The Dark Remains (10 page)

These were the first words she had spoken that truly seemed to affect him. He blinked, his lips going slack. “I don’t know. I suppose … I just know things sometimes.”

Lirith studied him. Were he female, she would have probed, tested. But he was male—it couldn’t be. Yet she knew, on rare occasions, that there were men with some scant shred of talent.

His expression sharpened into a frown. “Quit looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“All hard and wondering. She’s always looking at me that way, like I’m something she’s got in a jar.”

“Whom do you mean?”

Teravian stood. “Can I go now? If you say I can go, then I can blame you if Tressa gets angry at me.”

Lirith took a step back, then nodded. “You may go.”

He brushed past her, leaving without another look. Lirith started to turn, to at least say good-bye, then froze as something caught her eye.

It was the pillow Teravian had been idly playing with. Somehow he must have pulled apart one of its seams, for spilling out of it was a mass of yarn. The tangled knot of threads seemed to seethe and expand even as she watched, and a sickness filled her. But it was an accident. He couldn’t have done it on purpose. Could he?

I just know things sometimes
.…

Lirith clasped a hand to her mouth and hurried from the chamber.

“Do you have any sense at all of what they’re up to, Melia?” Falken said, pacing back and forth before the sun-filled window of Ar-tolor’s library.

“Just a moment, Falken,” the amber-eyed lady murmured, not looking up from the wood-covered book open on the table before her. “I’m just getting to the good part.”

Durge craned his neck, attempting to peer surreptitiously over Lady Melia’s shoulder. He was curious what a person like Melia—who was so terribly wise—would choose to read.

“Don’t even bother trying, Durge,” Falken said with a snort. “It’s not as if she’s reading something interesting. I’m afraid it’s one of those newfangled romances the bards here in Ar-tolor have taken to penning.”

Durge frowned. “Romances? How could one compose an entire book about romances?”

“I’m not really sure,” Falken said. “But as far as I can tell, they’re all about long-haired knights in white armor who sing songs about flowers and slay dragons in order to win the hearts of wan maidens who don’t seem to do anything but pine about having to marry some rich king.”

Durge stroked his drooping mustaches. “These knights and maidens you describe sound demented.”

“Oh, they are,” Falken went on, grinning wolfishly now. “They’re always spouting poems about how gold and jewels mean nothing, how love is stronger than a thousand swords, and other positively absurd ideas. All I want to know is whatever happened to good stories—you know, ones where the dragon eats the suitor and the maiden forgets about him, marries a wealthy baron, gets fat, and has lots of kids?”

Durge nodded in approval. “I like that story.”

“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? But these romances”—Falken waved his hand at an entire shelf of books with ornate gold writing on their spines—“as far as I can tell, they contain nothing of any importance.”

“And what would you know about what is or isn’t important to a woman, dear?” Melia said pleasantly, her eyes still on the book. “The last time I counted, it had been a century since you had good fortune with a lady. Or has it been two?”

Falken clenched his hands into fists, sputtered something completely unintelligible, then turned and stamped back to the window.

Melia sighed, shut the book, and clasped it to her chest. “Now this,” she said, “is how a man should behave.”

“My lady …” Durge began. It was time to quit discussing modern literature and find out why Melia and Falken had called him there.

“Of course, dear,” Melia said, handing him the book. “You may borrow it. But don’t get any blood or food on it. And pay particular attention to page seventy-four. Only use more flower petals.”

Durge accepted the book in fumbling hands. He flipped through the stiff parchment pages, but the few words and pictures he glimpsed were far more strange and mysterious than anything he had ever read in one of his
tomes concerning the alchemical arts. The knight hastily set the book on a stack of others the moment Melia turned her back.

“Oh, quit sulking, Falken,” she said.

He didn’t turn away from the window. “It hasn’t been
that
long since I got lucky.”

“Of course, dear. I forgot to count the one-eyed fishwife in Gendarra.”

Falken turned, thrust his shoulders back, and snapped his gray tunic straight. “And thank you very much.”

Durge’s eyes bulged, but he stifled any urge to ask for further explanation.

“Now, to answer your question, Falken,” Melia said, folding her arms across the bodice of her silver-white kirtle. “I suppose I have as much of an idea of what they’re up to as you. For years they have whispered of his coming. And last Midwinter he was revealed.”

Falken rubbed his chin with his black-gloved hand. “Who would have thought they’d actually turn out to be right?”

“No, Falken,” Melia said, her tone stern. “Do not dismiss the power of the Witches simply because you do not comprehend it. Their magic is different than that of your runes, but it is every bit as old. The name
Sia
has been spoken in the lands of Falengarth as long as that of Olrig Lore Thief.”

“And both have been spoken longer than any of the names of the New Gods of Tarras, in case you had forgotten.”

Melia’s eyes flashed molten gold, and Durge took a step back, even though he was not the focus of her ire.

“I have hardly forgotten, Falken. The magic of Sia is ancient, and it is alien to me—although in some ways it does not disturb me as does the magic of runes, and often I wonder why that might be. All the same, I’ve heard it said there are some in the Witches who no longer speak
the name
Sia
, but that of my sister, Yrsaia the Huntress—who is, if it had slipped your mind in your heathen ways, one of the New Gods.”

Falken laughed. “Just because I haven’t discarded the Old Gods for every new mystery cult that comes along doesn’t mean I’m a heathen.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Melia ran small fingers over the spines of a shelf of books. “But sometimes it seems you have difficulty accepting anything that is new, Falken. Yet the world grows newer every day.”

The bard grunted, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “I will not argue the point with you. But there is one thing you must concede. Any power the Witches have comes not from Yrsaia, no matter what name they speak.”

Melia hesitated, then nodded. “It is true. My sister tells me that she has not heard any prayers from these Witches.”

“That’s because it’s a front. Sia makes people think of toothless hags casting curses, so they pick a fresh, pretty, and popular goddess as their mascot. But deep down they’re still the same old Witches. Some things
don’t
change, Melia.”

There was a silence, and at last Durge cleared his throat. “I do not pretend to understand what you both speak, but are not Ladies Aryn and Lirith witches? And certainly my mistress, Lady Grace, must be called a witch as well. Do you accuse them of some misdoing? If this is the case, then with all respect, I must take offense.”

Falken let out a deep, musical laugh. “Don’t get your greatsword just yet, Sir Knight. I don’t think duty will require you to lop our heads off. Of course our three good ladies have done no wrong. But it
is
because you know them so well that we asked you here this morning.”

“Certainly we don’t mean to say the Witches are evil,
dear,” Melia said. “Strange as they are, many of them are healers and do great good. But there is … something more.”

At these words the small hairs of Durge’s neck prickled. But that was foolish; he was a man of logic, not superstition. “May I ask that you speak plainly, Lady Melia?”

The small woman drew in a breath, then glanced at Falken. The bard’s face was grim now.

“For many years the Witches have foretold the coming of a man,” Falken said. “One whom they keep watch for.”

Durge shrugged. “Why is it our place to be concerned with one whom the Witches seek?”

Melia locked her eyes upon him. “Because the one whom the Witches seek is Travis Wilder.”

A short while later, Durge walked down a lonely corridor, away from the castle’s library. That morning he had donned only a gray tunic of light cloth against the summer day, but now he felt as cold and heavy as if he had strapped on his chain mail in the blue depths of winter.

For a quarter hour, he had listened as Melia and Falken spoke in low voices of the one called Runebreaker. But it wasn’t only the Witches who watched for him. Once before Durge had heard the name
Runebreaker
. The ancient dragon Sfithrisir, whom they had encountered in a high, barren valley of the Fal Erenn, had also referred to Goodman Travis as Runebreaker. When Durge had pointed this out, both Melia and Falken had given him tight-lipped nods.

Yet in all of this, Durge could find no logic. Why would witches and dragons have such great interest in Goodman Travis? Durge knew that Travis had certain … abilities. However, it was also true that these abilities seemed largely tied to the three Great Stones—the Imsari—none of which was in Travis’s possession any longer. What was more, Travis was no longer even on Eldh.

It is true
, Melia had said when Durge spoke these facts.
But if Travis were ever to return to Eldh, he might be in grave peril
.

But why?
Durge had asked.
What do they seek him for?

However, Melia and Falken had only exchanged solemn looks; if they had any notion why the Witches sought Runebreaker, they had not voiced it.

It’s important that you let us know if you hear anything, Durge
, Falken had said.
It might help us protect Travis
.

Durge’s mustaches had bristled.
I will not spy upon my mistresses
.

We’re not asking you to spy, Durge
, Melia had said. Then the diminutive lady had done a thing that had shocked him. She had gripped his hand, and she had looked up into his eyes with what could only have been described as a pleading expression.
But you will listen, won’t you? Promise me, Durge
.

Who was he to deny this woman anything? He had nodded.

I will listen, my lady. On my sword, I promise it
.

However, as Durge walked through the castle back to his chamber, he knew he would never hear anything of use to Melia and Falken. He had promised Lady Aryn he would remain in Ar-tolor, and remain he would. But he had said nothing about being near. Instead he would remain at a distance—a safe and proper distance.

It was better this way: to be present, but not to be seen. Just like the two ghosts he had glimpsed that foggy morning. They were sad reminders, yes, but they had no true power to affect or harm. They were merely shades of what had once been.

And you should be a shade as well, Durge of Stonebreak
.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the joints of his knuckles grind together. Maybe, before too long, he would be. He
pressed on alone through dust and gloom. This corridor was seldom trod—which was exactly his reason for choosing it.

A faint sound reached Durge’s ear—a soft scrabbling—and he came to a halt. He peered into the dimness, but though his eyes remained sharp, he could not make out a thing. Still, instinct told him he was not alone. His rough hand slipped to the knife at his belt.

“Show yourself, shadow,” he said.

A faint noise drifted on the air—like mirth, or perhaps like a song—and the hairs on Durge’s arms stood up. Was it the ghosts again, returning to remind him of what never could change? He took a step backward. As he did, something dropped down from the rafters and landed with a
plop
before him, looking like nothing so much as a great, gangly spider—a spider clad in green, with jangling bells on his cap and pointed shoes.

Durge let out his breath and let go of the knife. In a way he had been right; it had indeed been a ghost stalking him, only this was the still-living kind.

“Out of my way, Fool,” he rumbled.

Tharkis hopped from foot to foot, tapping the tips of his spindly fingers together, his perpetually crossed eyes looking at Durge in alternation.

Durge felt anger set fire to his veins, but he clenched his jaw and forced his blood to cool. It was Master Tharkis’s game to get a rise out of others, and Durge did not intend to hand him a victory. A king he might have been, but Durge knew things changed—that people changed. All Tharkis was at present was a nuisance.

“I said out of my way, Fool. Do not think I won’t remove you from my path if need be.”

Tharkis trembled in mock apprehension, the bells of his costume jingling. “Oh, dread knight, please spare me do—for news of your quarry I bring to you.”

Durge frowned. He knew it was dangerous even to listen to the fool’s words—they were crafted to baffle and befuddle—but all the same the question escaped him.

“What quarry do you mean?”

Tharkis grinned, displaying rotten teeth. “The spiders of course—the weavers of webs. Has the moon lady not sent you to follow their threads?”

“What do you know of that? Were you there in the library, listening to us?” Durge advanced, fist raised. “Tell me, Fool, or I’ll throttle it out of you.”

Tharkis scampered back a step. “No, no, fearsome knight, I heard not a thing. There’s no need for Fool’s poor neck to wring. But I know things, I do—I cannot say how. They come to me sometimes. They come to me now.”