The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [177]
Grisla shrugged knobby shoulders. “And which Runebreaker do you mean?”
A breath escaped Grace. She didn't know how to answer, and it didn't matter. Her place was here, at this keep.
“Are you going to leave me, too?”
The hag let out a cackle. “I think not, daughter. One has to be somewhere when the end comes, and this seems as good a place as any for the likes of me.”
The aching in Grace's heart didn't ease, but all the same she felt her fear recede a fraction. At least she wasn't alone. She still had Grisla and Kel, Tarus and Paladus, and the witches and the runespeakers and the Spiders. She still had Durge. For now at least.
Grace turned and gazed out over Shadowsdeep. True to its name, purple shadows filled the valley. “There's no hope, is there? Despite the rune in my pocket, we don't have a prayer of winning.” She turned back and faced Grisla.
The hag's face was sad, but there was a glint in her one eye. It was the light of defiance. “Each year, though we wish it not, the sun moves south. Each year, winter catches the world in its cold grip, freezing all life and warmth out it. And no matter how we might rail against it, no matter how we plead or struggle or gnash our teeth, there is nothing we can do to stop winter from coming.” She pointed with a withered finger. “We stand before the very gates of winter now, daughter.”
Grace shivered inside her cloak. “You mean the gate out there, in Shadowsdeep?”
“No, daughter, I mean the gate in here.” Her finger moved, pointing at Grace's heart. “The gate inside all of us.”
“I don't understand.”
“Then think of it this way, daughter. You cannot stop winter from coming, but is not the coming of spring just as inevitable? Death follows life, and after death comes life again. To the world, to our hearts.” She jabbed her finger at Grace's chest. “That's what hope means. Not that you have a chance of winning, but that somehow, even after defeat, life goes on.”
Grisla turned and shambled away, her ragged outline merging with the twilight. Grace stood motionless for a time, gazing at the starry sky. Then she headed downstairs to wait for winter.
The next morning dawned colder than any that had come before it. Frost turned swords, armor, and beards white, and the air bit at any flesh left exposed. Even inside the keep and barracks, pails of water had to be thawed over a fire before their contents could be drunk.
For the first hour after dawn, the sun hung red and angry in the eastern sky. Then, as it rose higher, it was swallowed by the great clouds of smoke that rose in the north, casting the world into the half-light of a premature dusk. A stench like the smell of hot iron wafted on the air. By noon, ash had begun to drift down from the sky like fine black snow.
Despite the cold, work on the keep continued. The engineers made their last few adjustments to the walls, creating an overhang of wooden spikes that would make scrambling over the top difficult for anyone who managed to climb so high. Massive timbers were cut and rolled into place along the wall. They could be covered with naphtha, ignited, and cast down on enemies below.
Grace pretended she was supervising the activities, but in truth she was simply trying to stay out of the way. There was nothing she could do to help—unless, of course, she could figure out how to invoke the keep's defenses. She had lain awake all last night, cold in her cot without Tira to warm her, and she had gone over the ancient runelord's words again and again, but without result. She was supposed to know what to do, only she didn't. Winter would come, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Hello there, Queenie,” said a loud voice behind her.
She had been standing outside the main keep, watching the men work on the wall. Now she turned and found herself gazing up at King Kel.
A grin parted his shaggy red beard. “If you don't mind my saying, you look like you just swallowed a mouse.”
She laughed despite her dread. “I think it's still crawling around in my stomach.” Her smile faded.