The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [243]
Tarus's face was ashen. “King Teravian sent us here while he stayed at the wall to keep watch. He said he sensed treachery in the keep, Your Majesty. By Vathris, I never would have thought it would be Sir Durge who turned against us. His betrayal almost doomed us all. Only you've done it, Your Majesty. You've awakened the magic of Gravenfist.”
Grace gazed down. “No, it wasn't me. It was Durge. He was the one who saved us.”
Grace looked back up. The men stared at her, and by their startled expressions she knew her face was hard and white, at once terrible and beautiful.
“You will listen to me now,” she said, her voice low, commanding. “And you will not dare to doubt what I say. Whatever battle any of us may fight against evil this day, it will be nothing to the battle Sir Durge fought and won. He was braver, and stronger, and truer than any man. And if we have any chance now, any hope at all, it is because of him, because of his sacrifice. Do you understand?”
Still the men stared at her.
“I said, do you understand?”
Her words echoed off the stone walls. As one, Tarus, Paladus, Aldeth, and the others nodded, their eyes wide. Grace was satisfied. She crouched beside Aryn.
“Can you stand?”
Aryn's tears were gone, her cheeks dry. “I must. My king needs me.”
Together Grace and Aryn stood.
“All right, gentleman,” Grace said. “Aldeth tells us the Pale King is coming with his new toys. So let's get ready to play.”
Stretchers were called for and brought, and the still-unconscious forms of Master Graedin and All-master Oragien were carried to the barracks where the witches would care for them. More men were dispatched down the passage to the secret door to see how the runespeakers and warriors there fared. The report came back that all of them lived, though they had been knocked unconscious. In their haste to enter the keep, the feydrim had not molested them further.
Grace felt relief, as well as amazement. Despite what had been done to him, Durge hadn't succumbed to evil, and neither would she. The beginnings of a plan formed in her mind.
“Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, holding a rag to his wounded forehead, “you must send more runespeakers to the secret door at once. We must close it, and quickly.”
“No,” Grace said. “We're not closing the door.”
The Spider staggered. “Then what are you going to do?”
She gripped the hilt of Fellring. “I'm going to send my army through it.”
Grace described her plan to Tarus and Paladus, and the two soldiers raced from the hall to relay the orders. Grace started after them, then stumbled. Her jaw ached, and her head felt light. She touched her shoulder; the wound still oozed blood.
Aryn caught her elbow, steadying her. “You must go see Senrael, sister. You must not lose any more blood.”
“Not yet, at least,” Grace said, gazing at the rune embedded in the floor.
Aryn spoke to Aldeth. “Take the queen to the barracks. And have your own wound seen to.” She met Grace's eyes. “Don't worry, sister. I'll tell Teravian what you plan to do.”
“And will he agree?”
“He may be the king of Calavan, but you're the queen of Malachor. You outrank him.” Despite her haunted eyes, Aryn smiled. “I know he's not his father, but he's a good man.”
Grace nodded. “I believe you.”
She and Aldeth made their way to the barracks. Clouds swirled in wild circles above; the air smelled like snow and ash.
Lursa met them as they entered the infirmary. Scores of soldiers had been laid on cots, and on blankets on the floor when the cots had been filled. The most common wound was from the balls of runic fire the enemy had sent over