The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [220]
However, the wicked magic had kept him alive. That it had not taken him immediately was only a small and bitter consolation. In the time since, the splinter had worked its way steadily toward his heart. When it finally pierced that weak and mortal organ, he would suffer a fate far worse than any death. He would become a thing of evil, a slave of the Pale King.
Only, the strange thing was, he couldn't quite make himself believe that. And that was what kept him from going over the edge of the wall.
It wasn't that he doubted Lady Grace; never in the time he had served her had he known her to be wrong. All the same, he couldn't help doubting. For even when the pain stabbed at it like a hot knife, his heart felt true.
Durge loved Lady Grace as his noble mistress; he could no more imagine betraying her than lopping off his own head with his sword. And there was another he loved. Not as he loved Grace, who was his queen. Rather, he loved this other with a tenderness he had not thought himself capable, not since he was a young man. Not since he had buried his wife and son in the cold ground. Only he was wrong; such feelings were still possible for him, as he had discovered the moment he first laid eyes on her brave, beautiful face.
Only you'll never see Lady Aryn again, and it's just as well. She has an affection for you, yes, but as for a favored uncle and no more. And even if you're wrong, even if somehow she could have loved one so old and worn as you, what would she do if she knew what lies in your chest?
No, it was better he never saw the horror in her eyes. For that, more certainly than any splinter of enchanted iron, would break his heart.
The shadows still swirled above him. A pale face leered at him out of the dark. He could almost hear a voice, whispering in his ear. . . .
Durge threw aside the covers and stood up. Staying abed was pointless. He could not sleep; there was only one rest left to him, and he was not ready for that. By all the gods, he was not ready yet. There was too much to do.
He picked up an object from the table next to the bed: a silver star with six points. It was the deputy's badge he had worn in Castle City—a symbol that represented his vow to protect others. He tucked the badge inside his tunic, then strapped his greatsword on his back and headed out the door.
As the wind struck him, he remembered he had left his cloak in his cell, but he did not turn back for it. These last years, since he had passed his fortieth winter, the cold had seemed to bother him more and more, seeping into his joints and bones. Now he suffered the cold not all. Bits of ice danced on the air, scouring his cheeks, but he did not feel them.
A group of foot soldiers passed him, marching toward the wall. They clamped their fists to their chests in salute.
“Have you seen Queen Grace?” he asked them.
“She left the barracks an hour ago, my lord,” one of the men said. “Perhaps she has returned to the keep.”
Durge headed that way. The wind hissed in his ear. It seemed he could almost hear a voice in it.
The guards at the door of the keep nodded to him, and he passed down a corridor into the main hall. There he found, not Grace, but rather Master Graedin.
“Hello, Sir Durge,” the young runespeaker said, his voice cheerful, though his homely face was smudged with dirt and lined with weariness.
Durge came to a halt in the center of the hall. The rushes that strewed the floor crunched under his boots; they had turned dry and brittle. The torches seemed to throb. Durge held a hand to his head.
Graedin cocked his head. “Is something the matter, Sir Durge? Were you injured in the last assault?”
Durge shook his head. “Where is the queen?”
“I think she has taken a brief respite in her chamber. The guards said she would return shortly. I hope she does—I have something important to show her.”
Despite his excitement, Graedin's voice sounded dull and distant. Durge licked his lips; his mouth had gone dry. “What is it you wish to show her?”
“It's quite promising,” Graedin said, his eyes lighting up.