The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [47]
“If you can see that in him, then perhaps there is a way you can help him.”
Grace looked up, hope surging in her. “How?”
“You must join your spirit with his. You must show him how you see him—not as a beast, but as a man. If you do, he may remember himself.”
For a moment Grace trembled. All her life she had kept others at a distance, afraid that if they drew too close they would see what she really was and would recoil in horror. But Durge was her friend; if she could see good in him, she had to believe he would see it in her as well.
She steeled her will and ran her fingers over Durge, plucking out the darts where she found them. A groan escaped him, and he stirred, eyelids fluttering. He was waking up. If he did, he would run from her, she was sure of it; she had to hurry.
Grace pressed her hands against Durge's chest and shut her eyes. Instantly she saw his life thread. It was somber gray, as she remembered it, only marked with a wild streak of crimson. He let out a grunt, moving beneath her, but before he could twist away she reached out and gripped his thread, bringing it close to her own shimmering strand. In her mind she pictured Durge as she knew him: kind, strong. Good. Then, with a thought, she braided the two strands together.
I love you Durge! she called out. Come back to me!
For a single moment she could not discern Durge's thread as a separate thing from her own. They were a single strand, gleaming and perfect.
No, not perfect. There was something else there. Something sharp and dark and terrible, pressing dangerously close. What was it? Before Grace could tell, a gold light welled forth, encapsulating her, and she knew no more.
She must have fallen asleep. Grace pushed herself up to her elbow and used her fingers to comb leaves from her hair. The gold light was dimmer now, but still comforting, and she felt warm. Durge lay beside her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The antlers had fallen away to either side. She laid a hand on his forehead; the skin of his brow was unblemished, save for the lines of worry that furrowed it even in repose.
Grace smiled, then rose. Her cloak, which she had lost earlier, now hung on a nearby branch. She cast it over Durge, covering his nakedness, then knelt beside him. Her smile faded as she touched the center of his chest. When their threads were one, she had sensed something inside him—like a shadow, but different. Harder, colder.
“So you've seen it within him, daughter. I thought you might.”
Grace looked up. The old woman—the forest queen—stood above her.
“You can see it, too?” Grace said.
The old woman nodded. “It was clear to my eyes the first moment I saw him. But then, ever have we hated the cruel touch of iron, and we know it when it comes near us.”
Grace was no longer warm. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a splinter of iron in his chest. It lies dangerously near his heart. And it works its way nearer each day.”
No, it was impossible. Durge couldn't be one of them. Then Grace remembered the pains he had felt in his chest the night of the attack on Calavere. She examined his chest. A dozen scars traced white lines beneath dark hair, but she recognized them as the remnants of the wounds he had received on Midwinter's Eve over a year ago, when he was attacked by a band of feydrim.
Durge was a marvelous warrior, but all the same she had been amazed he had been able to fend off so many feydrim by himself. Grace had always wondered how he had managed to get away from the creatures. . . .
But what if he didn't, Grace? What if he didn't get away—at least not until they let him go?
She shut her eyes, and though dread filled her at what she might see, she reached out with the Touch, gazing into Durge's body. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw it immediately, an inch from his heart. The splinter was no bigger than the tip of her little finger, but it was cold, so terribly cold.
She opened her eyes. “Oh, Durge, what did they do to you?”
She could see it