The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [176]
Grace bent and picked up the rune; it was cool against her hand. “I suppose the runelord thought he was being clear,” she said to Tarus. “Didn't he say something about how my mother and my father would have told me? The runelord assumed I would have knowledge of these things already.” Only she didn't; her parents had died when she was an infant.
Durge blew a breath through his mustaches. “For a stone marked with hope, it brings little enough. But perhaps there is some riddle in the runelord's words, one we would be able to fathom if we had long months to decipher it.” The Embarran cleared his throat. “Which we don't, of course.”
“Can you make the message speak again?” Paladus said.
They could. Each time Grace held the rune in a beam of sunlight, the image of the runelord appeared. However, each time his message was just as mystifying. There was something she was missing, something she was supposed to know but didn't.
Paladus laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fear, Your Majesty. It is better to put trust in our skills as warriors rather than in the work of magicians who died long ago. We will hold this keep against the enemy, enchantments or no.”
Grace gave the commander a grateful smile. However, as the day went on, her spirits plummeted. Some heir to an ancient kingdom she was. She was already supposed to know how to awaken the magic of Gravenfist. Only she didn't have a clue.
Sunset found her atop the keep once more, watching the gloom gathering in the distance. The columns of smoke were higher than ever, and a sickly greenish light flickered behind them. The sun slipped behind the sharp rim of the mountains. If dawn brought hope, then what did dusk bring?
The sound of bare feet padding against stone approached from behind her. Grace turned around, and despite the thick bands of fear around her heart, she smiled.
“Tira. What are you doing all the way up here?”
As usual the small girl wore only her thin ash gray shift, her arms and feet bare.
“I'm sorry we haven't had much time to play these last few days,” Grace said, and she meant it. “But I'm tired of thinking about runes and fortresses. Let's go have some supper, and then maybe we can find something new for your dolls to wear.”
Grace expected this to elicit a smile. Instead, while the right side of the girl's face—the scarred half—was as impassive as ever, the left side bore a look of sadness.
Concern rose within Grace. She knelt and touched Tira's thin shoulders. “What is it, sweetheart? Is something wrong?”
Tira reached out and laid her small hands on either side of Grace's jaw in a gentle embrace. A warmth filled Grace, and she sighed. Then Tira lowered her arms, and warmth became a terrible chill. The girl took a step back, and slowly Grace stood.
“You're leaving me,” she said.
A tear rolled down the side of Tira's face. In a puff of steam it was gone.
Grace's own cheeks were cold and wet. She was shaking. “I don't want you to go.”
Tira gazed at her, then climbed atop the low wall that edged the battlement. The wind tugged at her thin gown.
“Please.” Grace was weeping openly now. She held out a trembling hand. “Please, don't leave me.”
Tira reached out a chubby hand. The tips of her fingers brushed Grace's.
“Mother,” she said.
Then she rose into the evening sky. She ascended swiftly, a spark of crimson light rising up to join the first stars of evening. For a moment she shone among them, like a tiny ruby. Then the light winked out, and she was gone.
Grace staggered, catching herself against the wall. She felt so horribly cold—a husk empty of life. She had known this day would come. However, that did nothing to lessen the bitterness of it. Why had Tira left her?
“She has done what she can here,” said a croaking voice behind her. “And she is needed elsewhere. This battle is up to you now, daughter.”
Grace turned around, wiping the tears from her eyes with a rough hand. “Is it really?” she said, her voice hoarse with grief. “What about Runebreaker? Isn't he supposed