The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [240]
—then grew strong again. Before Aryn could weave the strands of the Weirding into another spell, the pale one lashed out with spindly arms.
This time it was Aryn who screamed. The sound of the young witch's agony shattered Grace's torpor, so that she perceived everything with perfect clarity. Aryn's eyes fluttered shut, then she slumped to the floor. Her body was still, her flesh as pale as snow.
Grace started to reach out with the Touch, to try to grasp Aryn's thread, to see if she yet lived, but there was no time. The wraithling drifted toward her. However, there were dark gaps in the corona of light surrounding it. Aryn had wounded the thing with her spell.
“Tell the Pale King this is my answer,” Grace said.
She drew Fellring and thrust it into the wraithling. The blade passed through the being's slender body. Bitter cold numbed Grace's arm, but she ignored it and twisted the blade.
The wraithling's cry ceased; the corona of light winked out. The thing slipped from Grace's sword and fell to the floor, dark and thin as a bundle of burnt sticks. It was dead.
Durge wasn't. Grace sucked in a breath as the knight rose to his feet. He held out his arms and gazed at his hands. The spasms had ceased. He looked up, and the pain was gone from his face.
That was impossible. The amount of barrow root she had poured on his wound would have dropped a horse. It should have stopped his heart cold.
But it's already stopped, isn't it, Grace?
She should have known. He wasn't a true ironheart—it was only a splinter of metal in his chest—but the effect was the same. He felt pain, but not for long, and no poison could kill him. Because Durge was already dead.
Grace held Fellring before her, then the tip drooped back to the floor. It was no use; what strength she had possessed had fled her. Tarus and Paladus and the others were making headway against the feydrim, but they would never break through in time. Aryn lay on the floor, as still and pale as if carved of ice. In a moment, Grace would join her.
“I can't do it, Durge,” she said softly. “I know what you are, but I still can't do it.” Fellring slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. “I can't kill you.”
Durge gazed at Aryn's motionless form. “Love is a weakness.” A shudder passed through him, his shoulders shaking with it. Was that one last effect of the barrow root?
It didn't matter. The tremor passed. Durge pulled a knife from his belt and clenched the hilt, his knuckles going white.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said.
Before Grace could wonder at these words, Durge stabbed her with the knife.
A voice shouted out in anger. Grace thought perhaps it was Sir Tarus, she couldn't be sure. The sound of swords and the screams of feydrim echoed off the walls. Another figure appeared in the side door, all in gray. At first she thought it was another wraithling, only there was no silver light. Something hissed through the air. Suddenly an arrow stuck out from Durge's side, then another, and another. The knight fell to the floor. Blood flowed from the wounds.
Then, just as before, the blood vanished. The stone floor was smooth and unstained.
“Your Majesty!” a voice cried out.
The figure in gray was moving from the door, fighting past the feydrim. Dozens of the creatures lay sprawled on the floor. The men were breaking through. It was almost over.
Almost over . . .
Grace looked down. She expected to see the hilt of the knife jutting from the center of her chest. Instead, the blade had pierced the fabric of her gown just above her left collarbone. The blow had gone far wide of her heart, nor was it deep. Even as she touched the knife it slipped free, and blood welled forth, smearing her fingers.
Blood. Like Durge's blood, which the stones had seemed to drink. Grace sank to her knees. She gazed at the floor, cleared of the rushes. Five parallel marks gouged the stones,