The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [89]
Durge's eyes narrowed. “I do not care for these witches, my lady. If they have betrayed their own sisters, how can we trust anything they say? We should run them out of the camp before they spin a spell upon us.”
“Hush, Durge,” Grace said, laying a hand on his arm, and he fell silent, though he still glared at the witches. Grace approached the two women, young and old. “Why have you come here?”
“Our coven is not complete,” the younger witch said. “We need one more if we are to be thirteen and our secret Pattern complete.”
Grace shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I have to go north. I can't go with you.”
The crone laughed, a sound like the call of a crow. “Of course not, sister. That is why we shall go with you.”
23.
Two days later, the makeshift army reached the bridge over the River Darkwine and the borders of Toloria. “That bridge can't possibly be there.”
Grace sat up straight in the saddle. “Actually, it looks fairly solid to me.”
Tarus ran a hand through his red hair. “That's not what I meant, Your Majesty. I know this landscape well. I spent much time patrolling here when I was in the Order of Malachor. It's a week's journey from Calavere to Ar-tolor, which lies just a few leagues beyond that bridge. But it's only been three days since we set out from King Boreas's castle.”
“Then we've made exceptionally good time, haven't we?” Grace said with a smile.
“But, Your Majesty—”
Grace gave him a sharp look. “Sometimes it's best not to question good fortune, Sir Tarus.”
The knight bit his lip, then nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. I'll instruct the army to cross the bridge. We'll make camp on the other side.” He rode away.
“Thank you for speeding up our journey,” Grace murmured, enfolding Tira in her arms as they approached the bridge. The girl wriggled in her arms, making a low sound like a moan. What was the matter? Then, as Shandis's hooves clattered against the bridge, Grace understood.
Glancing down, she saw the footprints melted into the stones of the bridge. It was here at this very bridge that the krondrim, the Burnt Ones, had trapped them on their journey east last year. Only the spell Grace wove with the help of Aryn and Lirith—along with the fatal bravery of Sir Meridar—had saved them. Even then, Tira and the blind boy Daynen had been trapped on the bridge, its stones half-molten from the touch of the fiery beings. Both children would have perished. But then, as Grace and the others watched in helpless horror, Daynen had carried Tira across the glowing stones of the bridge, saving her—and sacrificing himself.
Grace let out a breath when they reached the other side of the bridge, and Tira grew still in her arms.
Silver twilight was falling by the time they reached the other side. Grace was barely able to pick Durge out of the gloom as he veered his charger Blackalock close to Shandis. Both Embarran and warhorse looked like shadows.
“I do not like this,” Durge rumbled.
She followed his gaze and saw that the witches who had joined them two days ago were just coming across the bridge—the younger ones walking, the eldest sitting astride shaggy ponies.
“We ride now into the lands of the Witch Queen of Toloria,” Durge said, his eyes glinting. “Will not they betray us to her? You yourself, Your Majesty, have said the Witches seek to prevent the Final Battle from coming about.”
Grace watched the witches approach. “No, Durge. They won't betray us to Ivalaine. Besides, I think you may have misjudged the queen. Some of her own knights ride with us. Besides, no matter what side she stands on, all laws require that I request her permission to ride through her lands.”
Durge couldn't argue with that; the Embarran was a staunch supporter of laws. All the same, he glowered at the witches. “I still don't like it. We know nothing about these women. It would be better if we had sent them on their way.”
“Nonsense,” Grace said crisply. “There are far too many men about. A few women will do this army good.”
Over the last two