The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [201]
There was a pause, then Lirith's reply came back, weak and quavering. I knew you could do it, sister.
Fear cut through Aryn's exultation. Something was wrong with Lirith. Aryn sent her consciousness along the Weirding. At first she went too far, swept away by the force of the Weirding, and she was a bird soaring over the battlefield. She could see the chaos as warriors ran from Teravian's banner. There was Boreas, fighting with a knot of men, trying to get close to the prince. Nearby she saw herself and the Necromancer, both standing frozen, and Liendra's fallen body, and the witches in their green robes, clutching one another in fear. Just behind Aryn were two figures. Sareth brandished a sword, keeping Sai'el Ajhir at bay. Lirith knelt on the ground beside him, reeling back and forth on her knees, her eyes clamped shut, her dark, beautiful face wrought into a mask of suffering.
The feeling of ecstasy fled. Lirith had lied; she had not taken the pain of the Necromancer's spell away. She had taken it on herself.
Oh, Lirith . . .
You must not think of me, came the witch's faint reply. We each must do what Sia has granted us power to do. I have my task, as you have yours. Now finish it. Destroy Shemal.
In that moment, Aryn left the last innocent wisps of girlhood behind. She turned from her friend, whom she loved, and instead faced the enemy. She opened herself wider, letting all the power of the Weirding rush through her, into Shemal.
It wasn't enough. Shemal writhed, she clawed at the air, she hissed and spat, but she did not fall. She could not die, because she was already dead; the power of life could not destroy her, because she yet lived. It was no use.
The energy of the Weirding flowed through Aryn, as strong as ever, but she felt herself weakening. The vessel of her body was not made to bear the force of such magic. She felt herself being worn away, as stones over which a river flows. Only what took a river centuries would take the flood of the Weirding only a few more beats of the heart. Emerald light shone through Aryn's skin. Shemal's expression changed, from a grimace of agony to a smile of satisfaction.
I'm sorry, sister, Aryn tried to say, but her voice was lost in the roar of the flood. She felt as transparent and brittle as glass. Another moment, and it would all be over.
“Stand away from her, fiend!” commanded a booming voice.
With the last of her strength, Aryn gazed through the haze of magic. She saw a group of knights on proud chargers, their armor gleaming in the morning light. Their leader leaped to the ground. It was King Boreas, his face handsome and terrible in its wrath. Shemal flicked her gaze in his direction; loathing filled her black eyes, but she could move no other part of her. Boreas drew his sword.
“Heed my command, Creature of Darkness—I said get away from my daughter!”
The king thrust with his sword.
It was forged of mundane metal; the blade should never have been able to pierce a being such as she. However, the magic of the Weirding still crackled around her, through her, binding her. The sword pierced her body, biting deeply as Boreas leaned forward, plunging it through her chest, so that the blade thrust out the back of her robe, slicked with black blood. The Necromancer stared with wide eyes, her white hands fluttering around the sword's hilt embedded in her chest.
“The spell, Aryn!” It was Sareth, shouting behind her. “You've got to break the spell. It's killing her!”
Aryn gazed, not with her eyes, but with the power of the Weirding. Sareth's face was carved with lines of anguish. On the ground before him lay a corpse: Ajhir. Another figure lay beside him as well. It was Lirith, it had to be. She wore the same rust-colored gown; she had the same luxuriant black hair. Only instead of the witch's supple figure, inside the gown was a small thing, dark and twisted. Legs coiled back on themselves like roots; stunted arms reached up from too-long sleeves, ending in fingers thin and gnarled as twigs. Her black