by Mark Anthony
Mirda closed Grace's fingers around the vial. “You must, sister, if you love him as you say you do. He would never want to become what the splinter will make of him.”
It was too much. Grace couldn't breathe. She staggered toward the door. “I have to go.”
“So you do, sister,” Mirda said, nodding. “I will be there to see you off when you ride from the castle.”
Grace hardly heard her. Her head swam, and she was shaking. She wanted to throw the vial down, only somehow her hand wouldn't let go of it. A single drop brings an end, swift and painless. . . .
She pushed through the door and ran down the hall, past the suits of armor. They seemed to stare at her, like specters forged of cruel metal. Her nightgown tangled around her feet, tripping her, and she started to fall.
Strong arms gripped her, holding her upright.
“My lady, what is wrong?” spoke a deep, familiar voice.
She blinked and saw Durge's craggy face in the gloom. The knight wore riding gear and a mail shirt. Panic seized her. How long had he been out here in the hall? Had he heard what she and Mirda had been talking about? She gripped the vial so hard she thought it must shatter, but it didn't.
“Durge,” she managed to croak. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, my lady. And I'm lucky to have found you, as I was just passing by the door to this hall when I saw you come running this way.”
Grace tried not to breathe too obvious a sigh of relief. He hadn't entered the hall until after she had left the antechamber. That meant there was no way he could have heard her conversation with Mirda.
“I came to your chamber at dawn,” Durge went on. “However, I found only Tira playing a game with a serving maid, so I came in search of you. Your army gathers even now in the lower bailey. We are to ride forth in an hour.” His mustaches descended in a frown as he took in her tangled nightgown. “I must say, my lady, this is hardly proper riding attire. You will freeze to death before we travel a league.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I'll change.”
And despite her fear, she found herself laughing. Whatever the iron splinter would make of him, right now he was still Durge—good, dear, gloomy Durge. As long as she had the Embarran by her side, she was going to enjoy every moment of it. She threw her arms around his stooped shoulders, much to his obvious surprise.
“Thank you, Durge.”
He hesitated, then wrapped his strong arms around her. “Whatever for, my lady?”
“For being you.”
He let out a rumbling breath. “Well, I can't say I give being me very much thought or effort. But all the same, you're welcome, my lady.”
21.
An hour later, Grace glanced out the window of her chamber to see the sun cresting the castle's battlements. In the last few minutes Durge had checked on her twice and Sir Tarus once, and the servants had already taken her things. Everyone would be waiting for her in the lower bailey.
“I have to go now, Tira,” she said.
The girl sat in front of the fire, playing with one of her half-burnt dolls. Grace knelt beside her, though the action was made awkward by the scabbard belted at her side. Fellring's hilt jabbed her in the kidney, and she grimaced as she readjusted the sword. How did Beltan wear one of these blasted things all the time?
“Tira, do you understand what I'm saying?”
It was always so hard to know if she was getting through. Tira still hadn't spoken a word since they left the Black Tower. Grace smoothed back the girl's tangled red hair and touched her chin, so that she stopped her playing and looked up.
“I'm going to be going on a journey, to a place very far away from here, and I'm afraid you can't come. It's not that I don't want you to.” Grace drew in a breath, shocked at how difficult this was. “I'm going to miss you so much. But where I'm going is too . . .that is, it's not a place for children. It's all right, though—you'll have Aryn and Lirith and Sareth here to take care of you, so you'll be safe. And I'll come back to you soon. I promise.”
Tira smiled—though the expression did not touch the scarred side of her face—then bent back over her doll. Grace sighed, hoping it had been enough. She caught the girl in a tight hug, rocking her, kissing her head. At last, fearing she would weep, she rose quickly and left the room.
Waiting outside was a slender man with a pointed blond beard and a silver-gray cloak.
“Aldeth,” she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
The Spider smiled, revealing rotten teeth. “I may have been discarded by Queen Inara like a soiled handkerchief, but it seems I've still got the touch.”
Grace frowned at him. “Durge sent you, didn't he?”
“Tarus, actually. Durge was too busy having an apoplectic seizure. Something about how if we don't leave immediately, the army won't get a league from the castle before it's time to set up camp. I didn't catch the rest. He was too busy swelling up and turning red. Do you think Embarrans can burst?”
“We'd better not find out,” Grace said, wincing. “I'm ready now. I just had to say good-bye to someone.”
The Spider let out a snort. “You should do what I do, my lady, and avoid getting to like other people. That way it's never hard to say good-bye.”
Somehow those were the saddest words Grace had ever heard. Maybe because they reminded her of herself not long ago.
“Oh, Aldeth,” she said and touched his cheek.
When they reached the castle's lower bailey, they found it empty save for a scattering of sheep and peasants. For an absurd moment Grace wondered if she had missed the departure of her own army. But no, there were Durge and Tarus, both walking swiftly toward her.
“Your force awaits you below the castle, my lady,” Durge said. Aldeth was right. His cheeks and neck were red as holly berries.
“I prefer to think of the army as being all of ours, Durge,” she said with a wry smile.
He glowered and grew a touch redder.
Tarus took her arm and steered her toward the castle gate. “If you don't mind my saying, my queen, I'd lay off the jests. At least until we're well on the road.”
“Understood,” Grace said with a nod.
They passed by the remains of the ruined guard tower—the rebuilding had only barely begun—and through the castle gate. As they reached the other side, Grace's heart skipped in her chest. Perhaps Aldeth was right; perhaps growing to love people was not worth the pain of saying good-bye.
Except it was, no matter how much it hurt. Lirith and Aryn rushed up to her, catching her in a fierce embrace.
Sisters, she spoke in her mind.
Hush, Grace, came Aryn's voice over the threads of the Weirding. You don't have to speak. We just came here to let you know how proud of you we are.
You are brave, sister, Lirith spoke, her voice as true and warm as sunlight. Braver than any of us. We will think of you every moment while you're away, and we will speak prayers to Sia for your safety.
And we'll speak to you, too, Aryn said. I know I'll always be able to find you now, no matter where you go. The Weirding will guide me to you.
Grace laughed despite her tears. Then I'll never be alone, will I?
At last, reluctantly, she stepped back from the two witches. Tarus was giving them a wary look.
“Did they just cast some sort of spell?” the red-haired knight said.
Sareth grinned. “Almost certainly.” The Mournish man approached and kissed Grace's cheek. He smelled of spices. “Let Fate guide you.”
She met his dark eyes and nodded. “I'll try.”
“My brother is right,” Vani said, drawing close. “Fate will lead you where you must go, if you will let it.”
Grace smiled and gripped the T'gol's hand. Then, over her shoulder, she saw a tall, rangy figure. Beltan.
Talk to him, Vani, she spun the words over the Weirding, and by the T'gol's wide gold eyes Grace knew she heard.
Vani said nothing, but she nodded before she turn
ed away. Then Beltan was there, hugging Grace so tightly it hurt, but she didn't care, and she hugged him back as hard as she could.
“This feels wrong,” he said. “I don't care what King Boreas says. I should be coming with you now, not waiting until the rest of the Warriors of Vathris answer the call to war.”
“Boreas needs you as a commander.”
“My place is with you, Grace.”
She thought about it only a moment. “Is that really true, Beltan? Isn't your place with someone else?”
She felt him tense. Was this right? Was she working toward Fate, or against it? She didn't know; all she knew was that she had to do this.
Grace moved her lips close to his ear. “There's a way you and Vani can go to him. You have to find him and bring him back. Eldh needs him. We all need him.”
Beltan was trembling now. “Travis,” he whispered. “You mean Travis.”
“Yes. You see, I kept—”
“That's quite enough, Beltan,” said a blustering voice. “I'd say it's my turn now.”
Grace and Beltan broke apart as King Boreas strode toward them. Beltan's expression was one of wonder and confusion. Vani gave him a sharp look, and Beltan met her gold eyes, but the king seemed not to notice this exchange.
“My lady,” King Boreas said to Grace. “Or, I should say, my queen—it is a brave thing you do this day, for the Dominions, and for all of Eldh. Nor will I insult you by pretending it is not a most perilous thing as well.”
She managed a weak smile. “You know, that's not really all that comforting, Your Majesty.”
He flashed a toothy grin. “Isn't it? Well, take heart, my lady. While it will be difficult, you need only hold Gravenfist Keep for a short time. The men of Vathris have heard my call. It will not be long until a great host assembles here. When they do, the Warriors of Vathris will march north with all haste to relieve you.”
Grace nodded, hoping the terror wasn't too apparent in her eyes. Perhaps it was, for he moved in close and took her right hand in his.
“It was a lucky day when Sir Durge found you in Gloaming Wood, Lady Grace.” His voice was low and gruff, so that only she could hear. “Lucky for Eldh. And for me as well.”
He smiled, and this time the expression was only slightly fierce. “I loved Queen Narenya, and when I lost her I thought I had no more need of women, that ruling a Dominion was enough to occupy me. But last winter, when you came into this castle and brightened its halls, I realized how mistaken I was. There are times when I occupy myself with a fancy, my lady. And a most beguiling fancy it is. For in it, you and I sit side by side on the thrones of Calavere, ruling wisely. Together.”
Grace could do nothing to hide her astonishment as all words, all motion, fled her. The king bent his head, and his lips passed near hers, almost brushing them. She did not retreat. However, at the last, he turned his head and kissed her cheek—gently, chastely—before stepping back.
Grace trembled. In that moment she was struck by how like Boreas was to the god he followed. Like Vathris, he was a man so strong, so powerful, no one could deny his wishes. How would she ever resist him if he desired to make her his own? Only he had let her go, and was that not more powerful than even the sternest command?
Grace lifted her chin and met his eyes. “Your Majesty, I am in your debt for the kindness you have shown me. More than that, I care for you, so I won't lie to you. The fact is, I don't know if it's possible for me to love someone as you loved Queen Narenya. And I'm fairly sure I wouldn't be much of a wife. But if you ever have need of a queen by your side, you have only to ask, and I will be there.”
Her own words astonished Grace, but she knew they were true. However, the king did not accept her offer. Instead his smile faded, and a strange light shone in his eyes, though what it was—joy? regret?—Grace couldn't be sure.
He touched her cheek with a rough hand. “May the gods go with you, my lady.” Then he strode away. He paused to raise a fist for the benefit of the small army below, this action eliciting a cheer, then the bullish king of Calavan vanished through the castle gate.
“What was that all about?” Falken said. The bard drew close, along with Melia. Both wore thick riding cloaks.
“He wished me luck, that's all.” Grace gathered her own cloak about herself. The sun was bright, but the air was bitter. The Feast of Quickening was only a month away, but winter had not loosened its grip on the world.
“Tell me, dear,” Melia said. “Did you see Prince Teravian on your way out of the castle?”
“I'm afraid not. I suppose he's lurking somewhere.”
“Almost certainly.” The amber-eyed lady sighed. “That's unfortunate. I had hoped to say good-bye to him.”
The cold must have numbed Grace's brain. “What do you mean, Melia? Teravian isn't going anywhere.”
“No, dear,” Melia said, “but we are.”
Grace stared at the bard and the lady. “You mean you're coming with us to Gravenfist Keep?” Hope soared in her chest, but was dashed as Falken shook his head.
“We have our own journey to make. Shemal is still loose in the world, and so is the other Runebreaker. I'm guessing that if we find one, we'll likely find the other.”
Melia took Grace's hands in her own. “I'm sorry we can't come with you, Ralena. But you have your task, and we have ours. Now that my dear brother Tome is no more, I am the last of my kind, and Shemal is the last of hers. It is right that we face each other as the end approaches, and Falken has been good enough to agree to come with me.”
Grace didn't know what to say, so she settled for, “I'll miss you both so much.” Then she flung herself into their arms.
“Don't weep, dear,” Melia said as she hugged Grace tight. “We'll meet again before the end. I'm certain of it.”
“Remember your heritage, Grace,” Falken said, kissing her brow. “You are the queen of Malachor. Gravenfist Keep will know you.”
Durge approached and cleared his throat; it was time to go. Reluctantly, Grace pulled away from Melia and Falken, then turned, searching for Beltan and Vani. However, before she could start toward them, a woman in a multihued cloak glided forward. She nodded to Lirith and Aryn, then halted before Grace.
“I could not let you go without a blessing from Sia,” Mirda said in her calm voice. “May she guide you in all of her guises: Maiden, Matron, and Crone.”
A sense of peace radiated from the elegant witch, soothing Grace's frazzled nerves. Then Grace remembered the small vial Mirda had given her, and which now rested in the leather pouch belted at her waist, and the sense of peace vanished.
“Excuse me, but do I know you?” Falken said, tilting his head as he gazed at Mirda.
She turned her wise gaze toward him. “I cannot say, Falken Blackhand. Do you?”
He glanced down at his black-gloved hand. “You remind me of her, in a way. Only that's impossible, isn't it?”
“Perhaps,” Mirda said. “But tell me, what was she like, this one I remind you of?”
Falken's voice was soft. “She was barely more than a maiden, though her power was deep. Her hair was gold, and her eyes like blue cornflowers.”
Mirda smiled. “Well, that doesn't sound much like me.”
“No, I suppose it doesn't.” He glanced again at the mature, dark-haired witch. “Though I must confess, you're a bit more my style. I never went for the girlish type.”
Melia shot the bard an outraged look. “Falken!”
The bard gave her a sheepish grin, then the expression faded. “I never did get a chance to thank her. I think she saved my life.”
Mirda touched his gloved hand. “If you wish to thank her, then do not hide the gift she made for you.”
“How did you—?” Falken shook his head. “But you're right. I think it's time I stopped trying to hide my past and started living up to it.” He stripped off the black glove, and his right hand gleamed in the morning light. “From now on, my name is Falken Silverhand.”
Mirda smiled. “Sh
e would be glad to know.” The witch gazed at Grace. “Remember you are never alone, sister. Look for help on the road—it will find you as you journey.”
“Thank you,” Grace managed.
Mirda nodded, then, cloak fluttering, she moved to stand by Lirith and Grace.
Melia arched an eyebrow. “That was curious.”
Falken said nothing as he flexed his silver hand.
A coldness crept into Grace's chest. So that was it, then. There were no more good-byes to make. Durge spoke to Tarus, and the red-haired knight mounted his horse and rode down the hill. The Spider Aldeth followed on a horse as gray as his mistcloak. Durge climbed into the saddle of his charger, Blackalock, and Melia and Falken mounted their own horses. Nearby, a guardsman held the reins of Shandis, Grace's honey-colored mare. Heart heavy, Grace turned to mount the horse—
—and stopped. A small figure sat in Shandis's saddle, the wind tangling her flame-colored hair. She wore only a thin smock, and her feet were bare.
“Tira,” Grace gasped. “How did you get there?”
By the guardsman's stunned look, he wondered the same. He nearly dropped Shandis's reins. However, the mare was nonplussed, and she gave a soft whicker as Tira laughed, burying her hands in Shandis's mane.
Falken gave Grace a sharp look. “I think somebody wants to come with you.”
Grace thought her heart would shatter. “But she can't. It's too dangerous. She's just a child.”
“No,” Melia said carefully, “she's not.”
It was true. Krondisar had transformed Tira into a goddess. What her purpose was, Grace didn't know, but she had the feeling that, even if she wanted to, she could not prevent Tira from coming. Nor could Grace say she was sorry.
With the guardsman's help, Grace climbed into the saddle behind Tira. The girl snuggled close.
“Grace!” said a hoarse voice.
Beltan stood beside her horse. The knight's green eyes were desperate, questioning. Hastily, Grace reached into the pouch at her side and drew out a wadded piece of cloth. It was blotched with dark brown stains.
“Take this.”
