The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [222]
Oragien gripped his staff. “This is auspicious. Hope arrives not once, but twice. Come, we have our own news to speak to the queen.”
The elder runespeaker started to turn away. Durge gripped his staff, stopping him.
“What is it, Sir Durge?” Oragien said.
Durge felt a moment of sorrow, of regret, of bitter loneliness. Then he let out a sigh, and with that final, living breath, all those things passed from him. In his chest, his heart shuddered—then began to beat with a new rhythm.
Strength shimmered through his limbs. The pain was gone, and the fear and doubt. A certainty filled him, and a purpose, bright as fire. The gray veil lifted from his eyes, and he saw clearer than he ever had in his life. Yes, this was for the best. Why had he resisted so long?
The voice whispered in his ear, and Durge spoke the answer in his mind. I hear you, O King, and I obey!
Durge pulled the staff from Oragien's hands. The All-master began to cry out in protest, but in a swift motion Durge spun the staff. There was a loud crack as it contacted Oragien's skull. The old man's cry was silenced; his frail body crumpled to the floor like a bundle of sticks. Durge raised the staff again.
“No!” Graedin cried out. The young runespeaker threw himself to his knees, shielding Oragien's body.
Durge watched him with disinterest. “You cannot be allowed to tell her what you've found.”
Tears ran down Graedin's cheeks. “By Olrig, what's happened to you, Durge? What's wrong with you?”
Those words made no sense. Nothing was wrong with him. The error of his ways had been shown to him, and he had been corrected.
“Get away,” Graedin said. He raised his hands and began to speak a rune.
That could not be permitted. Durge swung the staff, and Graedin's words ceased. The runespeaker slumped over Oragien's body, motionless, blood oozing from his ears. Durge threw down the staff and turned away from the bodies of the runespeakers. He tilted his head, listening to the whisper in his ear.
Then he smiled and walked from the hall.
50.
Grace lay on her cot, staring into the darkness of her chamber. She knew she needed to rest while she had the chance. All the same, sleep was impossible.
He's coming for you, Grace. The Pale King. It's only a matter of time until—
A knock sounded at the door—hard, urgent. For a moment terror gripped her, then she threw back the blanket. When she opened the door, she found herself gazing at the excited faces of Samatha and Sir Tarus.
“He's come at last, Your Majesty,” the Spider said, her nose twitching, making her look even more mousy than usual.
Fear pierced Grace's chest. Was this it, then? “You mean Berash?”
Tarus laughed. “No, Your Majesty! She means King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris. They ride up the valley to the keep even now, five thousand men strong.”
Were it not for the speed of Sir Tarus's reaction, Grace would have fallen. The room spun around her, and her knees buckled, but the knight gripped her arm, holding her upright.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” Samatha said with a frown. “Do you not feel joy that King Boreas is finally here?”
Joy? Did she feel joy?
After the Rune Gate opened—how many hours, how many days ago?—when the hordes of the Pale King swarmed toward the keep, she had thought she would be filled with horror. Instead, a grim resolve had come over her. She had gripped Fellring in her hand, had raised the blade above her head, and had called for her men to defend the keep.
She had seen the same reaction countless times in the ED at Denver Memorial Hospital, on the faces of cancer patients when she was forced to tell them their remission was over, in the eyes of burn victims who knew they were too damaged to live. There is a calmness when there is no hope, a peace. What is there to fear when death is certain? No, she didn't feel joy that the Warriors were here; she felt terror. Because now they had a chance.
“You can let go of me, Sir Tarus,” she said through