The kitchens were devoid of people awake. A couple of servant-boys lay huddled in blankets near the long fireplace. Not wanting to disturb them, he crept around a large cauldron and hunched in its shadow, wishing he had asked the Duke for something warmer to wear when he had the chance.
Warren dozed, woke and dozed again. A tremendous crash jolted him into proper wakefulness, his heart drumming faster than a mouse’s. It was daylight, a piercing light that only happens when sunlight reflects off snow on the ground. The kitchen was busy, several different people arranging breakfasts all at once, just barely getting in each other’s way. The head cook stood by the side of the long fire, which was burning and making the room bearably warm, turning a spit and bellowing orders. One of the servants dropped a plate with a clang and was slapped for being clumsy.
The fire was so tempting, after the night’s sleep Warren had managed to snatch. The cold was eating into his bones and making him feel sick. He was about to crawl nearer to the flames when the door burst open and a maid ran in.
“What is the matter now?” the cook sighed, adjusting his cap.
“The physician, sir,” the girl panted. “He sent me to ask you for some parsley. The Duke is ill, he won’t speak. He has not said a word to anyone since he returned from battle last night, not even to the lady Egrayne.”
Warren swallowed nausea. He had been right to suspect that Gorla had been the Dark Rider last night. But it was too late now.
Nightwalks 