The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [88]
A cold needle injected fear into Grace's heart. Images flashed through her mind: snarling feydrim and the ghostly forms of wraithlings. “Get Durge and Tarus,” she said, groping for her sword. “We have to wake the army and fight them.”
“No, Your Majesty. These intruders are not servants of the Pale King. They have not come to fight.”
Fear gave way to confusion. “Then what do they want?”
“To speak to you, Your Majesty.”
Minutes later, her cloak thrown hastily over her nightgown, Grace followed Samatha toward a grove of leafless valsindar. The pale bark of the trees glowed like bones in the moonlight. Durge and Tarus fell in step beside her.
“What is this all about, my lady?” Durge rumbled, but before she could answer, Aldeth stepped out of a pool of shadow.
“They await you in the grove, Your Majesty.”
“Who?” she managed. It was cold, and her teeth chattered.
“I think you'd best go see for yourself.”
“You must not go alone,” Durge said.
Grace nodded—she would hardly argue that point.
“We'll keep watch out here.” Tarus gripped the hilt of his sword. “If you need help, you have only to call out, and we'll be at your side.”
Grace gave the knight what she hoped was a brave smile, then moved toward the grove. Durge followed at her side as she stepped between two trees.
She has come, sisters, spoke a voice in Grace's mind.
Grace halted. Next to her, Durge let out a low oath. Within the grove was a small clearing, and in it stood a group of women—it was hard to be certain how many. Balls of green light hung among the branches, flickering and casting strange shadows. Dimly, Grace was aware that it was not cold in the grove; instead, the air was as warm as springtime.
The women were a queer lot. There were crones with matted gray hair clad in baggy dresses to which bits of moss and dried leaves clung, and motherly women who wore practical cloaks and homespun gowns. Others were more of an age with Grace, holding staves of wood or wicker baskets. And there were at least two who were barely more than girls, gazing at Grace with eyes that seemed too wise and knowing for their round faces.
Grace knew at once that the women were witches. A coven? Not quite—as her eyes adjusted, she counted only twelve. Did not a full coven require thirteen?
“So it does, mistress,” said one of the younger women. “That is why we've come.”
Grace blinked. “Excuse me?”
One of the eldest witches hobbled forward, leaning on a crooked stick. “You travel a long road, one that leads into the very heart of shadow.”
Durge took a step forward, scowling. “What business is it of yours where we are traveling, woman?”
The crone laughed. She was quite toothless. “It is the business of all of us, Sir Knight. Do not think we do not see, for our vision is clear. Even now you march to the Final Battle, and soon all the Warriors of Vathris will follow you.”
Durge crossed his arms. “And do you mean to try to stop us? For know that you have little chance of doing so.”
The young witch who had spoken approached. She was dressed in the drab browns of a peasant, and her long face was plain, yet there was an elegance to her bearing. “We do not wish to stop you, Sir Knight.”
“But don't you have to?” Grace licked her lips. “Aren't you part of the Pattern?”
Murmurs rose from the witches, and the crone cast a sly glance at the maiden. “We have made our own Pattern, weaving it in secret these last years.”
Excitement coursed through Grace, and dread. “You're a shadow coven.”
Durge frowned at Grace—he couldn't possibly know what that meant—but both crone and maiden nodded.
The words tumbled out of Grace. “The shadow covens were forbidden. If you're discovered, your threads will be cut off from the Weirding.”
The crone's weathered face was sorrowful but resolute. “So they shall. All the same, we have come together. You see, we have not ignored the eldest prophecies as the other witches have. We know Runebreaker will destroy the world, and also that he will save it. We know also that the Warriors of Vathris have a part to play in this before all is done,