The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [87]
That was welcome news. Grace's legs and back ached; it would be a relief to stop for the night. “Thank you, Aldeth. Inform Sir Tarus that we'll be making camp.”
The dell was long and narrow, walled on either side by tree-covered ridges, and large enough to accommodate the entire force. Commander Paladus—leader of the Tarrasian company—voiced his approval. Like all of the Tarrasians, he was short, olive-skinned, and muscular, with stern brown eyes above sharp cheekbones. Although she stood half a head taller than he, Grace found Paladus intimidating, though he followed any suggestion she made as if it were a command. Then again, Emperor Ephesian did consider her a cousin, so no doubt Paladus had been ordered to obey her without question.
Grace stood around feeling generally useless while Tarus barked orders and the men went to work unloading the wagons and packhorses, setting up tents and a mess area.
“We will place your tent here, Your Majesty,” Durge said, planting the standard of Malachor in the soil between a pair of graceful valsindar trees.
As night fell, Tarus informed her that dinner would be brought to her tent, and while the thought of privacy was tempting—it felt as if she had been on display all day, like a piece of jewelry rotating in a shop window—Grace decided to take dinner with the troops. Silence fell as she approached the mess area with Tira, and Grace had the feeling a number of tongues had been bitten halfway through the telling of bawdy jokes.
“Don't let me spoil the fun,” Grace said with a smile. “I just came for a drink.”
A goblet of wine was hastily filled and offered to her, but instead Grace picked up a wooden cup filled with gritty, watery ale and quaffed a good part of it down in a long draught. This brought roars of approval from the gathered men, and many hundred cups were raised in Grace's direction, along with hearty calls of “Your Majesty!” and “Health to the Queen!”
Grace raised her own cup in return, then tilted her head toward Tarus. “They won't be drinking like this every night, will they?”
“Don't worry, Your Majesty. The ale will all be gone in another day or two, but let them have their cheer for now. It's a hard road that lies ahead of them.”
Grace couldn't disagree with that.
Dinner was an informal affair. Each soldier carried his own cup and knife, and stood in line to get a helping of salted meat and cheese on a trencher of hard bread, which was eaten sitting on the ground. Grace did consent to taking a seat on a flat rock and let Durge fetch her meal, but she ate the same food as the rest of them.
“That was well-done, Your Majesty,” Durge said quietly as he took her empty cup. “If there was a man whose loyalty you did not have before tonight, you have it now.”
“I hope I deserve it, Durge.”
Grace gazed out over the men, who laughed and sang songs by the light of fires. Would any of them still be laughing after they reached Gravenfist Keep?
“Come, my lady. It is time for sleep.”
Durge led her back to her tent, which was a little on the grand side, but Grace didn't complain as she lay down on a cot, snuggling close to Tira's warm body.
It was dark in the tent when a hand touched her shoulder, waking her. Grace sat up, staring, but she could see nothing in the gloom. Then the tin screen of a lantern was moved aside, and a shard of light spilled forth. A woman stood over Grace's bed. She wore a gray cloak.
“Who are you?” Grace whispered, so as not to wake Tira.
“My name is Samatha, Your Majesty.” The woman's face was long and narrow, her features sharp-edged. She made Grace think of a gray ferret—small, sleek, and dangerous. “Aldeth bid me come and wake you.”
So she was one of the Spiders. Grace pushed tangled hair from her eyes and forced her groggy brain to function. “Is something the matter?”
“There are . . . intruders