The Dark Remains (11 page)

Durge lowered his fist. Something about the fool altered even as he watched; the mad grin faded from Tharkis’s lips, and his wandering eyes grew distant.

“What do you mean, Fool? How do you know things?”

Tharkis pressed his thin body against the stone wall. “I think … I think it is part of what was done to me.” He licked his lips, whispering now. “There’s so much—it’s all right there. I can see everything. The eyes … the eyes are in the trees, and the shadows are reaching out for me. I fall, and my horse runs, and I run … but the shadows are too swift. They have me.”

Durge stared at the fool. Only dimly did it register on him that Tharkis was no longer speaking in verse.

The fool coiled his bony arms around his skull. “There’s too much, too much. I can see everything that happened, but it’s all in pieces, like a thousand broken mirrors I can’t put back together. Only the rhymes … only the rhymes make sense. Only they fit together. The shadows are in my head.…”

Tharkis went stiff, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land. Durge hesitated, then reached out for him.

A bony hand batted him back. The fool sprang away in a neat flip. His crossed eyes were bright again, and his grin had returned, splitting his gaunt face from side to side.

“You can’t catch me, my doddering knight, for on my feet I’m far too light.”

The fool had changed for a moment—he had seemed more like a small, frightened child than a mad prankster. But whatever had happened, the moment was gone, and Durge had had quite enough.

“And under my feet you’ll be pressed, Fool, if you don’t move—
now!
”

Durge barreled forward, and Tharkis was forced to jump into the air and turn a somersault to avoid being trampled. There came a dissonant chiming as the fool landed behind him, but Durge kept moving. Tharkis’s shrill voice called out behind him.

The words faded on the dusty air, but Durge did not turn to reply. Instead he shut his ears to ghosts and madness, and strode away down the corridor.

In all the activity of the three days between the first meeting of the High Coven and Prime Incant—when the Witches would weave a new Pattern to last them until their next meeting—Lirith was almost able to forget about the dreams. And the tangle she had glimpsed in the Weirding.

This was only the second High Coven she had attended since her entry into the Witches. The first had been seven years ago, held in the castle of Baron Darthus in southern Toloria—where it was said that the old baron knew quite well his young wife was a witch, and that he was more than pleased by the fact, given the simples she brewed which had brought new vigor to his loins. That had been in the spring of Lirith’s twentieth winter, and only months after she had fled the Free City of Corantha, walked on bare, bloody feet to Toloria, and never looked back.

At that High Coven she had been more a mouse than a novitiate: small, brown, and wide-eyed, pressed into corners while she watched those of greater strength and cunning prowl around her. But she had paid attention, and she had learned.

It was less than a year later when she caught the eye of Lord Berend of Arafel, one of Baron Darthus’s counts. Six months later they were wed—despite Lirith’s lack of
history and the protests of Berend’s sister, who fancied herself countess and did not care for competition.

When Berend died just over a year later, it was whispered—and mostly by Berend’s sister—that it was a potion concocted by Lirith that had done the trick. However, while it was true that Lirith had used some small charms to gain Berend’s notice, it was not by magic that he had loved her, and not by magic that he had died. While Lirith could not say she had truly returned Berend’s love, she had felt affection for the count, and she had never been cruel to him.

After Berend’s death, his sister had petitioned Queen Ivalaine for possession of the estate, but the queen had refused and Lirith remained countess. After the count’s sister followed her brother to the grave the following winter—there had ever been weak hearts in that lineage—no one seemed to recall that Lirith had not been born to the position. She had ruled for several years, and her subjects had cared for her.

Then, two years ago, when Queen Ivalaine summoned her to Ar-tolor, Lirith had gone willingly. She had left care of the estate to Berend’s nephew, and so the count’s sister finally got what she had wished for—only she had not lived long enough to enjoy it, as happened often with those who were consumed by desire.

In the time since, Lirith had thought little of Count Berend or their estate in southern Toloria. This was where she belonged. In Ar-tolor, in the service of the Witch Queen, attending a High Coven.

And this time Lirith did not hide in corners. Instead, she sought out those witches of most interest to her, to speak about herb lore or the art of scrying, or ways to Touch the Weirding and weave it in new patterns. It was no chance that many whom she went to were the eldest of the Witches: the crones and hags. It was they who held the deepest knowledge and the most ancient secrets. However, it was not lost on Lirith that she was one of the
few younger witches to seek out and speak with her elders.

“But I don’t
want
to know what they know,” Nonna, a witch from the Dominion of Brelegond, said to Lirith in a whining voice. “They’re all so
ugly.
”

This was the first evening after the High Coven began, at the meeting of the small coven to which Lirith had been assigned, which contained seven witches her own age, one from each of the seven Dominions.

Lursa, a solemn-eyed witch from Embarr, let out a sigh. “I fear no one told me it was a requirement of wisdom to be pretty. I suppose I shall have to color my lips and comb my hair before I can learn another spell.”

Unexpected laughter escaped Lirith. She winked at Lursa, and the plain-faced witch gave a shy smile in return. However, some of the other women shifted uncomfortably; not everyone disagreed with Nonna.

“It was the hags they took first,” one of the witches said in a quiet voice.

The other six turned to gaze at the speaker. Her name was Adalyn, and she came from the Dominion of Eredane. Earlier that evening, they had listened to Adalyn’s bone-chilling tale: how she had escaped from Eredane just after last Midwinter, and how black knights who served a nameless baron had begun riding across the land, murdering all witches, runespeakers, and priests—or anyone who was accused of being one.

“I think they were the easiest to see and catch,” Adalyn went on. “The ancient ones, the crones. Soon it seemed as if any old woman who muttered under her breath or who owned a cat was put to fire. At first we were silent; it was not we who were burning. But soon they came after anyone who was rumored to be a witch. Many of my coven sisters were … not able to flee as I did. Maybe if we had stood against the black knights earlier, when they took the old ones, we might have put a stop to it.”

After that, there was no more talk about hags. But
Lirith saw the hard light in the eyes of Nonna and some of the others, and she knew Adalyn’s tale had only strengthened their dislike of the elder ones.

The next two days brought more meetings and more witches. Lirith greeted all with interest. While most of the time was focused on the exchange of learning, there was also no lack of discussion about how the Pattern would be designed at Prime Incant. Many spoke of Yrsaia, and how her name should be woven into the pattern alongside Sia’s—or perhaps, some boldly stated, atop it. Others held that the time was coming when the Witches would no longer just watch the Warriors of Vathris but would begin to work actively against them.

These rumors troubled Lirith, but not so much as a few whispered fragments she caught.

 … that he is already among us …

 … to stand against him, we must …

 … but I say the end is closer than we …

Always the whispers abruptly ceased when Lirith drew close. But she knew the whispers started up again as soon as she was out of earshot, and she knew what at least one of them would be.

It is said she traveled with him
.…

On the second day of the coven, just as silver twilight fell, Lirith strolled along one of the castle’s high battlements, taking a rare moment to herself to consider all she had learned. Insects hummed drowsily, singing the summer away.

She was just about to return inside when motion below caught her eye. A small side door of the castle opened, and a figure clad in a drab brown cloak and hood stumbled out—a woman by her slender form. The woman looked back over her shoulder as if at the one who had pushed her, but the door slammed shut. She stumbled forward. Then, as if sensing eyes upon her, she looked up, and the hood of her cloak fell back. Even in the dim light, Lirith could make out the pale oval of her face, framed by dark curls.

Below, Cirynn searched back and forth, but Lirith stepped into a shadow. At last the young woman who had been Maiden lowered her gaze. She stumbled down the path that led from the castle, weaving left and right, as if she did not know where she was going.

Lirith didn’t know how—perhaps it was simply experience—but somehow she knew exactly where Cirynn was heading, even if the scheming young woman did not know herself. She sighed. Lirith, of all people, knew what a brutal and hardening place a brothel could be.

Sia watch over her
, she prayed silently, then turned and stepped back into the castle.

The next morning, just after dawn, Lirith rose and went in search of Aryn—of whom she had not seen so much as an eyelash in the last two days. She found the baroness just leaving Tressa’s chamber.

“Our new Maiden is doing wonderfully,” the red-haired witch said with a motherly smile. “She will be thoroughly prepared for her role tomorrow evening.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Lirith said.

When the door shut behind them, leaving the two alone in the corridor, Lirith grinned and squeezed Aryn’s hand.

“You’re marvelous,” she said.

Aryn gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know about that. But I
have
managed to keep my head from exploding, despite all the things Sister Tressa has stuffed into it. I had no idea there were so many rules to follow just to be a Maiden.”

Lirith nodded. “I’ve heard it’s much simpler to be Crone. But then, by the time you’ve made it to that age, I don’t think you want a lot of younger witches telling you what to do.”

“I should think not,” Aryn said.

They walked for a time past sun-dappled windows. Lirith spoke of what she had done at the coven, and Aryn described the things she had learned in her studies. At
last they made their farewells in the castle’s entry hall. However, just as they began to part ways, a woman stepped through the main doors of the castle.

She was a witch, that much was certain, although Lirith could not recall seeing her at the coven. And she was certainly striking enough to remember. Her dark eyes were slightly tilted, and her midnight hair marked by a single lock of pearl. The witch passed the two women, her multicolored robe fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.

“Good morrow, sister,” the witch said, nodding to Aryn. Then she moved through an archway and was gone.

Lirith looked at the baroness. “Who was that?”

“Her name is Sister Mirda.”

Lirith had not heard the name before. “Is she one of Liendra’s group?”

“No, I don’t think so. At the first meeting of the coven, she wished for Sia to bless me.”

Lirith considered this. Surely no one from Liendra’s faction would impart such a blessing. However, Lirith knew the great majority of the witches in the Dominions by name if not by sight. Only she had never heard the name Mirda before.

“Maybe she’s a friend of Ivalaine’s,” Aryn said with a shrug.

Lirith sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure Ivalaine has any true friends among the Witches. Many respect her, of course. But she has made it her place to stay a step removed from the others, to be a source of unity when there is dissension.”

“Do you think she can remain that way? She tries to balance herself among all views, but Liendra is not the only one who wants to know what Ivalaine believes.”

Lirith could not disagree. But as for what Ivalaine truly thought—that was a mystery that would have to wait.

Kissing Lirith quickly on the cheek, Aryn turned and dashed down a corridor, looking like nothing so much as a dark-haired girl, although this coming winter would be
her twentieth. Lirith smiled, then turned to make her own way through the castle.

This time it came utterly without warning. She had not even been using the Touch, but it was there all the same, undulating in the corner of the entry hall: a tangled mass of threads. Lirith’s mouth opened to scream, but no air passed into or out of her lungs. Even as she watched, the seething knot seemed to reach out hungrily, drawing more shimmering threads into itself. They dimmed to dull gray as they merged with the tangle. Then Lirith felt the first few tugs on her being. Memories flooded her. Once before she had been pulled like this toward a destination that would devour her.

Dance, my little grackle. Ah, but you are not so little anymore, and you can hide your beauty no longer. Come dance, and they will shower you with gold. Dance!

A moan escaped her lips, and Lirith began to sway back and forth. The seething of the knot quickened, as if excited by her movements. A gray thread spun out, reaching for her.

“My lady?”

The far corner of the hall was empty; the tangle was gone. Before Lirith stood a serving maid—barely more than a girl—a fearful look on her dirt-smudged face.