The Dark Remains (65 page)

No, Aryn, we will take no action other than what we were commanded. We will send a missive to Ivalaine as soon as we can, and we will watch Travis. That is all
.

And how will we tell Grace?

Good night, sister
, Lirith had said.
You will need your sleep
.

But she had slept little, and when she did she dreamed of pushing Travis Wilder into the tangle in the Weirding
while a man and a woman cried out in dismay. The man was Beltan, of course; he loved Travis. At first she thought the woman to be Grace, but then she saw that the other had eyes of gold. Before she could look closer, the threads tangled around Travis, drawing him into the dark center of the tangle, and in an instant he was gone. Except the tangle kept growing until it devoured everything, including Lirith herself.

Now, somewhere behind her, she heard the sounds of voices. The Mournish were beginning to stir. The others would be up soon. Lirith turned.

“Hello,
beshala
,” Sareth said, his brown-gold eyes soft in the morning light.

Lirith lifted a hand to clutch the spider charm at her throat, but any words she might have spoken were stolen away by the wind. Above, gulls cried.

She must have walked right past him. He leaned against the trunk of an
ithaya
tree, wearing his billowing pants and open vest. The morning light shone off the bronzed skin of his chest, and the wind tousled his black hair. In his hand he held a card. A
T’hot
card. She could not see its face.

Last night, in the darkness, she had been able to forget how handsome he was. Not now. She felt weak at the sight of him. Then her eyes drifted down to the leg that ended not in flesh but wood. His lips twisted in a grimace. He dragged his wooden leg back.

Lirith looked up in horror. She didn’t mean to make him hide his leg. It was part of him, like his fine hands, or the sparse, pointed beard on his chin. She would change none of it. Again she tried to speak but could not.

This is foolishness, sister. Tell him. Tell him what you are feeling!

“It brings good luck, the old women say,” he said in his deep, thrumming voice.

She tilted her head, confused. He pointed to the spider charm, which she still gripped.

Lirith let her hand fall from the charm. “Do they? I’m not sure that it has.”

Last night, Vani had told how the Scirathi used magical spiders of gold to poison those they wished to kill. That was how they had murdered Orsith. And she had seen them in her dreams.…

It seemed he sensed her thoughts. “No, do not let the work of the Scirathi decide what you believe. It is as a mockery that the sorcerers of Scirath use spiders to work their evil. For in Morindu, spiders were held to be sacred. And so my people still consider them. In our legends, they are the weavers that bind the world together.”

Lirith sighed. “We had thought it was Sif who was behind the murders, because we found one of the spiders where the priest Orsith was slain. But that was just coincidence, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe not entirely. I imagine the Scirathi saw in the arachnid god an opportunity to mislead and confuse any who sought to discover the source of the murders.”

Lirith nodded, but it was not of spiders that she wished to speak.

“I have heard …” Her voice faltered, and she moistened her lips. “I have heard it said that outsiders are never allowed to marry into the clans of the Mournish.”

Sareth stared past her, motionless. “What you have heard is true.”

The words were a dagger, but one she had known was coming. She turned away to hide the wound that surely had appeared in her breast. “I see.”

But maybe it didn’t matter. Who was she to think a man would marry her? She recalled the dream, how Sareth had turned to stone in her arms. For her, was not the dream already true? A man would find no warmth within her, no life. No children.

A rustling behind her. She smelled clean sweat and spices, and her throat went dry. A warmth touched the back of her neck: the breath of a man.

“
Beshala …
” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. “You keep saying that word, but I don’t know it. What does it mean?”

“In the tongue of my people, it means
beloved.
”

A gasp escaped Lirith; it was a sound of pain. She turned, searching his face for answers. “No, it can’t be.
Beshala
. I remember—that was what you called me in Ar-tolor, the first moment you saw me.”

His eyes were solemn. “So I did.”

“But …”

“What man of the Mournish does not know his fate when he sees it?
Beshala.
”

They stood like the trees, swaying in the wind as the gulls called out above them. Then slowly, against the wind, they bent toward one another.

“Lirith, there you are!”

She stumbled back, looked up. Grace walked between the sunleaf trees toward them, Travis at her side. Lirith felt her cheeks glowing hotly, and Sareth moved hastily away. However, if either Travis or Grace had noticed anything, they did not say.

And nor was there anything to notice, sister. You heard his words. Whatever his fate, he can never marry an outsider. And you know what fate holds for you. The Raven …

“Melia is up,” Travis said. “She wants everyone to get together. Now.”

Grace gave an apologetic shrug. “I tried to tell her that no one is saving any world before
maddok
, but you know how she gets.”

“Indeed,” Lirith said in a voice she hoped sounded light and casual. Again she wondered how she was going to tell Grace what the Witches had decided about Travis Wilder.

“Lirith?” Travis cocked his head, gazing at her.

“Yes?”

“You were staring at me. What? Is my hair a mess? Oh, wait.” He rubbed his bald head and grinned.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m not … I’m not quite awake yet.”

Travis only nodded in agreement, but Grace studied her with questioning eyes. Fortunately, before Lirith felt compelled to start babbling about everything the Witches had decided, Travis spoke again.

“Good morning, Sareth. What have you got there?” Travis gestured to the card in Sareth’s hand.

“Perhaps you can tell me. When I rose this morning, I drew a card from my al-Mama’s deck to see what the day holds.”

He turned the card over. Lirith clapped a hand to her mouth. The card showed a man pierced in the back with three swords.

Travis winced. “I have to say, that doesn’t seem like a very good sign.”

“No,” Sareth said. “It does not. This card signifies treachery. I would say there is betrayal ahead of us this day.”

“But by whom?” Grace said.

Lirith crossed her arms and turned away. “We had better not keep Lady Melia waiting.”

It was midmorning, and the white sun was bright on white walls as they moved along the main avenue that led up through the five circles of Tarras.

“All right,” Travis muttered, “am I the only one who feels just a little bit less than inconspicuous?”

He adjusted his new garb: knee-length trousers, loose
white shirt, and a red vest embroidered with yellow thread. A scarf covered his bald head, and his silver earrings only added to the effect. Were it not for his pale, still-new skin, he would have passed perfectly as a Mournish man.

Back at the caravan, Sareth and Vani had given all of them new clothes to wear.

It is simply a precaution
, Sareth had said.
We are less likely to draw undue attention from the Scirathi if we appear to be only a simple band of Mournish come to the city to tell fates and sell trinkets
.

Grace’s attire was not so different from Travis’s. She was taller than everyone in their group save Beltan and Travis, and none of the clothes of the Mournish women had fit her. Her ash-blond hair was drawn up beneath a floppy, brimless hat. Vani had even given her a short sword to wear at her hip. The others all wore brilliant colors and gleaming jewelry. Even Durge, who had submitted to trimming his mustaches short and keeping the whiskers on his chin in the Mournish style—albeit not without some grumbling. However, when Aryn mentioned that he looked ten winters younger, his grumbling had ceased.

“At least it’s working,” Grace said in answer to Travis’s complaint. “Look. Nobody is even coming near us.”

“Well, can you blame them? Marji would have arrested us in a second for high crimes against fashion.”

Grace sighed, then touched her embroidered vest. “No, I think she might have liked it.”

The more she thought about it, the more Grace realized how good Sareth’s decision to disguise them was. The Scirathi hated the Mournish, but they also held the Vagabond Folk in contempt. They would care little about a ragtag band who came to the city to scrounge a few coins. Instead, the sorcerers would be watching for Melia and Falken as well as Lirith, Durge, and Aryn. And there was no way the sorcerers could know Travis, Grace, and Vani were in the city.

Except, as they went, Grace began to think it wasn’t simply their disguise that let them pass without notice. Lirith was right. The people of Tarras seemed dazed and distracted. Many of them wore looks of open confusion, standing in the middle of the street, holding a bucket or a child or a basket of goods, as if they had absolutely no idea what they were supposed to be doing next. Then there were the people slumped against walls, flies crawling over their purple-stained lips, empty cups in their hands. Yet it didn’t make sense—Lirith had said there was nothing magic in this so-called Elixir of the Past.

It’s the demon, Grace. That thing is the source of everything that’s changing in this city. But how is it entangling Melia and the gods in the past, along with the people close to them?

Grace didn’t know. And while she had been a world away from Melia and the other gods, every day the remains of the past seemed more real to her, and the present more like a parade of ghosts.

They reached the Second Circle of the city. From what Grace had gleaned, this was the holy district. She had never believed in gods on Earth, and even here on Eldh, where the gods were real and present, she was still not certain what she thought of them. They were at once weaker and more dangerous than she would have imagined. All the same, there was a grandeur to the temples of white stone she could not deny. Above them rose a great blue dome. That must be the Etherion that Melia had mentioned.

When they reached the gate to the First Circle, they found its gilded doors tightly shut. It seemed the emperor had not had a change of heart.

Melia adjusted the veil that concealed her face, then glided toward a smaller red door set into the wall near the gate. She knocked on the red door once, twice, then a third time. She started to thrust both hands before her, and Grace had the feeling she was about to blast the door
to pieces when the top half of it swung open to reveal a thick-necked soldier in a bronze breastplate.

“Please inform the Minister of Gates that I require his presence,” Melia said pleasantly.

“The Minister is seeing no one without an appointment today.”

“Forgive me.” Melia laid her hand on the soldier’s arm. “I can see you’re quite stupid, so let me put it in simple words. I
will
speak with the Minister.”

The soldier blinked. “Of course, Your Holiness. As I said, I will fetch the Minister at once.”

The door shut. Grace was about to ask Melia exactly what she had done—was it something that might be reproduced with the Touch?—when the door flew open again. The Minister of Gates was a strikingly handsome and opulently attired man of an age with Grace or Travis. His beard shone with oil, and gems glittered on his fingers. He took one look at Melia and the rest of them, then frowned, the expression stealing all the beauty from his face.

“I know not why thieves and vagabonds are tolerated in this city,” he said in a voice rich with disdain. “But I know they are certainly not welcome in the shadow of the emperor’s palace.”

Melia folded back the veil, revealing her face. “It is true I am something of a wanderer, Minister. However, this city has been my home for nearly two thousand years. I do not think it is your place to tell me I am not welcome here.”

The Minister’s eyes went wide—then quickly narrowed again. “Lady Melindora. Forgive my rudeness. I did not recognize you in such … rustic attire. However, I must inform you that the emperor has not changed his mind regarding your petition. If you would let me know where I might send a message, then I will inform you the moment the emperor ends his mourning period.”

“No, Minister,” Melia said, voice cool, “you will open
these gates at once and see us to the emperor.” She made a subtle motion with her hand.

The blood drained from the Minister’s face. “Do not dare play your tricks on me. If you try, I will call on Misar, my god, and you will be taken before the Etherion for your action. Even you are not above the gods, Melindora.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll be very curious to hear what Misar has to say about this.”

The man gripped an amulet shaped like a gold feather that hung by a chain around his check. “I swear by Misar, I’ll do it!”

Melia folded her arms. “I’m waiting.”

The Minister squeezed the amulet, fingers going white, then shut his eyes as if to pray.

He screamed, then let go of the amulet and staggered back. The red imprint of the amulet was clear on his palm. It was already blistering.

“Misar has forsaken you!” Melia exclaimed. “What evil have you done to deserve this? No, I do not care to know. Let us in, or I’ll see to it that all the gods spurn you as Misar has done. None will heed your prayers, and when you die your bones will be left for the vultures to pick. There will be no salvation for you after death, Minister, only eternal loneliness and pain!”

Such was the force of Melia’s words that even Grace shuddered. The Minister babbled gibberish, then turned and shrieked something down a corridor. The red door slammed shut, and a moment later, with a grinding sound, one of the huge gilded doors swung open.

“This way everyone,” Melia said with a pleasant smile.