The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [193]
Lirith bit her tongue, and Aryn sucked in a sharp breath. So she had not told Sareth what she had done last night.
“Did you sense something, beshala?” Sareth said, touching Lirith's arm. “That's where you were last night, wasn't it? You were out searching for signs of the Necromancer.”
Lirith cast a frightened look at Aryn.
Aryn didn't hesitate. “No,” she said. “We didn't sense Shemal's presence in the castle. But she's here somewhere. She has to be.”
Lirith squeezed Aryn's left hand.
You must not worry, sister, Aryn dared to murmur across the Weirding. I will never tell him.
And yet I must, Lirith spoke back, her thread trembling. I must tell him everything. But not this day.
They hurried across the lower bailey, past the two ruined towers, and through the castle gates. The road that wound down the hill was more populated; they passed servants carrying bundles and squires dashing back up to the castle to fetch items their lords had forgotten.
As they rounded a corner, the field below Calavere came into view, and Aryn's heart leaped in her chest. Company after company was lined up at the foot of the hill; armor reflected the steely light, so that the army looked like a river flowing into the distance. The number of foot soldiers was beyond counting, and there were horsemen as well, score upon score of them, as well as a fleet of wagons to carry supplies.
Sareth let out a breath of wonder. “Would you look at that. Maybe there's hope for this world after all.”
Maybe, Aryn thought, if they could prevent Liendra and her witches from meddling.
They made their way down the hill nearly at a run, and Aryn scanned the army as they went. There were numerous banners, each one bearing the crest of a particular fiefdom: hawks, bears, and serpents. There were other, more exotic banners as well, carried by the lords and chieftains who had journeyed from the far south, bearing the silhouettes of creatures Aryn couldn't name. Then she saw what she was looking for: a banner that stood higher than all others. It was deep blue, adorned with a silver crown of nine points above a pair of crossed swords.
“King Boreas,” Aryn said between ragged breaths. “We should go to him.”
They left the road behind and made for the king's banner. The sea of soldiers parted, making way for them, and many of the men bowed to Aryn as she passed.
As they drew near, Aryn saw Boreas sitting on his massive warhorse. He wore a mail shirt and an azure cloak trimmed with silver, but his head was bare. He looked big and fierce and terribly handsome. Several lords were gathered around him, but Aryn saw no sign of Teravian. She slipped through the throng of mounted knights, moving to the king, Sareth and Lirith in tow.
“So you've come to bid me farewell after all, my lady?” he said, a grin parting his black beard. “I thought you had decided your sleep was more important than wishing me luck.”
Despite her trepidation, Aryn found herself smiling as well. “And who could sleep with all these trumpets blowing, Your Majesty? You're making quite a racket.”
“It's all part of our plan, my lady. We'll make ourselves appear so fearsome the servants of the Pale King will take one look at us and run all the way back to Imbrifale.”
Aryn laughed. “That's an awful plan.”
The king shrugged broad shoulders. “We'll refine it as we go along.”
Aryn started to speak again, only her laughter had somehow turned to tears. The king climbed down from his horse and encircled her in strong arms. For a moment, she felt like a small girl again.
“I wish I could come with you, Your Majesty,” she managed to say between sobs.
“I wish it were so as well, my lady,” he said, his voice gruff. “Your presence would gladden my heart. But it is a dark road we must travel, to a dark place, and should I never return, there must be someone here to keep the light of hope burning.”
Aryn clutched him more tightly.