The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [83]
Grace didn't know what to say, so she settled for, “I'll miss you both so much.” Then she flung herself into their arms.
“Don't weep, dear,” Melia said as she hugged Grace tight. “We'll meet again before the end. I'm certain of it.”
“Remember your heritage, Grace,” Falken said, kissing her brow. “You are the queen of Malachor. Gravenfist Keep will know you.”
Durge approached and cleared his throat; it was time to go. Reluctantly, Grace pulled away from Melia and Falken, then turned, searching for Beltan and Vani. However, before she could start toward them, a woman in a multihued cloak glided forward. She nodded to Lirith and Aryn, then halted before Grace.
“I could not let you go without a blessing from Sia,” Mirda said in her calm voice. “May she guide you in all of her guises: Maiden, Matron, and Crone.”
A sense of peace radiated from the elegant witch, soothing Grace's frazzled nerves. Then Grace remembered the small vial Mirda had given her, and which now rested in the leather pouch belted at her waist, and the sense of peace vanished.
“Excuse me, but do I know you?” Falken said, tilting his head as he gazed at Mirda.
She turned her wise gaze toward him. “I cannot say, Falken Blackhand. Do you?”
He glanced down at his black-gloved hand. “You remind me of her, in a way. Only that's impossible, isn't it?”
“Perhaps,” Mirda said. “But tell me, what was she like, this one I remind you of?”
Falken's voice was soft. “She was barely more than a maiden, though her power was deep. Her hair was gold, and her eyes like blue cornflowers.”
Mirda smiled. “Well, that doesn't sound much like me.”
“No, I suppose it doesn't.” He glanced again at the mature, dark-haired witch. “Though I must confess, you're a bit more my style. I never went for the girlish type.”
Melia shot the bard an outraged look. “Falken!”
The bard gave her a sheepish grin, then the expression faded. “I never did get a chance to thank her. I think she saved my life.”
Mirda touched his gloved hand. “If you wish to thank her, then do not hide the gift she made for you.”
“How did you—?” Falken shook his head. “But you're right. I think it's time I stopped trying to hide my past and started living up to it.” He stripped off the black glove, and his right hand gleamed in the morning light. “From now on, my name is Falken Silverhand.”
Mirda smiled. “She would be glad to know.” The witch gazed at Grace. “Remember you are never alone, sister. Look for help on the road—it will find you as you journey.”
“Thank you,” Grace managed.
Mirda nodded, then, cloak fluttering, she moved to stand by Lirith and Grace.
Melia arched an eyebrow. “That was curious.”
Falken said nothing as he flexed his silver hand.
A coldness crept into Grace's chest. So that was it, then. There were no more good-byes to make. Durge spoke to Tarus, and the red-haired knight mounted his horse and rode down the hill. The Spider Aldeth followed on a horse as gray as his mistcloak. Durge climbed into the saddle of his charger, Blackalock, and Melia and Falken mounted their own horses. Nearby, a guardsman held the reins of Shandis, Grace's honey-colored mare. Heart heavy, Grace turned to mount the horse—
—and stopped. A small figure sat in Shandis's saddle, the wind tangling her flame-colored hair. She wore only a thin smock, and her feet were bare.
“Tira,” Grace gasped. “How did you get there?”
By the guardsman's stunned look, he wondered the same. He nearly dropped Shandis's reins. However, the mare was nonplussed, and she gave a soft whicker as Tira laughed, burying her hands in Shandis's mane.
Falken gave Grace a sharp look. “I think somebody wants to come with you.”
Grace thought her heart would shatter. “But she can't. It's too dangerous. She's just a child.”
“No,