Gates of Winter

1. It was the dead of winter when he reached Ar-tolor. Dusk was falling, and gold lights shone from the windows of the castle on the hill above, beckoning with the promise of crackling fires and steaming cups of wine. He could not remember the last time he had been warm--truly warm--and these last few leagues had been the coldest yet. His feet might as well have been lumps of stone, and despite the rags he had wrapped around them, his fingers were raw and bleeding. All he craved was to ride up to the gates and beg hospitality. Instead, he turned his gelding away from the road and urged the beast toward a grove of trees that clung, feathery as fog, to the slope beneath the castle. That was where he would find her--not in the bright halls of Ar-tolor, but here, where blue shadows gathered. He brought the horse to a halt at the edge of the trees, climbed from the saddle with clumsy motions, and threw the reins over a branch. The horse snorted, breath ghosting on the air, and dug at the snow with a hoof. It was Geldath now, the Ice Month; the beast would find nothing to eat. He left the gelding and trudged deeper into the grove, boots crunching on newfallen snow. Branches wove themselves overhead, sharp and black as ink on parchment, making a broken mosaic of the colorless sky--just as the webwork of scars made of his face. Here and there, where branches intersected, he fancied he could make out the familiar shape of a rune. There was Lir. Light. And over there, three twigs that sketched Krond, the rune of fire. He imagined stretching his fingers toward dancing flames. . . . Those were foolish thoughts; the cold had frozen his mind as it had his hands and feet. However, he knew he had to thaw his wits, for if he did not choose his words with care, they would betray him. Just as he meant to betray her. He muttered Ber, the rune of strength, and kept walking. It was the silence that warned him. Somewhere off in the grove, a mourning dove had been singing. The music ceased. He turned around, and his heart became a lump of ice in his chest. A figure in a black robe stood next to a tree. The hem of the robe fluttered, though there was not a breath of wind. Only one set of footprints marred the snow: his own. He shivered, and not simply from the chill. Every instinct told him to flee. Instead he willed his stiff legs to move, bearing him toward the other. He clutched a hard bundle beneath his cloak as he came to a halt an arm's reach away. At her feet lay a dove, its neck twisted. Blood spattered the snow like winter berries. A voice emanated from within the robe's hood, sharp as breaking sticks. "Why has it taken you so long to come?" "It is a long journey from the Black Tower." His lips seemed molded of clay; it was an effort to speak. "I rode with all possible haste." "Is that so? Your steed did not seem overly exhausted when I came upon it." He peered back the way he had come. Through the trees, he could just make out a large form sprawled on the snow, slender legs splayed. "That was my third mount. The last dropped beneath me in eastern Calavan." "What fragile things they are. I would not tolerate such weakness in my servants." He said nothing, and she drew closer, drifting over the snow. A precipitate of frost dusted the fabric of his tunic. "Are you certain," she said, "you did not stop at the fortress of your brethren before coming here? It is not so far away from Ar-tolor. Perhaps you desired to show them what you've found." "They are my brethren no longer. I am forbidden ever to return to my home--a condition I believe is familiar to you." Within the cowl, he caught the glint of a milky eye. "Be careful, mortal man!" He laughed, no less surprised by this reaction than she. "Don't you think it's far tAnthony, Mark is the author of 'Gates of Winter ' with ISBN 9780553583335 and ISBN 0553583336.