The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [221]
Before Durge could question the wisdom of it, Graedin held out both hands, then uttered several arcane words in rapid sequence. A ball of sparks, not unlike those that the enemy conjured, appeared between his hands. Graedin smiled—
—then cried out in dismay as the orb burst apart. Sparks flew in every direction, whizzing across the hall and bouncing off the stone walls. Dozens of them fell to the floor, and in seconds flames sprang up all around. The dried rushes had caught fire. Graedin stared, jaw agape.
“Water!” Durge cried as the flames leaped higher, running in search of a bucket. “We need water.”
“Sharn!” spoke a commanding voice.
Like rain from a clear sky, water precipitated from thin air and poured down on the floor. There was a hissing of steam, and when the air cleared Durge saw that the fire was out.
“What are you doing, Master Graedin?” Oragien intoned in a stern voice as he strode into the hall, leaning on a wooden staff. “Do you mean to do the enemy's work for them and burn the keep down from within?”
Graedin's gray robe was blackened in several patches. “No, All-master,” he stuttered. “I was just trying to conjure a ball of fire as the enemy has, to use against them. Only I think perhaps I got the order of the runes wrong.”
“Evidently,” Oragien said, then his face grew a fraction less stern. “I am glad you seek to find a way to help the queen in battle, but perhaps next time you could see fit to do it outdoors.”
“Yes, All-master,” Graedin said, hanging his head. “I won't do it—by Olrig!” He jerked his head up, eyes wide.
The anger on Oragien's face was replaced by concern. “What is it?”
“Look,” Graedin said, pointing at the floor.
In the center of the hall, a large patch of the rushes had been burned to ash and washed away by the water, and the floor showed through. The stones were pale and smooth, but something had marred them at some point in the past; there were five deep gouges in the stone, arranged in parallel.
“That's it,” Oragien said, wonder on his ancient face. “It's the key.”
Durge shook his head. It felt as if his skull were filled with fog. “What are you talking about?”
“This.” The All-master pointed at the floor with his staff, touching each of the five gouges in turn. “I would that I or one of the other runespeakers had set foot in here before they covered the floor with rushes. It's a rune. The rune of blood.”
“‘The keep will know the heirs of King Ulther and Queen Elsara,' ” Graedin murmured, repeating the words spoken by the image of the runelord which had sprung forth from the rune of hope. “‘Ever has the blood of Malachor been the key to hope.' ”
Oragien laughed, and he gripped the younger runespeaker's shoulder. “We should have known! That's the key to awakening the keep's ancient defenses. ‘The keep will know the heirs.' ”
Graedin nodded, his eyes shining. “We must find Queen Grace at once and—Sir Durge, what is it? Your face, it's pale as a ghost's.”
Durge held a hand to his chest, certain he would find a dagger stuck into it, the pain was so great. He felt old and so terribly weak. A rushing filled his ears, and a gray veil descended over his vision. Graedin held his arm, and Oragien started to speak, but at that moment Samatha appeared in the doorway and rushed into the hall.
“Where is the queen?” the Spider said between gasps for breath. “I have news for her.”
“Is it the Pale King?” Oragien gasped. “We have yet to see Berash himself approach the wall.”
“It's not that. Karthi saw them first—even now they're marching up the valley from the Winter Wood.”
“Who?” Graedin said, confusion on his face.
“The Warriors of Vathris,” Samatha said, her eyes bright. “Hundreds of them. Thousands. They