The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [80]
Strong arms gripped her, holding her upright.
“My lady, what is wrong?” spoke a deep, familiar voice.
She blinked and saw Durge's craggy face in the gloom. The knight wore riding gear and a mail shirt. Panic seized her. How long had he been out here in the hall? Had he heard what she and Mirda had been talking about? She gripped the vial so hard she thought it must shatter, but it didn't.
“Durge,” she managed to croak. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, my lady. And I'm lucky to have found you, as I was just passing by the door to this hall when I saw you come running this way.”
Grace tried not to breathe too obvious a sigh of relief. He hadn't entered the hall until after she had left the antechamber. That meant there was no way he could have heard her conversation with Mirda.
“I came to your chamber at dawn,” Durge went on. “However, I found only Tira playing a game with a serving maid, so I came in search of you. Your army gathers even now in the lower bailey. We are to ride forth in an hour.” His mustaches descended in a frown as he took in her tangled nightgown. “I must say, my lady, this is hardly proper riding attire. You will freeze to death before we travel a league.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I'll change.”
And despite her fear, she found herself laughing. Whatever the iron splinter would make of him, right now he was still Durge—good, dear, gloomy Durge. As long as she had the Embarran by her side, she was going to enjoy every moment of it. She threw her arms around his stooped shoulders, much to his obvious surprise.
“Thank you, Durge.”
He hesitated, then wrapped his strong arms around her. “Whatever for, my lady?”
“For being you.”
He let out a rumbling breath. “Well, I can't say I give being me very much thought or effort. But all the same, you're welcome, my lady.”
21.
An hour later, Grace glanced out the window of her chamber to see the sun cresting the castle's battlements. In the last few minutes Durge had checked on her twice and Sir Tarus once, and the servants had already taken her things. Everyone would be waiting for her in the lower bailey.
“I have to go now, Tira,” she said.
The girl sat in front of the fire, playing with one of her half-burnt dolls. Grace knelt beside her, though the action was made awkward by the scabbard belted at her side. Fellring's hilt jabbed her in the kidney, and she grimaced as she readjusted the sword. How did Beltan wear one of these blasted things all the time?
“Tira, do you understand what I'm saying?”
It was always so hard to know if she was getting through. Tira still hadn't spoken a word since they left the Black Tower. Grace smoothed back the girl's tangled red hair and touched her chin, so that she stopped her playing and looked up.
“I'm going to be going on a journey, to a place very far away from here, and I'm afraid you can't come. It's not that I don't want you to.” Grace drew in a breath, shocked at how difficult this was. “I'm going to miss you so much. But where I'm going is too . . .that is, it's not a place for children. It's all right, though—you'll have Aryn and Lirith and Sareth here to take care of you, so you'll be safe. And I'll come back to you soon. I promise.”
Tira smiled—though the expression did not touch the scarred side of her face—then bent back over her doll. Grace sighed, hoping it had been enough. She caught the girl in a tight hug, rocking her, kissing her head. At last, fearing she would weep, she rose quickly and left the room.
Waiting outside was a slender man with a pointed blond beard and a silver-gray cloak.
“Aldeth,” she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
The Spider smiled, revealing rotten teeth. “I may have been discarded by Queen Inara like a soiled handkerchief, but it seems I've still got the touch.”
Grace frowned at him. “Durge sent you, didn't he?”
“Tarus, actually. Durge was too busy having an apoplectic seizure. Something about how if we don't leave immediately, the army won't get a league from the castle before