The Dark Remains (15 page)

“Lirith! There you are!”

She looked up and saw a flash of white moving through the remains of the gathering. Lirith rushed forward, and they met in the center.

“Aryn.”

She embraced the young woman, holding her tightly. Aryn returned the gesture with no less fierceness for her one arm. At last they pulled back.

“You were beautiful tonight,” Lirith said. “No, radiant. I was glad to see it, although I must say you were not so confident when last I saw you. What happened?”

Aryn shrugged, smiling. “I decided to be myself. Just like you told me to do.”

Lirith squeezed the baroness’s left hand. She started to say more, then halted as a tall form with fiery gold hair passed nearby. Lirith felt the warmth drain from her, and Aryn stiffened. Liendra walked at a stately pace from the garden, surrounded by a tight knot of witches. She kept her gaze fixed forward, as if unaware of the attention she was receiving, although her smug smile betrayed the illusion.

Suddenly, as if she sensed eyes upon her, Liendra turned her head. Green eyes sparkled in Lirith’s and Aryn’s direction, and the smile on her lips deepened. Then Liendra walked from the garden.

Aryn drew in a hissing breath as if to speak. However, her words sounded not in Lirith’s ears, but in her mind.

She’s absolutely awful. Look at how smug she is. You’d think she was queen of this place
.

The delivery of these words startled Lirith more than their content. When and how had Aryn mastered the art
of speaking along the Weirding? Lirith had yet to work with her at the skill.

Lirith spun a quick thread, answering the young woman.

She is not queen. But remember—it was Liendra’s thread at the very center of the Pattern. I don’t know who she is or where she came from, but the Witches seem more than ready to follow her lead
.

Not all the Witches
, a warm voice said.

The voice was not Aryn’s, but by the baroness’s wide blue eyes she had heard it as clearly as Lirith.

Do not forget
, the voice continued,
there were some threads who did not align themselves with the heart of the Pattern. Not all witches think the same as Sister Liendra
.

For a moment Lirith wondered if it was Ivalaine who was speaking, but there was no sign of the queen. Besides, the voice was different than Ivalaine’s. Softer, smokier, yet powerful in its way. Then the thinning crowd parted, and Lirith saw a witch whose jet hair was marked by a single streak of ice-white.

“Sister Mirda,” Aryn whispered.

Lirith nodded, and she knew why the woman’s serene voice sounded so familiar.

“It was you,” she murmured. “You were the one who reminded us that the Witches must do no harm. And it was your thread that changed the Pattern.”

The hint of a smile touched Mirda’s lips. “May Sia guide you both on your journey,” she said. Then she turned and moved through the garden, green robe fluttering, and was gone.

Aryn frowned, her expression puzzled. “What was that supposed to mean? What journey was she talking about?”

Lirith thought of the young prince Teravian and the look of sorrow on his face.

You’ll be going soon
.…

“Come on,” she said, taking Aryn’s arm. “I think I need a strong cup of
maddok.
”

“Do you require anything else, my lady?”

Aryn did not turn from the polished silver mirror as she adjusted her gown.

“No, Elthre. Thank you.”

In the mirror’s reflection she saw the serving maid curtsy, then slip from the room. Aryn smiled—Elthre was a sweet girl, if timid—then concentrated, using practiced motions of her left hand to fasten the buckles and tie the straps of the gown. It was just after dawn, but she had awakened over an hour ago, her body still light and tingling with the magic of the Pattern. She had talked to Lirith until well after midnight, but since waking Aryn had thought of a hundred other questions she wanted to ask the dark-eyed witch.

In her mind, Aryn saw again the weaving of the Pattern, and how the last remaining threads—hers and Lirith’s among them—bonded with the strand that spoke in calm, immutable words. There was no doubt that the strand had been Sister Mirda’s. But who was this wise, serene witch? And where had she come from? No one Aryn asked seemed to know, nor did Lirith. Yet it was Mirda who had prevented all the witches from flocking to Liendra’s thread.

Except most did, Aryn. Even Ivalaine joined with the heart of the Pattern in the end
.

But certainly Ivalaine had had no choice, not if she wished to remain Matron. And this way, perhaps Ivalaine could have some influence over Liendra’s faction. At least
that was what Aryn hoped. However, she had seen neither Tressa nor the queen since the coven.

Nor had she seen Senrael. It was wrong how the old ones had been dismissed. Their voices were rough, but they carried such wisdom. Beauty had little to do with true power. But the crones had been shunted to the fringes of the Pattern, and if Mirda had not spoken the Witches might have vowed to do anything—even shed blood—to destroy Runebreaker. As it was, Aryn was glad Travis Wilder was a world away. And while she would liked to have seen him, she hoped he would never leave his home again. For his sake. And perhaps for Eldh’s.

Aryn decided to forgo breakfast and head right for Lirith’s chamber. She could only hope Lirith was awake. But at that moment, Aryn couldn’t imagine sleeping.

Besides there’s always
maddok.
If you bring a pot to her room, Lirith won’t be able to resist getting out of bed to drink it. She’s a bee to honey for the stuff
.

She finished adjusting her gown, then started to draw an extra fold of cloth over her right arm. It was a completely instinctual motion, one she had made every day for as long as she could remember.

All at once, she hesitated. Slowly, Aryn pushed the fold of cloth back over her shoulder, leaving her right arm exposed in its linen sling.

She stared at her reflection. In her mind she had never pictured herself with her withered arm; always she imagined it concealed. But now that she gazed at the pale, twisted shape, she could not envision it any other way. It was strange, yes, but it was
her
.

A warmth filled her, almost like giddiness. Always before she had dreaded people seeing her arm, but now she almost looked forward to it. Let them stare, let them mock her as Belira had. It would only make her stronger. Smiling, she adjusted her arm in its sling, then moved to the door.

Sister, can you hear me?

The voice sounded faintly but clearly in Aryn’s mind.

Aryn, if you can hear me, you must come at once to Lady Melia’s chamber
.

It was Lirith. Aryn gathered her will and tried to answer. Last night, before the coven, she had finally discovered how to speak across the Weirding at will. Like so many things, it was easier than she had thought. It was as if the ability had been there all along, only concealed. Just like her arm. However, there was so much yet to learn, and she was still clumsy at the skill. She could not glimpse Lirith’s thread; it was too far away.

I’m coming!
she called, even though she knew Lirith could not hear her. Aryn dashed from the room. What could have caused terror to sharpen Lirith’s usually calm voice? Perhaps Melia had fallen ill again; Lirith had mentioned that the lady had been acting in a peculiar manner of late.

Aryn was nearly to Melia and Falken’s room when a spindly form sprang from an alcove, landing before her in a twisted knot. She let out a muffled cry. The thing untangled long, bony limbs, stretching upward into the shape of a man. Bells chimed like the sound of laughter.

“Master Tharkis,” Aryn breathed, only half-relieved. This was not a distraction she needed. “What do you want?”

“What?” the fool said. “Have you forgotten, sweet. We yet have our contest of poems to complete.”

She lifted her left hand to her chest. “What do you mean?”

He prowled toward her on pointed boots; dust and cobwebs clung to his motley. Where had he been lurking to get so filthy? “A rhyme you spoke, for my name. Now for your own I’ll do the same.”

There was something odd about his voice. It was quieter than usual, more sibilant. A sly light glinted in his crossed eyes. Aryn could only watch as he spread his arms and spoke in a low, singsong voice:

Aryn’s blood turned to ice. Had the fool seen what she had done to Belira and the others? But the last part of his rhyme was even more troubling; it reminded her of the card she had drawn from the old Mournish woman’s deck. But there was no way the fool could possibly have known about that … was there?

Tharkis grinned, displaying pointed, yellow teeth. “I can see I have won by the look in your eyes. And now, my sweet, you must grant me a prize.”

The fool sidled close to her, and a sour scent filled her nostrils. His grin spread, stretching his face into a grotesque mask of lumps and furrows. Bells jangled, then were muffled by blue cloth as he pressed himself against her.

Anger rose inside Aryn: pure, white, and hot.

“Get away from me, dog,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own. As if of its own volition, her right arm rose from the sling.

Tharkis sprang back. The fool’s grin was gone, and his expression was one of terror. His eyes were no longer crossed and seemed to gaze right through her.

“Don’t speak like that, sweet,” he said, his words hoarse and trembling. “All hard and cold your voice is. It
sounds like hers, it does. And your eyes, so sharp. They pierce me just like hers do.”

Aryn forgot her anger. Tharkis cowered now, hugging himself, and made small whimpering sounds.

“Whom do you speak of?” she said.

“The shadow in the trees!” All traces of rhyme had vanished from his voice. “The one with many eyes. She sees everything. I cannot hide … even when I sleep she finds me. But she is not the only one who sees.” Laughter fell from his mouth like pieces of broken glass. “I have seen things as well.”

Aryn hesitated, then reached out her left hand. “It’s all right, Master Tharkis. It’s just—”

She halted as his wild eyes locked on hers. “She will come for you, too. You cannot escape. She spins a web for the spinners … and in it she will catch them all.”

A shiver crept up Aryn’s back. “Who are you talking about? Who is she trying to catch?”

“She will … she sees, but she is not alive. Watch for her, spinner. Her web closes in on us even now. And she will eat all who are captured in it.” He clutched shaking hands to his head and squeezed. “She thinks I … don’t remember. But sometimes I almost do. I almost … it’s in the trees … I must ride. Not fast enough … it comes. Obey me, for I am the king. Oh, by all the gods, it comes.…”

Tharkis was shaking violently, snot running down his face. In his eyes was a look of stark and empty terror. Yet his words seemed strangely lucid. She opened her mouth, unsure what she should say.

“Aryn?” a voice called from down the corridor. “Aryn, is that you?”

Like a puppet jerked by the strings, Tharkis leaped to his feet. His eyes were crossed once more. “Fear the one alive and dead,” he hissed, “for you cannot escape her web.”

With weird speed, the fool scrambled up the wall, then vanished in the shadow between two rafters above. Aryn
craned her neck, searching the ceiling, but she knew it was no use; she would not find him.

“Aryn, there you are! I thought I sensed your thread.”

A silhouette moved toward her, then resolved into Lirith. Her ebon face was paler than usual, as if dusted by ashes.

“Did you hear my call, sister?”

“I did.”

“I thought you had, but I wasn’t certain. You must come at once.”

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t think I can explain.” Lirith took Aryn’s left hand. “Come, you will see.”

Thoughts of Tharkis vanished from Aryn’s mind as Lirith pulled her down the corridor. They reached the door of Melia and Falken’s chamber and slipped through. Aryn didn’t know what she had expected to see, but certainly it had not been this.

Durge pressed himself against the far wall, as if trying to retreat into solid stone, his brown eyes wide. Falken knelt not far from the door, gazing upward, an expression of sorrow on his weathered face. In the very center of the room, Melia was weeping. Wails of grief escaped her, rising and falling with the cadence of a chant. She tore at her blue-black hair, and tears streamed from her amber eyes. However, it was not this that made Aryn stare, her breath caught in her lungs. Rather, it was the fact that Melia floated in midair.

The small woman hovered in the center of the room, several feet above the floor, curled in a tight ball. She spun slowly as she wept, bobbing up and down as if tossed on a stormswept sea. She seemed oblivious to the others in her grief.

At last air rushed into Aryn’s lungs. She must have stumbled, for Lirith caught her arm, then Falken was there, steadying her. Durge edged around the room to join them.

“She’s in mourning,” Falken said, his voice quiet, in answer to Aryn’s unspoken question. “I’m not certain how long it’s going to last.”

Aryn shook her head. “Mourning? For whom?”

“For one of her brothers.”

Fear shot through Aryn, and she clutched the bard’s arm. “Is it Tome?”

Although she had met him only once, it had been more than enough to grow fond of the gentle old man with golden eyes. Like Melia, Tome was one of the Nine who had forsaken godhood long ago to walk the face of Eldh and work against the Pale King’s Necromancers. In the time since, most of the Nine had grown weary and had faded from the world.