The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [79]
“Or saves it,” Mirda said, meeting her gaze.
How could it be both? Grace still didn't understand that. But there was one thing she did know—there was no person on any world kinder or truer than Travis Wilder. He would not harm Eldh; she would not believe that he could.
“He's gone, you know.” Grace leaned her head against the back of the musty chair.
“He will return,” Mirda said.
Grace shut her eyes. “But how can you know that?”
“Because prophecy demands it. The Runebreaker will be there at the end.”
“But what if it's not Travis? What if it's the other Runebreaker who's there at the end?”
“Then,” Mirda said, her words hard as stones, “all the world is doomed.”
Grace sighed and opened her eyes. She couldn't know who was going to reach the First Rune first—Travis or Mohg or the other Runebreaker. However, even if Travis did manage to save the world, there would be nothing left to save if the Pale King had already ridden across it and enslaved all of its people. She had to face Berash. Not because she was better than anyone else, or stronger. Simply because someone had to stand against the Pale King, so it might as well be her.
Her thoughts must have been clear upon her face.
“Is it not time for you to go, sister?”
Grace stood, feeling a bit shaky, but surprisingly strong. “I suppose it is.”
Mirda touched her cheek. “Do not fear. We will keep watch here while you are gone. Sister Liendra and the other Witches would work to hinder the Warriors of Vathris, so it is the task of Sister Aryn, Sister Lirith, and myself to make certain that does not come to pass. Once the Warriors have answered King Boreas's call to muster, they will march north, and you will have a vast force at your command.”
Grace didn't know whether to be reassured by that thought or terrified. She started to pull away, then a thought occurred to her. Mirda's knowledge seemed to run so deep. Perhaps she would have an answer to the other shadow that weighed upon Grace.
“Sister Mirda,” she said. “My friend, the knight Durge—there's something wrong with him.”
“There is none whose skills at healing are greater than your own, sister,” Mirda said. “Can you not care for him?”
Grace felt a sob rising in her chest, but she swallowed it down. “No, I can't. At least, I don't know how, but maybe you can help me. You see, it's his heart.” Forcing herself to speak in a clinical tone, Grace described what had been done to Durge.
Mirda was silent for a moment, then a sigh escaped her. “That is how evil works—by taking what is good and true and corrupting it. That your friend has resisted so long tells me his spirit is one of unsurpassed strength and goodness.”
“Then there's hope for him,” Grace said, her words hoarse.
Mirda shook her head. “I fear not, sister. In the end, the splinter will work its magic. All the goodness in his heart, all the loyalty and kindness, will be replaced by shadow. There is nothing that can be done for him. Except for one thing.”
Grace staggered back. “What are you talking about?”
“Take this.” Mirda pressed a small vial into her hand. “It is a tincture of barrow root. A single drop brings an end, swift and painless. Keep watch on your friend, and before it is too late, you must give it to him.”
Grace stared, cold horror spilling into her chest. “I can't,” she said, choking. “I won't.”
Mirda closed Grace's fingers around the vial. “You must, sister, if you love him as you say you do. He would never want to become what the splinter will make of him.”
It was too much. Grace couldn't breathe. She staggered toward the door. “I have to go.”
“So you do, sister,” Mirda said, nodding. “I will be there to see you off when you ride from the castle.”
Grace hardly heard her. Her head swam, and she was shaking. She wanted to throw the vial down, only somehow her hand wouldn't let go of it. A single drop brings an end, swift and painless. . . .
She pushed through the door and ran down the hall, past the suits of armor. They seemed to stare at her, like specters forged of cruel metal. Her nightgown tangled