The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [239]
Durge's cheek twitched, and it seemed an expression—a flicker of pain?—passed across his face. Had Aryn somehow gotten through to him?
No. Durge's lip curled back from his teeth. “It matters not. Love is a weakness—an affliction of which the Master will cure the world.”
Aryn shook her head. “You're wrong. Love is the only thing that ever had the power to save us. ‘Love shall yet defy you.' That was what the witch Cirsa said when Mohg betrayed her. And I say it to you now, Durge, and to the Pale King.” She raised her withered hand and pointed at the center of his chest. “Love shall yet defy you.”
Durge turned away from her. A sizzling sound rose on the air, and silver light welled from the side door. The feydrim hissed and cowered.
“He comes for you now,” Durge said to Grace.
The light grew brighter; the sizzling rose to a metallic whine.
Now, Grace. You have to do something now.
There—on Durge's right hand was a scratch. He must have received it in the struggle at the secret door. It was shallow but still oozed blood. It would be enough. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her gown, found the vial of barrow root, and unstopped it with her fingers.
She stepped forward, closing the gap between her and Durge. “If your precious master wants me so badly, why don't you give me to him yourself? Surely you'll get a reward.”
She reached for him, and—as she had hoped—he snaked out his right hand and caught her wrist. He squeezed, and a gasp of pain escaped her as the bones of her wrist ground together. However, she let the pain clear the fear and anguish from her brain. This thing was not Durge. In a motion of surgical precision, she pulled out the vial with her free hand and splashed the purple elixir over his wound.
Durge let out a roar. He reeled back, clutching his right hand, his eyes filled with hate. “What have you done to me, witch?”
The words were a hiss of rage, but slurred. Already his muscles were beginning to spasm; the cords of his neck stood out. He tried to strike at her, but he stumbled and fell to his knees.
Aryn stared, her mouth open. By Sia, what have you done, Grace? You're killing Durge.
Each word of Grace's reply was like a dagger in her own heart. No, I'm saving him.
Durge fell over onto his hands. Foam boiled from his mouth; his body shook as if beaten by unseen hands.
“Grace!”
Aryn's frightened shout did not come across the Weirding. Grace looked up. The side door was a rectangle of blazing silver. Then a silhouette appeared against the brilliance. It drifted into the hall: tall, slender, deadly.
The feydrim howled and pissed on the floor as the wraithling drifted across the hall toward Grace. Its lidless eyes were like black jewels. It had no mouth, but all the same she heard its voice, and the words froze her blood.
You will be the Master's bride. You will be the Queen of Ice, pale and beautiful and terrible. Together you and the King will rule forever. . . .
No, Grace wanted to say, but she couldn't speak. She tried to reach for Fellring, sheathed at her side, but she couldn't move. She heard a boom as the main doors of the hall burst open, but the sound was oddly muffled.
It seemed Aryn called out, and the sound of swords being drawn rang on the air. A group of men were trying to fight past the feydrim and into the hall. Were Sir Tarus and Commander Paladus among them? Grace couldn't be sure; she saw them only dimly, as if they were shadows. The wraithling drifted closer, the silver light blinding her.
A strange peace came over Grace. Yes, there was nothing to fear when all hope was gone. She would wed the Pale King. He would take away her frail, human heart and all the pain that went with it, and he would give her a new heart of enchanted iron, a heart that would never feel pain or sorrow or fear again.
Or love. Or laughter. Or joy.
“Get away from her!”
Grace blinked, trying to see through the glare. Aryn rushed forward, both of her hands, whole and twisted, weaving together