The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [111]
Not that Grace would have minded seeing how the young queen and her son were faring. Grace had not seen them since last summer, when all of them had faced the Necromancer Dakarreth in Castle Spardis. However, though they continued to make good time thanks to clear weather and Tira's meddling with distances, they could ill afford a detour all the way to Spardis.
The excitement they had felt at the start of the journey was forgotten now. What little of it had remained had died along with the feydrim and wraithlings in the rocky hills of the Dun-Dordurun. The camp was quiet at night; the ale had run out over a week ago, and the supplies of food were being rationed carefully. They had many days yet to Gravenfist Keep, and once there, who knew how long their supplies would have to last?
Perhaps not long at all, Grace, if we don't find a way to restore the keep's defenses.
But they still had hope. She touched the leather pouch at her waist which contained the small disk of white stone she had found in the arm of Chair Malachor. The men around her were grimmer than before, hardened by the road but not yet made weary by it. Their victory against the forces of the Pale King in Dun-Dordurun had lent them a confidence they had lacked before. They knew now they could stand against this enemy.
Don't get cocky, Grace. Winning that battle was an accomplishment, but fifty feydrim and two wraithlings are just a drop in the bucket. How many thousands more will be waiting when we get to Shadowsdeep?
She gazed at the dark clouds that rose up from the northern horizon. They pulsed with a sickly, yellow-green glow, as if lit from behind by sulfurous fires.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” Durge said.
Only as he spoke did she realize she had sighed. She glanced at the knight, who rode nearby.
“We've turned north, Durge. Every step brings us closer to Imbrifale now. Closer to his Dominion.”
“Journeys have a way of doing that.”
She shook her head. “Of doing what?”
“Taking one to a final destination.” Durge started to lift a hand to his chest, then lowered it back to his thigh.
Grace licked her lips. “It's the pain again.”
“It is nothing, my lady.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but at that moment Sir Tarus's charger pounded up to them.
“I just thought I'd let you know we'll be making camp soon, Your Majesty,” the red-haired knight said. “Aldeth tells me the Spiders are scouting for a suitable place even now.”
Grace wrapped her arms around Tira's warm body in the saddle before her. “I don't think anyplace around here is really suitable, Tarus.”
The land around them was broken and barren, a series of featureless plains scarred by deep gorges. All that day, a cruel wind had rushed down from the mountains to their left, slicing through wool and leather like a cold knife. Grace looked forward to sitting as close to a crackling fire as she could without becoming kindling herself.
Aldeth appeared out of a shadow a short while later to let them know a place to make camp had been found. They reached it just as the sun sank behind the mountains: a flat area beneath a cliff that offered good protection from the wind. Already the men were beginning to pitch tents and dig latrines. A group stopped in their work and raised their fists, cheering, as Grace rode by. The men had being doing that a lot lately, ever since the battle, and Grace never knew quite how to respond. She settled for a crooked smile and an awkward little wave.
Durge helped Grace down from Shandis's back, and Tarus lifted Tira from the saddle. He started to set her down, but the girl threw her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly.
“I believe she likes you, Sir Tarus,” Durge said.
Grace moved closer. “No, look at her. She's frightened—that's why she doesn't want to get down.” She touched Tira's cheek. “What is it, sweetheart?” But the mute girl couldn't—wouldn't—answer. She only buried her