The Gates of Winter by Mark Anthony

said, shivering. “We should go inside.”
    The next few days were strangely empty. It was too cold to venture outside the castle, and inside there was little for Travis to do. Grace and Beltan spent much of the time in conference with King Boreas, as did Melia and Falken, Durge and Sir Tarus, and the Spider Aldeth. Aryn was often busy with Lord Farvel, who was planning her wedding to Teravian, though the prince himself was usually as scarce as shadows at noon.
    Vani was scarce herself. Travis knew she was busy patrolling the castle and the surrounding lands, watching for
feydrim
and other intruders. All the same, he would have liked to see her, to talk to her. Or to Beltan. However, both continued to avoid him.
    When he wasn't alone, Travis most often spent his time with Lirith and Sareth, who were keeping an eye on Tira while Grace was in council with the king. Unlike the rest of them, the dark-eyed witch and the Mournish man rarely spoke of the coming storm. Instead they seemed content to dwell in the fragile peace of the moment. The laws of the Mournish people forbid him to marry Lirith, but except for his sister Vani, Sareth's people were a hundred leagues away. For a time, at least, he and Lirith could be together.
    Given that, it was strange and tender how fleeting their expressions of love for one another were. They did not share a chamber at night, and Travis had never seen them kiss. However, their emotion was clear when they gazed at one another, though there was often a sadness in their eyes as well.
    They frequently spent afternoons in Lirith's chamber. The witch would work on her embroidery, and Tira would play quietly with a doll Sareth had carved for her from a fir branch, while Sareth and Travis played a Mournish game using
T'hot
cards. To Travis's surprise, he usually won.
    “I should know better than to play
An'hot
with one of the Fateless,” Sareth grumbled one day, scooping up the cards. Hard crystals of snow scoured the chamber's window, and they all huddled close to the fire. All except Tira, who padded about barefoot, clad only in her simple shift.
    Travis rubbed the palm of his hand. The skin was still smooth—burned away and re-formed in the fires of Krondisar—but lines were beginning to appear again. Were they his fate, forming anew? He was aware of Lirith's eyes on him.
    “I'm sorry, Travis,” Sareth said, concern in his coppery eyes. “I wasn't thinking. You know I didn't mean anything by it. It's only a card game.”
    He shrugged. “I just hope it's true. I hope I don't have a fate.” He couldn't help glancing at Lirith. Was the witch of the same mind as Aryn? Or had she already penned a missive to Queen Ivalaine saying he was here in Calavere?
    “I think I'll send to the kitchens for some
maddok
,” she said, setting down her embroidery.
    Tira laughed and danced before the fire. Travis touched the iron box tucked inside his tunic. He could sense them, nestled in the box, quiescent but craving release. He didn't dare. If he opened the box, wraithlings would see the glow of their magic; they would know where he was.
    At first, after the attack of the
feydrim
, he had feared the Pale King's minions already knew he was here. Only when Beltan had referred to the attack as an assassination attempt had Travis realized the truth. The
feydrim
hadn't been after him; they had been after King Boreas. What better way to plunge Calavan into chaos? They must have crept through the gap in the castle walls unseen. It was all part of the plot to sow strife in the Dominions.
    Except it was Duratek who had engineered the destruction of the castle's towers, not the Pale King.
    “Duratek's allied with the Pale King,” Grace said that night at supper when Travis voiced these thoughts. “I've suspected it for a while now, and this only confirms it.”
    “But they want to get to Eldh to exploit its resources, to make a profit.”
    Grace shook her head. “I think that's just a happy side effect. The real