The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [227]
“Sia help us,” Aryn breathed. “Are they dead?”
Shock gave way to motion. Grace rushed forward and knelt beside the two runespeakers. Blood matted Oragien's white hair and trickled from Graedin's ears. She laid her hands on them and reached out with the Touch.
They were alive. However, both had taken severe blows to the head, knocking them unconscious. Each of them had a concussion, yet the injuries were not fatal. Whoever did this didn't intend to kill, just to neutralize, and he had known exactly what he was doing. Less force and they would have awakened by now, more and their skulls would have been crushed. Who had such skill with weapons?
“They're alive,” Grace said, looking up at Aryn, who stood beside her now.
Aryn's face was pale. “Thank Sia, but who would have done this?”
“I don't know. We have to get them to the barracks where the witches can care for them.”
She rose, ready to send Aryn to find men to help, but at that moment one of the hall's side doors opened, and a familiar form clad in smoke gray stepped through.
Thank the gods. Grace let out a sigh of relief. However, before she could speak, Aryn dashed toward him.
“Durge!”
The young woman threw herself against the knight, wrapping her good arm around the neck, kissing his craggy cheek. “I've missed you, Durge. I've missed you so much.”
Grace felt a bittersweet joy. She didn't know if Aryn felt for Durge as he did for her. Aryn and Teravian were married now, and Grace had seen the way her gaze had followed after the young prince. All the same, that Aryn loved Durge was clear. Only as a man or a fond friend?
That question would have to wait. Right now, they had to understand what had happened here. “Durge, I'm so glad we've found you,” Grace said. “There's an enemy in the keep. Whoever it is, they've attacked All-master Oragien and Master Graedin. We have to get them to the barracks, then find whoever did this.”
Durge said nothing. He had not raised his arms to return Aryn's embrace. He stared forward, his brown eyes—always so full of kindness—blank and empty.
Relief gave way to fear. Grace tried to speak, but her mouth had gone suddenly dry.
Aryn pulled back from the knight. “What's wrong, Durge? Aren't you glad to see me?”
“Glad?” he said in his deep voice, as if the word were alien to him. His skin was pale; dark circles hung beneath his yes.
Grace didn't want to do this, but she had to. She shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch, toward Durge's thread. It was gray as ash. A moan escaped her.
“Grace?” It was Aryn, her voice quavering. “Grace, what's wrong?”
The thing in all the worlds Grace had cherished most had just been taken from her, but she had to put that aside. She had to forget how much she loved him if they were going to live.
“Get away from him, Aryn.”
Confusion hazed the young woman's blue eyes. “What are you talking about, Grace? It's Durge.”
“No, it's not.” Grace slipped a hand into her pocket, feeling the vial of barrow root. There was no way to get him to drink it, but the toxin was potent. If she could cut him, could get it into the wound, the poison would still do its work.
The young witch stared at Grace, then at Durge. Rarely in the time they had known the knight had he ever smiled. Now he did, a grin cutting across his face, and it was a terrible sight. There was hatred in that smile. Death.
Aryn screamed.
Durge shoved her away, and she fell tumbling to the floor. He crossed the room in swift strides to stand before Grace. She searched his familiar, craggy face for any trace of the man she knew, the friend she loved.
There was nothing she recognized there. No life, no expression. He smelled of smoke.
“Are you going to kill me?” Grace said softly.
“That is for the Master to do,” he said, his voice flat. “They will bring you to him.”
A sound vibrated on the