The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [31]
“We should go down and see him,” Grace said, not relishing the idea.
Tarus stamped his boots. “He's not going to be happy.”
“No,” Grace said, her smile as wan as the late-afternoon light, “I don't suppose he is.”
It turned out not-happy was something of an understatement. They heard the king's bellowing three halls away. As they neared his chamber, they crossed paths with the captain of the Tarrasian company. He was a short, powerful man with black eyes and a smooth-shaven face set in lines so hard it seemed cast of bronze. His red cloak snapped as he strode past them.
“I'd say he's fairly not-happy as well,” Grace said. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Tarus took her elbow. “Come, my lady. We've already got one hole in the castle wall. We don't need him opening another with his bare fists. Perhaps you can calm him down.”
Grace tried to tell Tarus that it was Lirith who had a way with wild beasts, but by then it was too late. They had already crossed the threshold into the king's chamber.
“What is the meaning of this, my lady?” Boreas said, advancing on her before she could draw a breath, shaking a wadded-up parchment in his hand.
Melia glided from the corner of the room. “Perhaps if you stopped waving it at her and let her read it, she might be able to tell you, Your Majesty.”
The king grunted and held the paper out. Grace took it and smoothed it out so she could read the words penned in a flowery hand. She scanned the missive.
“Does that say what I think it does?” the king said in a dangerous voice.
Grace nodded. “As long as you think it says that this one company is all Tarras can spare. Emperor Ephesian offers his regrets, but he says that the present state of affairs in the empire do not allow him to send more.”
“I don't need regrets, I need men!” Boreas snatched the parchment from Grace and tossed it into the fire.
Falken glanced at Melia. “The ‘present state of affairs.' What does that mean?”
“The usual, I imagine,” Melia said, coiling a hand beneath her chin. “If Ephesian were to send a large portion of his army north to the Dominions, his position would be greatly weakened, and his enemies wouldn't be able to resist taking the opportunity to depose and execute him.”
Falken scratched his beard. “If you can never do anything with your army, what good is being emperor?”
“I'll have to get back to you on that one, dear.”
Grace glanced around the room, but there was no sign of Beltan. That was unfortunate. He had a deft manner with his uncle, and she could have used his assistance. However, she had seen little of Beltan these last few weeks. She knew he still blamed himself. Beltan was the last one to see Travis, and the knight believed he could have done something to stop Travis from leaving.
Only there was nothing any of them could have done. Grace had learned over the course of this last year that Travis could be as stubborn as he was kind. She had read his message—badly scrawled in charcoal on the hearth in his room—through the tears in her eyes.
Dear Everyone,
I've gone to stop Duratek. You can't follow me, but even if you could, promise me you won't. This is something I have to do alone. I love you all.
—Travis
It was so foolish, and so selfless and brave. Just like Travis. If he could face such an impossible task, Grace could face this.
She stepped forward and laid a hand on Boreas's arm. “Your Majesty, we must work with the tools we have been given.”
“And what will we be able to forge with such poor tools as these, my lady? I need to build a wall to defend the Dominions, and in answer to my call I am sent a handful of sticks and stones.”
Grace sighed. She hated to admit it, but Boreas was right; his call to muster had yielded only an army of disappointments. The Order of Malachor, founded just over a year ago