cold dagger.
“Wither,” the Necromancer crooned. “Wither . . .”
Aryn threw her head back and screamed.
45.
Aryn had known pain before. Especially during the years of her tenth and eleventh winters, when she had been