The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [153]
“Do you think it's a good idea to light so large a bonfire, Your Majesty?” said a gloomy voice beside her.
Grace didn't know when Durge had sat down on the log; his charcoal gray tunic blended with the gloom.
“The night's cold,” she said. “The fire keeps them warm.”
“And the dancing?”
She smiled. “That too. Among other things.”
All of the ladies had found a partner in the dance. Lursa was still laughing, her plain face made pretty with mirth, and the knight's eyes were bright with a light that came not just from the fire. Senrael stood not far off, glaring at the couple. Lursa was going to have to be careful if she wanted to remain the coven's Maiden. Then again, there were a few younger witches in the coven who would do just fine. Grace hoped Lursa did what she wanted.
Durge looked back over his shoulder, into the darkness. “The Rune Gate lies but three leagues from here as the raven flies, on the other side of Shadowsdeep. His spies will see the fire. The Pale King will know we've come.”
“Good,” Grace said, surprised to realize she meant it. “I want him to know I'm here. I want him to be afraid.” She gripped the hilt of Fellring, belted as always at her hip. “Maybe he'll think twice before he forces the Rune Gate open again.”
Durge shook his head. “He will come. Once the last rune sealing it breaks, the Rune Gate will open, and all the hordes of the Pale King will be upon us.”
“That's one thing I don't understand,” said a clear tenor, and they looked up to see Master Graedin approaching, along with All-master Oragien. “How is it we've already encountered feydrim and wraithlings if the Rune Gate is still shut?”
Grace had actually been thinking about that one for a while. They knew the Pale King had managed to get a few wraithlings to Earth, using Gelthisar to send them through the crack between the worlds—the gap Travis had inadvertently created when he traveled back in time to Castle City and met Jack Graystone. However, Grace doubted the Stone of Ice had allowed Berash to get his minions through the Rune Gate, and they couldn't sail the Winter Sea. The fairy ship had navigated the roiling, icy waters around the northern shores of Imbrifale, but Grace doubted any mundane ship could manage that feat. That meant the Pale King's slaves must have come through the mountains.
She looked up at Graedin. “Falken told me that the Ironfang Mountains, which border Imbrifale, were woven with perilous illusions by witches long ago.”
“That's so,” Oragien said. “What's more, the Runelords of old spoke the rune Fal over and over, raising the Fal Threndur to great heights and filling them with treacherous chasms. They make a strong prison around Imbrifale.”
Grace snapped her fingers. “Right, but no matter how strong it is, no prison is perfect. Say the odds of getting through the Ironfang Mountains, with all their chasms and illusions, were one in a hundred. If the Pale King threw a thousand feydrim at the mountains, then ten would make it through. That could explain the creatures we've seen.”
“But we've seen hundreds of feydrim over the course of the last year,” Durge said.
Despite her proximity to the bonfire, a chill gripped Grace. She was a scientist; she knew numbers couldn't lie, and her mind couldn't help doing the math.
“That would mean there are thousands of feydrim within Imbrifale,” Graedin said, looking ill.
Grace shook her head. “No, tens of thousands.”
“You cannot know that for certain, Your Majesty,” Oragien said, though his troubled eyes belied his reassuring tone.
However, he was right. They didn't know for certain how great the Pale King's army was. Maybe the odds of getting through the Fal Threndur were not so high as she thought, which meant the Pale King's forces would number far less. She started to speak these ideas, but her