The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [91]
Grace gazed at the pavilion and sighed. “You know, I believe that in her heart she supports us.”
“That may well be,” Senrael said. “All the same, she was Matron of the High Coven, and until she renounces that role she is bound by the Pattern woven there. If she were to see us riding with you, she would know we have betrayed the Witches.”
“What about me?” Grace said. “Won't she know I've betrayed the Witches as well?”
Senrael let out a cackle. “You cannot betray them, deary, for you were not part of the Pattern.”
Grace lifted a hand to her chest, trying to quell the sudden ache there. “What pattern am I part of, then?”
“That's for you yourself to weave,” the old woman said, then she turned the pony around and rode off to join the other witches. Together, the twelve women headed for the leafless grove of trees. However, before they had gone a furlong, the air shimmered around them, and their forms faded away, vanishing into the dun-colored landscape.
“Your Majesty,” Durge called, riding toward her. “The queen awaits.”
Despite their many previous interactions, Queen Ivalaine greeted Grace coolly, formally—not as one woman or one witch to another, but rather as ruler to ruler. They did not touch and remained always a distance apart. The queen sat in a folding chair of gilded, intricately carved wood, and she indicated that Grace should sit in a chair that was only slightly less ornate. Grace made her request to ride with her army through the queen's lands. After that, servants brought them steaming goblets of spiced wine and stoked the braziers that warmed the pavilion, then retreated, leaving the two women alone. Even Tressa, the queen's closest advisor, was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe she's back in the castle, Grace, keeping an eye on Sister Liendra.
“You must guard your thoughts,” Ivalaine said, her ice-colored eyes fixed on Grace. “It is not only words spoken aloud that may be overheard.”
Grace clutched her goblet. “And who might hear us?”
“I would give much to know the answer to that question, sister. I simply know I am being watched. The feeling comes and goes, like clouds on a summer day. But the clouds come more often than light now. The storm approaches, and I fear it will wash us all away.”
Grace didn't know how to reply to that, though she noted Ivalaine had called her sister. Were they no longer speaking as queens, then, but as witches? There was one way to find out.
“You have not asked me why I ride through your lands with an army, sister.”
Ivalaine made a dismissive gesture. “Your business is your own.”
Grace set down her goblet. “No, this business is all of ours. Everyone I talk to tells me the Final Battle is coming, and I really have no reason to think they're wrong. So I'm riding to Gravenfist Keep, which lies in Shadowsdeep, right at the gates of Imbrifale. Once I'm there, I'll wait for the coming of the Warriors of Vathris, led by King Boreas.”
The queen made no exclamation of shock or surprise. She sat motionless in her chair. However, there was a light in her eyes—a glow that in the ED Grace would have taken as a sign of fever—and blotches of color blossomed on her pale cheeks.
“What of my . . . what of Prince Teravian?” Ivalaine said softly. “Will he ride with his father?”
“I believe so.”
“But of course he will.” Ivalaine muttered the words under her breath, as if speaking to herself rather than Grace. “He has to go, does he not? For it is not the father who will fight this battle, but the son.”
Grace frowned. “Sister?”
Ivalaine stood, and her goblet fell to the rushes that strewed the ground. Wine spilled, staining the rushes the color of blood. The queen stared at the crimson pool.
“An omen,” Ivalaine said, her words hoarse. “Blood will spill. Royal blood. But I will go to him before the end. I will see him before that bull can break him like a sword. I will be queen no longer. Nor will I be Matron. I care not what happens—all is beyond me now. There is but one last role for me to play.”
Grace could do nothing to hide the horror on her face. In all the time