The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [205]
“It's true, I fear,” Lirith said. “I've seen what would happen if you take that path. The men would turn against you, the Warriors would lay down their swords and return to their homes.”
Aryn looked up at the witch. “Then what can we do?”
“They won't follow me,” Teravian said. “But there's another whom they will.”
Sareth looked as puzzled as Aryn felt, but Lirith nodded. “I see it as well. There is still one the Warriors of Vathris will follow north to Gravenfist Keep.”
This was too much for Aryn. “But Boreas is gone. Who are you talking about?”
“You,” Teravian said, touching her cheek. “I'm talking about you, Aryn.”
Her mouth dropped open. This was madness. However, before she could speak, ruby-colored light permeated the air. The chanting of the men ceased, replaced by gasps and murmurs. Aryn followed their gaze upward.
Crimson light filled the sky; the dawn had come. Only dawn had already come. How could there be two suns in the sky?
One of the fiery orbs shrank in on itself, descending from the sky, alighting on the ground before Aryn. The light dimmed—but did not vanish—revealing a small girl clad in a gray shift. Her feet were bare, and her tangled red hair blew back from her scarred face.
Despite her sorrow, despite her weariness, wonder filled Aryn. And hope.
“Tira,” she said. “How is it you're here?”
The girl laughed and threw her arms around Aryn.
“No!” came a strangled cry.
Fear replaced wonder, and Aryn looked up. Lirith had gone rigid; Sareth gripped her.
Aryn gently pushed Tira away and rose, moving to the witch. “Sister, what is it?”
Lirith's hands curled into claws. Her voice was hoarse, chantlike. “The gates of winter have opened. The Pale King rides forth, his army behind him like a sea of darkness.”
The men in earshot let out oaths and made warding motions with their hands. Teravian leaped to his feet.
“It's all been for nothing,” the prince said, clutching Aryn's arm. “It will take us a fortnight to march to Gravenfist. Queen Grace will never hold out for so long.”
A buzzing filled Aryn, as well as understanding. “You're wrong. It has been for something. Grace won't have to hold the keep for long before we can get there.”
Teravian looked at her as though she were mad, but Aryn knelt beside Tira. She touched the girl's scarred face. “Have you come to take us to Grace?”
Tira shook her head. “Durge,” she said.
46.
It was almost showtime.
Sage Carson, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral, watched in the mirror as the stylist arranged his hair. Her touch was light and deft. With each flick of the brush she coaxed several coal black strands into precise formation, then locked them into place with a puff of hairspray.
He admired her work; it wasn't so different from his own. Find the stragglers and individualists, those who strayed from the flock, and bring them into line. It was those who chose to deviate from the herd that brought unhappiness—to others and themselves. The world would be a better place if everyone followed the same path. The right path. And Carson had spent the last twenty years making sure his path was the one everyone else followed.
A knock came at the door of the dressing room. The door opened, and the head of Kyle Naughton, one of the young assistant producers, popped through.
“Twenty minutes to airtime, Mr. Carson. Everything's ready onstage, and the choir is warming up.”
Carson started to nod, then stopped. The stylist was still brushing.
“Thank you, Kyle. I'll be out soon. I think it's going to be a special show tonight.”
Kyle grinned and gave a thumbs-up. He adjusted his headset, then retreated through the door, closing it.
Seeing the clean-cut young man now, it was hard to remember that just four years ago Kyle had been a drug addict who had sold his body to whoever would pay in order to buy his next fix. Carson had found him on East Colfax, not long after first coming to Denver. In those days, Carson's show hadn't been what it was now—the number-one-rated