Free The Gates of Winter by Mark Anthony

rushing to him.
    “A pain in my chest, my lady. But it's nothing—it's already passing.”
    His breathing was growing easier, and color was returning to his face. All the same, Grace grabbed his wrist with a thumb and two fingers, checking his pulse. Durge was in his mid-forties, and he had exerted himself strenuously that day, first digging through the wreckage of the tower and now fighting the
feydrim
. He was in excellent physical shape for his age, but that didn't mean he couldn't be having a heart attack.
    Except he wasn't. His pulse was rapid, but not erratic, and it was already beginning to slow, as was his respiration. He wasn't just being stoic; the pain had passed. All the same, she should be certain. She pressed a hand to his chest and shut her eyes. Yes, his heart was strong and healthy, beating at a regular pace. She started to let go, then halted. There was something else in his chest, small and shadowy . . .
    “Travis, you're bleeding,” Beltan said.
    Grace opened her eyes and turned around. Travis held up his left hand, staring at it with a look of confusion. Blood streamed from a long gouge in his forearm where the
feydrim
had clawed him. She hesitated.
    “Do not concern yourself with me, my lady,” Durge said, standing straight now. “I am getting old, that is all. Go see to Travis.”
    She nodded, then hurried to Travis. The wound was not deep, and it was bleeding freely, which was good, as that would clean away any contaminants from the
feydrim'
s talon. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and started to bind it around his arm.
    He pulled away from her.
    “Keep still, Travis.”
    “You have to be careful, Grace.”
    She frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
    “It was in Castle City. I . . .” He glanced at the others. Boreas was bellowing for his guards, demanding to know how the
feydrim
had gotten into the castle, and Teravian knelt, examining one of the dead creatures, but all of the others were nearby, watching.
    Grace touched his hand.
What is it, Travis? You can tell me anything.
    Surprise registered in his gray eyes, then he nodded.
It's about the scarab's blood.
    What about it, Travis? You used the last drop to open the gate to the Black Tower.
    No, Grace. I didn't.
    She didn't understand.
But if you didn't use it, how did you get here? And where's the last drop of blood?
    It's in me, Grace.
    An image formed in his mind, and she saw everything: Travis's final encounter with the sorcerer in Castle City, and the way the last drop of blood in the scarab—the blood of the god-king Orú—had fallen on his hand and had entered a wound, merging with his own blood, changing him.
    Stunned, she let go. “Oh, Travis . . .”
    “First Jack made me into a runelord. Then Krondisar destroyed and made me again. Now this.” He shook his head. “I don't know who I am anymore, Grace. I don't know even know
what
I am.”
    Shock melted away, replaced by a fierce resolve. She took his arm and deftly bound the handkerchief around his wound, then took his hand in her own. “You are and always will be the man we love.”
    Travis smiled at her, but the expression was as sad as it was beautiful. “Sometimes I don't know if I'm cursed, or if I'm the luckiest man alive.”
    Grace felt a tingling and looked up. Beltan stood a ways off, but his green eyes were locked on Travis.
    “Lucky,” she said.

7.
    Three days later, Travis sat on a wall in the lower bailey, soaking up the scant warmth of the winter sun. Across the bailey, fifty men—peasants impressed into labor by the king—swarmed over the wreckage of the guard tower. They had been working since the day after the explosions. Already they had cleared the castle gates and shored up the tunnel with beams. All of the debris had been removed from the yard of the bailey, but the guard tower itself was still a heap of shattered stone.
    In another corner of the bailey, more men worked to repair the breach in the wall where the tower of the