The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [37]
“It's a girl,” Grace said, smiling, eyes still shut. “I'd say you're a little ahead of—”
Hello, Aunt Grace, a piping voice said in her mind, faint but clear.
A gasp escaped her, and her eyes flew open.
“Is something wrong?” Vani said, her brow furrowed.
Grace shook her head. “No, everything looks fine. I was just saying you seem to be a little further along than I would have expected at eight weeks. But everyone's different.” She shut her eyes again, listening, but this time she heard only the beating of two hearts. She had to have imagined it.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Vani watching her. Grace rose and spoke in a brisk tone.
“There's nothing to worry about. You and the baby are both in excellent health. You should try to keep the maddok and wine to a minimum. I'll fix you a simple that will help with the morning sickness.”
“Thank you,” Vani said, pulling her jerkin back down over her stomach.
“You know, I have a feeling it's going to be hard to find maternity leathers,” Grace said with a laugh. Vani smiled, and for the first time that day it seemed like things really might be all right.
Now, as she opened the door to her chamber, Grace wasn't so certain. The events of that morning came rushing back, as did the enormity of the task that lay before her. She pushed through the door, wanting nothing more than to stir up the fire and flop into bed.
Aryn and Lirith stood from two chairs by the hearth.
“Oh, sister,” Aryn said, rushing forward and throwing her left arm around Grace.
“Aryn,” Grace said, stunned. “What's wrong?”
“It can't be true. You can't be leaving us.”
Grace sighed. So they had heard the news of what she was to do. Gently, she pushed Aryn away.
“I have to go,” she said. If she acted like this was something she actually wanted to do—rather than an idea that turned her knees to rubber—it might make it a little easier for the others. “If we can man Gravenfist Keep, we might have a chance of holding the Pale King back.”
Lirith moved forward with a whisper of russet wool. “Do you truly believe that, sister?”
“I'm trying to,” Grace said with a wan smile.
“You're tired,” Aryn said, pulling Grace toward the fire and making her sit in one of the chairs. Lirith poured them all cups of wine and took the other chair, while Aryn sat on the floor and rested her arms and chin on Grace's knee.
“Let's stay like this forever,” Aryn murmured, gazing into the fire. “Just the three of us, together. Let's pretend there's nothing in the world we have to do except stay here, and drink wine, and talk about foolish things.”
“That's a fine fancy, sister,” Lirith said. The firelight gilded her dark skin like gold on wood. “I wish that it could be so. But we each have our tasks.”
Grace clutched her wine cup. “What tasks do you mean?”
Aryn and Lirith exchanged a look, and the fire went cold. Grace knew the two witches had attended a High Coven in Ar-tolor last summer, when Grace was in Denver. Grace didn't know exactly what had happened at the coven, but over the months she had gleaned bits and pieces. Enough to be afraid.
“Boreas has sent a call out to the Warriors of Vathris,” Lirith said. “The men of the bull prepare for the Final Battle.”
Grace's lungs were too tight; she couldn't breathe. “You can't, Lirith. You can't ask me to defy him. I know the Witches are the enemies of the Warriors, but I gave King Boreas my word, and nothing can make me work against him.”
“No, nothing can,” Lirith murmured, gazing into her cup. “You're not part of the Pattern as Aryn and I are. There are no threads to bind your actions, but Aryn and I must do as the Pattern commands. And it commands us to bring the Warriors and Travis Runebreaker under our control, lest they work together to destroy the world.”
Grace shook her head. “You can't believe that, Lirith.