The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [203]
What spell?
This . . .
He abandoned words. Instead, his thread drew close, connecting with her own, and knowledge came to her. Terrible knowledge.
Horror filled her, and regret. How long had he woven alone and in secret, knowing that failure would mean his death, knowing that success would mean the same?
Never mind that, Aryn. I crafted this spell for so long, only today I realized it wouldn't work—I didn't have the power to cast it alone. But you can help me. Do it now. Not for me, for the king.
The words were like a slap, clearing the uncertainty from Aryn's mind. She gripped Teravian's thread, and as he revealed the pattern to her, she wove with all her strength and skill.
Teravian wove with her, so fast she could not keep up with him. His skill with the Weirding was great—greater than her own, greater even than Grace's. But his power wasn't enough; he could not complete the pattern on his own.
Aryn joined her shining hands with his. Once again she opened herself, letting all the magic of the Weirding flow through her, and she felt his astonishment. His skill was great, honed in countless lonely hours, but her power ran deeper, flowing from the well of her soul. With every hateful look at her arm, with every person who had recoiled from her in disgust, she had dug the well a little farther, into the very foundation of of her being. There she had struck bedrock, and a spring from which power welled forth. It did not matter what others thought of her; she knew who and what she was. She was a woman. She was a queen.
She was a witch.
The spell was complete. It shone between Aryn and Teravian: a net as pure as starlight, holding within it a shadow darker than death.
“I do not see the bull!” Shemal snapped. “What are you doing, boy? You're casting a spell, I can see it. Do not lie to me again, or I'll slit your throat.” She clutched his hair with a hand and held the sword against his neck.
Now! Aryn shouted in her mind.
Together, she and Teravian cast the shimmering net at Shemal.
Against the Weirding, the Necromancer appeared as a void, a place of darkness where no threads wove. Then the net struck her, wrapping itself around her, outlining her in light. At the same time the shadow inside the net found the hole in her body made by King Boreas's sword. The shadow entered her; the net vanished. The spell was done.
Aryn and Teravian opened their eyes. Shemal staggered back and dropped the sword. She held up her hands. Thin black lines marred her skin, like cracks in porcelain. Even as they watched, the lines multiplied, lengthened, snaking up her arms. They appeared on her face, turning it into a shattered mask. Then the lines grew darker, thicker.
“What have you done?” she hissed. Her voice rose to a shriek. “What have you done to me, you wretched children?”
“You are neither dead nor alive,” Teravian said, his gaze fixed on her. “So we've given you those things you could never have. The gift of life—and of mortality.”
“No!” Shemal cried out, and in that sound was such poison, such hatred, that men covered their ears and horses screamed. Like a flock of crows, shadows gathered around the body of the Necromancer, concealing her with black wings, then flew away, leaving only emptiness in their wake. Shemal was gone.
Aryn cast a stunned look at Teravian. “Is she dead?”
“No, not yet at least. She is only fled. But now that she's mortal, she'll feel all the weight of the eon she has dwelled upon this world. She won't come back. Please, Aryn, help me.”
He was lifting King Boreas's shoulders from the ground, and Aryn assisted him, and they laid the king's head upon Teravian's lap. Blood still stained Boreas's lips, and his flesh was the color of ashes. His eyes were shut.
“He's dead,” Teravian said softly, wonderingly. “He was so strong—I could never be as strong as he was. Only I'm alive, and