He had short hair that was still thick and gleamed silver, but his features were weathered, as if from long years under harsh sunlight. His skin was paler now, but there was still something of the desert on his skin. His face was long, his brows still dark and full. He had a double scar on his left eyebrow and cheek, two long lines that went straight down, a lot like mine, only deeper and thicker and all the way to his jawline, and they were much softer with long years of healing. Maybe he hadn’t been as good at flinching as I was, because he’d lost the eye beneath the scar. One of his eyes was nearly black, it was so dark. The other had been replaced with . . .
I looked around me. Yes, definitely. The other eye had been replaced with the crystalline material that was identical to that which had been used to create the gates and the walls around them.
“Steel,” I said.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“Your, uh, other eye. It was steel before.”
“I’m sure it looked like steel,” he said. “The disguise is necessary when I’m not here.”
“Your job is so secret, your false eye gets a disguise?” I asked. “Guess I see why you miss Council meetings.”
He inclined his head and ruffled his fingers through mussed, tousled hood-hair. “It can be quiet for years here, sometimes. And others . . .” He spread his hands. “But they need a good eye here to be sure that the things that must remain outside do not slip in unnoticed.”
“Inside the wounded,” I guessed. “Or returning troops. Or medics.”
“You’ve become aware of the adversary,” he said, his tone one of firm approval. “Excellent. I was certain your particular pursuits would get you killed long before you got a chance to learn.”
“How can I help?” I asked him.
He leaned his head back and then a slow smile reasserted itself on his face. “I know something of the responsibilities you’ve chosen to take up,” he said, “to say nothing of the problems you’ve created for yourself that you haven’t found out about yet. And still, in the face of learning that our world spins out its days under siege, you offer to help me? I think you and I could be friends.”
“Wait,” I said. “What problems? I haven’t been trying to create problems.”
“Oh,” he said, waving a hand. “You’ve danced about in the shadows at the edge of life now, young man. That’s no small thing, to go into those shadows and come back again—you’ve no idea the kind of attention you’ve attracted.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good. Because the pace was starting to slow down so much that I was getting bored.”
At that, Rashid tilted his head back and laughed. “Would you be offended if I called you Harry?”
“No. Because it’s my name.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Harry, I know you have questions. I can field a very few before I go.”
I nodded, thinking. “Okay,” I said. “First, how do you know if the adversary has . . . infested someone?”
“Experience,” he said. “Decades of it. The Sight can help, but . . .” Rashid hesitated. I recognized it instantly, the hiccup in one’s thoughts when one stumbled over a truly hideous memory gained with the Sight, like I’d had with—
Ugh.
—the naagloshii.
“I don’t recommend making a regular practice of it,” he continued. “It’s an art, not a skill, and it takes time. Time, or a bit of questionable attention from the Fates and a ridiculously enormous tool.” He tapped a finger against his false eye.
I blinked, even though he didn’t, and looked up at the massive gates stretching overhead. “Hell’s bells. The gates . . . they’re . . . some kind of spiritual CAT scanner?”
“Among many other things,” he said. “But it’s one of their functions, yes. Mostly it means that the adversary cannot use such tactics effectively here. As long as the Gatekeeper is vigilant, it rarely tries.” The horns sounded again, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. “Next question.”
I hate trying to be smart under time pressure. “This,” I said, pointing up at the gates. “What the hell? How long has this attack been going on?”
“Always,” he said. “There are always Outsiders trying to tear their way in. There are always forces in place to stop them. In our age, it is the task of Winter to defend these boundaries, with the help of certain others to support them. Think of them as . . . an immune system for the mortal world.”
I felt my eyes get wide. “An immune system . . . What happens if it . . . you know, if it breaks down for a bit?”
“Pardon?” the Gatekeeper asked.
“Uh, it gets a glitch. Like, if somebody new took over or something and things had to reorganize around here . . .”
“Most years, it would pose no major difficulty,” he said.
“What about this year?”
“This year,” he said, “it could be problematic.”
“Problematic.”
“Rather severely so.” Rashid studied my face and then started to nod. “I see. There are things happening back in Winter. That’s why Mother Summer brought you here. To show you what was at stake.”
I swallowed and nodded. “No pressure or anything.”
Rashid’s face reacted at that. I couldn’t say what the exact mix of emotion on it was, though one of them was a peculiar kind of empathy. He set his staff aside and gripped my upper arms with his hands. “Listen to me, because this is important.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You get used to it,” he said.
I blinked. “What? That’s it?”
He tilted his head to look at me obliquely with his good eye.
“I’ll get used to it? That’s the important pep talk? I’ll get used to it?”
His mouth quivered. He gave my arms a last, maybe affectionate squeeze and released them. “Pep? What is needed in the Warden is far more than pep, Harry.”
“What, then?” I asked.
He took up his staff and poked my chest with it gently. “You, it would seem.”
“What?”
“You,” he repeated firmly. “What we need is you. You have what you have for a reason. Unwitting or not, virtually your every action in the past few years has resulted in a series of well-placed thumbs in the adversary’s eye. You want to know how you can help me, Harry?”
“Engh,” I said, frustrated. “Yeah.”
“Go back to Chicago,” he said, turning away, “and keep being yourself.”
“Wait,” I said. “I need help.”
At that, he paused. He looked back at me and gave me a quiet smile. “I know precisely how it feels to be where you are.” He gestured back toward the battleground. “Precisely.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, and then nodded. “I will do what I can. If we both survive the next several hours, I will settle matters between you and the Council, which knows only as much about our roles as it needs to—and that isn’t much. I will verify your return and that you are indeed yourself, and will see to it that your back pay as one of the Wardens is forwarded to you. There’s some paperwork to fill out to get the Council’s office to reestablish your official identity with the government, but I’ll see to it that it happens. I think I remember all the necessary forms.”
I stared at him for a second and said, “You’ll . . . you’ll help me with White Council paperwork.”
He held up a finger. “Do not underestimate the depth of this favor,” he said soberly, but his eye was twinkling. “And on a similar note, do not underestimate yourself. You haven’t been given the power and the knowledge and allies and the resources you possess for no reason, Harry. Nothing I have to say can possibly make this task any easier for you. The only way to do it is to do it.” He lifted his chin. “You don’t need help, Warden. You are the help.”
“We’re in trouble,” I said.
He winked at me, restored his hood to its usual position, and said, “We always are. The only difference is, now you know it. God be with you, my friend. I will cover this end. You see to yours.”
He took several rapid paces out from under the towering gates and gestured. A second later, I kid you not, a freaking woven carpet, maybe ten feet by twenty, came sailing neatly down out of the sky, coming to hover about six inches off the ground beside him. Rashid stepped onto the carpet, slipped his boots into some kind of securing straps on it, and then lifted his staff. The carpet and the Gatekeeper rose serenely up out of sight, and a second later went streaking out over the storm-lit battlefield in a howl of whirling winds.