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creatures fell back and disappeared, and for a while they walked through an empty corridor. But the
magic took its toll in pain and energy, and all too soon the light was flickering unsteadily. Taggert fought
to maintain it, but it had been a long night and she'd done too much already. The light faded away, and
one by one the creatures returned. Taggert still had her sword and shield, but for the first time she began
to wonder if they were going to be enough.
Mother Donna suddenly came to a halt, and Taggert stopped beside her. The gateway was somewhere
up ahead, but the pressure of the Unreal was now so strong it was all Donna could do to hold her
ground. Sweat ran down her straining face as creatures that could not have existed in the Real world
pressed close about her and the Steward. She'd gone as far as she could, as far as her power and her
courage could take her, and it hadn't been far enough. The first faint stirrings of panic tugged at her calm,
and she wondered suddenly if this was what Grey Davey had felt, before the Unreal took him.
Taggert swung her sword with desperate strength. The Sanc-tuary stood motionless at her side, her eyes
clenched shut, despair written openly on her face. Taggert looked back for Cord, but he had
disappeared beneath a horde of swarming creatures, back down the corridor. The Steward fought on,
her arms and back screaming for rest, but the creatures before her wouldn't stay dead. They were
Unreal, and they were strong in their own world.
Taggert wondered what it would be like to die in the Unreal world. And if she would stay dead, or if
something with her face would return to wage war against Castle Midnight in the cause of Unreality.
Chapter Six
Wolves at the Gate
Sir Gawaine Hellstrom, once of Tower Rouge, lay stiffly in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to
sleep. He'd blown out his nightlight a good hour ago, but despite heavy eyelids and the weary ache in his
bones, sleep still eluded him. Hazy shafts of light spilled into the darkened room from the corridor
outside, and his night vision showed him the familiar shapes and shadows of his bedroom. Emma had
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insisted their furniture be transported from Kahalimar to the Castle. Gawaine didn't care; Viktor was the
one who'd end up footing the bill. It wasn't as if he'd chosen any of it himself. He'd never had the time or
the inclination to develop domestic instincts. He'd spent most of his life as a soldier, and most of that on
the move. His time at Kahalimar had been the longest he'd ever spent in one place. Four interminable
years . . . He'd waited so long for them to be over, only to discover that what came next was worse.
He shifted himself into yet another position, trying to get comfortable. Emma stirred at his side and he lay
still, not wanting to wake her. The years in exile had been hard on Emma. She lived for the gossip and
friendships and factions of High Society, and there was little of that in Redhart outside Castle Midnight.
She'd been just the same at the Forest Castle . . . Gawaine frowned in the darkness, and for a moment
an old bitterness threatened to surface, but he pushed it back. He was Sir Gawaine of Redhart now, for
better or worse, and the past should stay in the past. Gawaine lay very still beside his wife, not touching
her at all, for no matter where they were there was always something keeping them apart.
'What's the matter, Gawaine?' said Emma quietly.
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.'
'You didn't. You're not the only one who's had trouble sleeping lately.'
Gawaine smiled indulgently into the darkness. 'According to you, you never sleep.'
'Well, I don't. I never have. Any night I get more than a few hours' sleep is a good night for me. But I'm
used to that; you're not. What's the matter?'
'Nothing in particular. Just . . . things. Go to sleep, love. Busy day tomorrow.'
They lay in silence for a while. Far away, they could hear the Night Watch being changed. Gawaine
smiled, and relaxed slightly. There was something very comforting, even cosy, about lying in a warm soft
bed and listening to the sound of marching men whose job it was to see that you slept safe and
undisturbed. Gawaine in particular appreciated it. He'd done his fair share of marching back and forth in
the cold on Watch duty in his time.
'Remember the bed we had back at Forest Castle?' said Emma dreamily. 'I used to love that bed.'
Gawaine grunted. 'Damned ugly monstrosity. Far too big, and it creaked every time you moved.'
'But it was comfortable . . . you could just sink into that mattress. And the furniture we had then - this
stuff is all very well, but it's not a patch on what we used to have. But then, that's true of everything here.'
'Well, you'll just have to make the most of it,' said Gawaine irritably. 'We won't ever be going back to
the Forest.'
'We might,' said Emma. 'Some day.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]