The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [135]
“You search for certainty, Sir Vedarr,” Durge said. “That is hard quarry to hunt, but I will tell you what you can be certain of.” He slipped from the back of his horse and stood on the frozen ground between the two armies. “You can be certain there is no woman or man in all the world as strong, as wise, and as good as Lady Grace. You can be certain that the blade she carries is indeed Fellring, King Ulther's sword forged again, and that it belongs in the hand of no other. But even if Ulther's blood did not flow in her veins, she would still be better than you or I, than any of us, and worthy of our loyalty. And there is one more thing you can be certain of—that we ride north with little chance of staving off the coming tide of darkness, yet also with the knowledge that someone must stand against it, and so it might as well be us.”
At last a breath of wind moved, blowing Durge's hair back from his craggy brow. He gazed northward—not at the knights of Embarr, but past them.
“It is not prevailing against the dark that matters, Sir Vedarr, for every day good and strong men are defeated by hate, fear, anger, and deceit—and by the ones who are slaves to such things.” He pressed his right hand to his chest. “It is not defeating evil that makes us good at heart. It is simply choosing to stand against it.”
Durge bowed his head, his shoulders stooped, his laughter gone. The only sound that broke the silence was the sigh of the wind through dry grass. All gazed at the knight, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to break the silence. Tears froze against Grace's cheeks, but she could not move a hand to wipe them away, and her heart was so swollen with love that she nearly couldn't bear the agony of it.
A small form slipped from the saddle before Grace, landing lightly on the ground. Tira. The wind tangled through her fiery hair as she padded barefoot to Durge. She coiled her hand inside the knight's and looked up at him with her scarred face.
“Good,” she said, then gave a firm nod. “Good.”
Durge knelt on the ground and hugged the small girl. She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his neck.
Now the wind picked up, rushing over the ridgetop, and it was as if fear and doubt were blown away by it. Grace dismounted and moved to stand above Durge and Tira, a hand on each of them. She looked up at Sir Vedarr.
“So what will you do?” she said.
Vedarr gazed at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable, then he drew a knife from his belt and held it before him. So was that his choice? Death?
Before she could wonder more, Vedarr turned the knife and pressed the tip of it against his shield. With slow, deliberate motions, he scraped away the white paint of the grinning skull. When he was done, he turned his horse around and held his shield aloft. The five nearby Embarrans gazed at him with shining eyes, and a great roar of approval went up from the rest of the knights on the slope below, a cheer echoed by Grace's army.
Vedarr turned his horse around. “We will follow you north, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Durge. “Not to defeat evil, but to stand against it.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. It was all she could think of.
“I'll inform my men of the change in their mission,” Vedarr said. He wheeled his charger around and rode back down the slope, his five knights pounding after him.
Grace turned around. Durge had stood, and he held Tira in his arms. His brown eyes were deep and thoughtful.
“You are a good man, Durge of Embarr,” Grace said softly, and she meant it with all her heart. “Nothing that happens will ever change that.” She reached a hand toward him. “You understand that, don't you?”
“Come,