The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [85]
She gave him a fond smile. “I rather doubt that, Durge.”
The Embarran rummaged in a saddlebag and drew out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He handed it to her.
“What is it?”
“A gift from Falken and Melia. They asked me to give it to you once we were on the road.”
Grace opened the bundle, and inside was a folded piece of cloth. Grasping two corners, she shook it out.
It was a banner. The colors were like those of Calavan, though the blue was deeper, and the symbol embroidered in silver thread was not the crown and swords of Calavan. Instead it was a star surrounded by a knot with four loops. Grace knew the symbol well. Falken always clasped his cloak with a brooch that bore the same design.
“It's the emblem of Malachor,” she said in wonder.
“You must select a man to be your standard-bearer, Your Majesty,” Durge said, his brown eyes thoughtful. “He must be a man you trust above all others, one whose heart will never fail you. For if your standard ever falls, then all is lost.”
Grace didn't even need to think about it. “You, Durge. I want you to carry it.” She held the banner toward him.
His hesitation was visible. “My lady, I can . . . that is, surely there is another better suited.”
For a moment an icicle of fear stabbed at Grace's heart. Durge had never avoided any duty she had ever asked of him. Why would he resist this? She thought of his words, how the standard must be carried by one whose heart would never fail . . .
But he can't know about the iron splinter, Grace. He's being modest, that's all.
She nudged Shandis close to Blackalock and pressed the banner into his hands. “Please, Durge. For me.”
He drew in a breath, then took the banner from her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I will guard it with my life.”
Durge called for a lance to be brought to him. He fastened the banner to the end, then turned it upright, planting the butt of the lance in his stirrup. At that moment a gust of wind raced over the river, and the banner leaped to attention, embroidered star gleaming. Grace heard a murmur rise from the men behind her. She kept her gaze forward, but she knew if she looked back she would see wonder in their eyes. To these men, all their lives, Malachor had been a legend—a story of a golden age long lost. By unfurling this banner, she had just brought the legend to life.
“Don't look now, Your Majesty,” Tarus said softly, leaning in his saddle toward her, “but everyone's staring at you.”
“Then I'd better not fall off my horse.”
It was in the late afternoon of that first day out from the castle when All-master Oragien brought his dun-colored mule close to Shandis.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty, but may I take you up on your offer and ride near you for a time?”
Grace winced at the reverence in his voice. Everyone was taking this whole queen thing far too seriously, but she supposed there was no way around it.
“You may ride with me anytime you wish, All-master.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I fear the cold makes a cruel companion to these old bones, despite young Master Graedin's diligence in speaking the rune of fire. Have you met him? I have not seen such a promising student in all my years at the Gray Tower. Except for Master Wilder, of course.”
“I look forward to meeting him,” Grace said.
Oragien laughed. “Then you are in luck, Your Majesty, for here comes Master Graedin now. I imagine he's thrilled at the prospect of meeting you, and no doubt he saw my riding beside you as an opportunity. He's nothing if not bold.”
“Then he'll go far, I'm sure.” If I don't get him killed first, that is, Grace added to herself.
The man who bounced on the back of a mule toward them was so young-looking that on Earth Grace would hardly have taken him for a college student. His beard was no more than a light fuzz on his cheeks, and his gangly legs and arms flapped wildly as he rode. For a moment Grace feared his mule would crash into her and Shandis, but at the last second the young man managed to slow the beast down.
“I do trust you have better control over runes than you