The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [200]
That pain was nothing to this: a pinprick compared to the thrust of a red-hot sword. She screamed again as Shemal clenched white fingers into a fist. It felt as if her flesh were clay, her bones wood. She had become a golem, a thing for the Necromancer to mold, to twist into a new shape. To break.
Sister, I am here.
The voice was like cool water flowing over scorched ground. The pain receded a fraction, so that Aryn was able to form words in her mind.
Lirith, is that you?
Yes, Sareth and I are right behind you. King Boreas and some of his men have fought their way close to Teravian, and we followed after.
I can't turn to look at you—I can't move.
It's Shemal's magic that paralyzes you. You must resist it.
The Necromancer's white face filled Aryn's vision like a cold, white moon.
I can't, Lirith. The pain . . .
Do not think of it. I will take the pain away. You can do the rest—you have the power. I know it as Ivalaine did. There is none stronger in the Touch than you, sister.
Before Aryn could question those words, the pain vanished, and air rushed into her, revitalizing her. After the agony, the sensation of wholeness was almost too much to bear.
Do it now, sister!
There was something wrong. Lirith's voice had become oddly tight; her thread trembled.
Please, Aryn, before it's too late. You must strike out against the Necromancer.
But how? Shemal was ancient, once a goddess. And she was not truly alive. What power could possibly harm such a being?
Like a whisper in her ear, it came to Aryn—the answer was everywhere around her. Free of the pain, she reached out with the Touch. She gathered the shimmering threads of the Weirding and began to weave them together.
No—that was too slow. She needed far too many threads to fashion this pattern; she could never weave them fast enough.
Remember what Grace did that time at the bridge over the River Darkwine, when the krondrim approached? She didn't shape the river with the Touch; instead she made herself into a vessel and let the river pour through her.
Aryn let go of the threads, and she imagined herself as a thing hollow, empty—a cup waiting to be filled. Like an emerald flood, the power of the Weirding poured into her. Even as she felt she must burst with it, she reimagined herself not as a cup, but rather as a pipe: a conduit through which the power of the Weirding rushed. With a thought, Aryn directed all that magic—all the power of life—at the Necromancer.
This time it was Shemal who cried out. Aryn willed her eyes to see through the green veil of magic. Shemal stumbled back, her hands rising before her in a gesture of warding. The smooth marble of her face was scored with lines of pain; her mouth was open in a circle of astonishment.
A strength she had never known, had never guessed at, galvanized Aryn. She rose and held her arms out, drawing the power of the Weirding to her. It came from the men all around, and the witches who still stared and trembled, and even the horses who galloped by. It came from the grass beneath her feet, and from the ground beneath the grass, where even in the frozen depths of winter life endured, waiting to spring forth anew. It came from the sky, where birds flew, and from the waters of the river a league away, where silver fish swam beneath the ice. It came from the trees of Gloaming Wood, which hovered on the horizon, and from the land farther away than the eye could see. To Aryn, it felt as if the entire world was a shining web, and that she stood in the very center.
She pointed a finger at Shemal. The Necromancer bared her teeth, white and pointed against black gums. A hissing escaped her. She strained, trying to reach for Aryn, but the ancient being could not move—a spider caught in the web of life.
I'm doing it, Lirith! Aryn