The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [77]
Queens are supposed to be proud and regal and fearless, Grace. They order people about with a flick of a finger. And they always know exactly what they're doing.
Or was that just some silly notion of what a queen was supposed to be—something culled from books and movies? Maybe Grace didn't have to be any of those things to be a queen. Maybe all she had to do was put those unattainable ideas aside and be her own sort of royalty—one with a bad haircut, a serious maddok addiction, and a complete inability to curtsy. And one blessed with wondrous friends who could help her through just about anything. Maybe, just maybe, she really could be a queen.
A gasp escaped her—a sound of realization, and of letting go.
Vayla patted Grace's cheek with a crooked hand. “That's it, daughter—no one can tell you who you're going to be. Not bards or gods or pale kings. That's for you to decide.”
The old crone turned and shuffled toward the chamber door.
Grace stared, then panic gripped her. “Wait! I need you. I have to find the key!”
“You don't need me for that!” the old woman called over her shoulder in a surly voice. “It's been right under your thumb all this time.”
Under her thumb? Grace looked down at her hands, which rested on the arms of the chair. The wood was smooth beneath both thumbs, though next to the right was a small carving of—what? She bent closer, and her heart leaped into her throat.
It was a carving of a walled fortress atop a high mountain. Her thumb gave an involuntary twitch against the carving. There was a click, and a small section of wood beneath her thumb pressed inward. Startled, she pulled her hand away, and a small drawer popped out of the arm of the chair.
Once her heart decided to start beating again, Grace peered into the drawer. Inside was a creamy disk of stone about the size of a quarter, but many times thicker. She hesitated, then picked it up. Immediately she saw it was a rune. Three parallel lines incised the surface of the disk, identical to the rune in the center of the council table. Grace recognized the symbol. It was hope.
Of course. Wasn't hope always the key? With hope, anything was possible.
“So how do I use it?”
Silence. She looked up. Vayla was nowhere in sight. However, there was only one way the crone could have gone. Grace rose and tucked the rune into a pocket, then slipped through the crack in the door. Shawl flapping, she ran down the passage until she came to an intersection. Which way?
Grace caught motion out of the corner of her eye and turned in time to see a flutter of gray cloth vanishing around a bend. She sprinted down the corridor and rounded the corner. A lumpy shadow was just passing into an archway ahead. Grace hurried after.
She found herself in a dim hall lined with suits of armor. At the other end was a doorway, glowing with gold light. For a moment a shapeless silhouette was outlined in the doorway, then it passed through. Grace leaned forward, raced down the hall, and ran through the doorway.
“Going somewhere?” said a voice. It was gentle and serene but slightly bemused, a woman's voice.
Grace skidded on her heels, halting just short of a spear that a suit of armor gripped at a decidedly perilous angle. She was in a small antechamber. There were a few chairs, and several time-darkened portraits of dukes, earls, and princes adorned the walls. Saffron-colored light spilled through the window; outside, the sun had just risen.
“Are you well, sister?”
Grace turned. The woman was not tall, but she was elegant all the same, clad in a gown that seemed to catch the morning light and spin it into a dozen different hues of purple, green, and peacock blue. Her black hair was marked by a single streak of white, and wise lines accented her almond-shaped eyes. Was she a noblewoman? Perhaps, though her dress seemed a bit unusual.
Realizing she should probably say something, Grace drew in a breath. “I'm looking for someone. She came in here.”
“Really?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “That's curious. For as you can see, I am the only one here besides