The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [202]
Aryn let go of the Weirding. Power ceased to flow into her, but there was still too much within her, and the shell of her body had grown too brittle. The magic would shatter her if she did not direct it elsewhere.
There was no time to consider the wisdom of it. With a thought, Aryn redirected the power of the Weirding away from the Necromancer and into Lirith.
Lirith's crooked jaw opened in a croaking sound. Sareth screamed as well, for Aryn was too weak to properly control the magic. He dropped the sword and fell to his knees, huddling over Lirith, as a cocoon of green light wove around them, so brilliant they were lost to sight.
Aryn staggered—she felt so weak, so cold and empty, now that the power of the Weirding no longer flowed through her. She would have fallen, but strong arms caught her. She gazed up into the king's grim face.
“My lady,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes bright with concern. “My lady, are you well?”
Words were beyond her, but she managed a nod. She was dimly aware of many knights all around them. The king and his men must have fought through the confusion to her. She was also aware of Teravian standing nearby. Warriors gripped his arms, but he did not struggle. His face was ashen, and his eyes seemed blind as he stared forward.
Those eyes went wide. “Father!” Teravian shouted. “Behind you!”
Boreas whirled around, still holding Aryn, and what she saw sent a spike of terror deep into her heart. Shemal had not fallen to the ground, but still stood. She wrapped white hands around the hilt of the sword and pulled it from her chest. She licked the black blood from her lips, then smiled as she held the sword before her.
“You are a fool,” she said, and her lifeless eyes were not fixed on the king, but on Aryn. “You should have finished your spell. You should have sacrificed yourself to slay me. Now look what your error has cost you. For I am not undone. And you will still die.”
Shemal thrust the sword toward Aryn's heart.
Boreas roared. He gripped Aryn in strong arms, spinning her around, away from the Necromancer, then pushed her from him. She stumbled away from the king.
There was a wet sound, followed by a soft exhalation of air, like a gasp of amazement. A silence fell over the field; all the men stared, unmoving, as if a spell had bound them. Slowly, Aryn turned around.
Boreas gazed at her, his mouth open, an expression she had never seen before in his eyes: a look of puzzlement.
“So,” the king said, and as he spoke blood bubbled from his lips. He sank down to his knees, then looked down at the point of the sword that jutted from the center of his chest.
Shemal stood behind him, a satisfied expression on her face. “Not what I intended,” she said, “but effective all the same.” She jerked the sword free.
Blood gushed from Boreas's mouth in a flood. His eyes rolled up, and he fell face forward onto the hard turf.
Like the knights, Aryn was frozen, unable to move. She could only stare at the fallen king. However, Teravian broke free of the men holding him and rushed forward.
“No!” he cried out, throwing himself down beside the king. “Father!”
A smirk sliced across Shemal's face. “You little liar,” she crooned. “You loved him after all, didn't you? And yet you've betrayed him. How pathetic.”
Teravian bowed his head over the king. Shemal drifted closer. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but did not pull away.
“Now,” she intoned in her sepulchral voice, “weave the spell. Bring the bull back into the sky, and call the Warriors of Vathris to you. They will yet follow you.”
He looked up, his gray eyes stricken.
“That's it, my beautiful prince! Weave the magic. You know what you must do.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I do.”
The prince shut his eyes and held out his hands. Shemal looked on, gloating.
Aryn . . .
She went rigid as the voice spoke in her mind. It was Teravian.
Aryn, you have to help me.
What? she managed to cast the word back.
Gods,