The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [14]
You know what he's going to ask you to do, Grace.
And could she? Before she could answer that question, there was a whinny ahead as Falken's horse reared onto its hind legs. What had spooked it? The road to the castle was empty save for a few peasants trudging up the slope, pushing carts of peat or carrying bundles of firewood. Except one of the peasants—a man in a grimy tunic—was heading down the road, moving as if in a great hurry.
Durge gripped the bridle of Falken's horse, helping the bard regain control. “Watch where you're going, man!” Falken shouted after the peasant. “You might have been trampled.”
If the man had heard Falken, he didn't show it. Grace caught a glimpse of him as he passed by. He was taller than most peasants she had seen on Eldh—their growth was usually stunted by malnutrition—and given his clear skin he seemed to have escaped the usual childhood diseases. The man hurried past and was gone.
“Are you all right?” Grace said as she caught up to Falken and Durge.
“I am, thanks to Durge,” Falken said. “I wonder where that fellow was going in such a hurry.”
“The poor man was probably just trying to make his escape,” Beltan said with a laugh as he and Vani rode up, along with Lirith and Sareth.
The blond knight pointed up the road. A group of people had appeared before the castle gate. There were five of them standing in front of a small band of knights: a powerful, black-bearded man, a diminutive woman in a blue kirtle, a taller woman with eyes the same blue as the banners that flew above the keep, a slender young man with a bored look on his face, and a red-haired man who wore no armor but carried himself like a knight all the same.
Travis glanced at Grace. “It looks as if someone in the castle knew we were coming.”
“No wonder that man was fleeing,” Beltan said with a grin. “I doubt he expected to run into the king.”
Falken scratched his beard. He had let it grow on the journey; it was half-silver. “My guess is he's been hunting on the king's lands without permission. Then he gets to the castle gates and finds the king waiting for him. One look, and the poor man turned and ran in fright.”
Grace nodded. King Boreas had that sort of effect on people. Herself included. While the other peasants weren't running, they had all stopped dead in their tracks and were kneeling in the muck.
“Let's go say hello,” Beltan said.
“Wait a moment.” Durge climbed down, retrieved something from the muck, and mounted his horse again. “I believe that peasant dropped this.” He held a small leather sack about the size of a money pouch.
“That could be his life savings,” Lirith said. “He could be working to buy his freedom.”
Sareth gave her a concerned look. “Do you really think so, beshala? If so, it would be a crime not to return it.”
“I agree,” Durge rumbled. However, the peasant man had vanished.
“You'll have to return it to him later,” Beltan said. “I really don't think we should keep my uncle waiting.”
“Or Melia,” Falken said.
They urged their horses into a trot. Grace's heart soared as she saw the faces of her friends. Aryn looked more beautiful than ever, and older as well. She stood beside Melia, who appeared as regal and ageless as ever, though she clapped her hands together in a display of youthful enthusiasm as the riders drew near. Sir Tarus wore a broad grin, and even King Boreas looked fiercely happy, a toothy smile showing through his black beard.
The only one who wasn't smiling was the slender young man clad all in black. Grace had never seen him before, but all the same she recognized him. Teravian would never be powerfully built like his father, the king of Calavan, and his features were finer, but there was the same sharp, compelling look to his face. At the moment, though, that face was marred by a sullen look. Teravian