The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [258]
“Do you live here?” Travis said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Is this your home?”
The man—the shaman—shook his head. We make our homes in such places, in the sheltered spaces of the ground. But not here. Not under the watching eyes of He-Who-Wields-The-Ice.
The witch-woman let out a cackle. She pointed at Travis. Now this is He-Who-Wields-The-Ice. And He-Who-Wields-The-Flame-And-The-Gloom.
Travis clenched his hand around the Stones. Their touch was solid and reassuring, lending him a small measure of strength. He moved deeper into the cave. The gray curtain undulated. Soft tendrils curled away from it, evaporating.
It wasn't a curtain at all; it was a wall of fog. Only there was something queer about it—about the way it remained cohesive despite the air moving through the tunnel. He started to reach a hand toward it, then pulled back.
“What is this?” he said. “Is this a way into the Twilight Realm?”
The way can be found anywhere, the man said in his hooting language. Atop any lonely mountain, beneath any ancient tree, in the dim heart of any hollow hill. You have only to look for it.
A cool tendril brushed Travis's face. “But what kind of place is the Twilight Realm? I've heard Falken talk about it, about how the Old Gods and the Little People retreated there a thousand years ago, but I don't really know what it is.”
The old woman clucked her tongue. The Twilight Realm is not a place. It is a time. A time when the world was not so weary as it is now, when trees ruled the forests and clouds the mountaintops. A time when silence was the sweetest music, when the air had never been sundered by the sound of a smith's hammer against a forge, or by the cries of men dying on the swords of other men. A time when the gods were everywhere—in every hill and river and stone. A time of wildness, of beauty.
Sorrow shone on her strange yet human face, and joy. Her hands fluttered to her breast, and she sighed.
It was . . . it is . . . our time.
Travis breathed. He didn't understand, not with words anyway. All the same, he could feel it in his heart: an ache, a longing, too deep and ancient to be expressed in such a recent and human invention as language. It was a peace, a power. A sense of belonging. For a moment he almost caught it, almost knew what it would be like not to try to master the world, but simply to be part of it—a single strand of the shining web that connected all things.
Like the fog, he could not grasp it. The moment passed. The Stones weighed heavy in his hands.
“How do I find the Dawning Stone?” he said.
The Maugrim man pointed at the Imsari. They will know the way.
The witch-woman nodded toward the wall of fog. Go. Tears ran down her weathered cheeks. Be the end of all things.
Travis could find no words to reply. He gripped the Stones and stepped into the fog.
In a heartbeat he was lost. The mist coiled around him, left and right, above and below. Something was wrong; he hadn't passed through. He had to go back.
Travis stumbled in what he thought was the direction he had come from, but his hands didn't find the rough stone of the cave, just more cool fog. He called out to the Maugrim, but the mist filled his mouth, muffling his voice. This place was empty except for the fog and himself.
No, there was something else here. A roar echoed through the mist: low and distant, yet drawing nearer. The fog swirled, agitated. The gloom deepened as a shadow drew closer.
Mohg. He was here in the Twilight Realm. Or wherever this place was. Another cry sounded all around—hateful, longing. He was looking for Travis.
Travis pressed forward, but it was no use; the mist and the shadow lay in every direction. The fog shuddered as another groan passed through it. The Lord of Nightfall was coming. He would find Travis, he would wrest the Stones from him. . . .
The Stones. Travis had forgotten about the Great Stones. He brought his right hand close to his