The Dark Remains (14 page)

As she had at the last meeting, Ivalaine appeared unshaken by the interruption. Her icy eyes were tinted by the light of the witchfire, turning them the color of a cold, clear ocean. “I do not understand, Sister Liendra. What I am doing is what has always been done. I am calling for the Pattern to be woven.”

“Yes, the Pattern.” Liendra lifted a slender hand. “You seem almost in a hurry to get to it. Are you so afraid to let us speak before the weaving begins?”

Whispers coursed through the gathering, like a wind through a grove of trees.

Ivalaine spread her hands. “And what is there to speak of before the weaving, Sister Liendra? Will not all threads—and all voices—be bound into the fabric of the Pattern?”

“That is true,” Liendra said. Now the witch gave up all pretense of speaking to Ivalaine and turned to face the gathering. “And yet, there are some matters that might be uttered before the weaving … matters which, if voiced, could well color some of those threads before they are woven into the Pattern.” Liendra turned again toward the rostrum. “Is that not what you seek to avoid in your haste, Matron?”

“I beg you speak these matters, sister,” Ivalaine said. “There is nothing to be feared in words.”

The queen’s voice was cool and even as always, but Lirith noticed that she stood stiffly, and that a note of color had touched her milky cheeks.

“I would not be so certain of that,” Liendra said, her
words rising with the incense on the still air. “But I will defer to your desire for speed; indeed, I would see the Pattern woven quickly as well. And so I will ask but one question. Why have
they
been allowed into the castle while our High Coven proceeds?”

“And who is it you speak of, sister?”

By the renewed hiss of whispering that filled the grove, all knew exactly who Liendra spoke of. However, the witch voiced the names anyway, her lip curling just slightly.

“I speak of Melindora Nightsilver and Falken Blackhand. Their reputation for meddling is well-known, as is the company they keep. For what other reason can they have come here but to spy on us? It would have been wiser to turn them away.”

“Forgive me, sister,” Ivalaine said, her voice honed to a knife edge. “I did not know you were unfamiliar with the laws of hospitality that hold sway in these Dominions. I will explain them to you. When folk who have done no wrong beg hospitality, it must be granted.”

Liendra winced under the force of Ivalaine’s words. If anyone had forgotten that Ivalaine was queen as well as Matron, they remembered it at that moment. A witch might question Ivalaine’s decisions as Matron, but never her decisions as ruler of Ar-tolor. However, Liendra smoothed her robe and spoke again.

“You say you must grant hospitality to those who have done no wrong?” Even from a distance Lirith could glimpse the dangerous smile on Liendra’s face. “But did not the bard Falken, by his own hand, bring about the fall of Malachor? All the tales say it is so, and he has never denied it. I would say the murder of an entire kingdom might count as
doing wrong.
”

Ivalaine opened her mouth to reply, but Liendra was swifter. “No, Matron, you are wise in your decision to rebuke me. Indeed, I have delayed the weaving of the Pattern far too long. Please forgive me.”

With a nod to the queen, Liendra returned to her position near the center of the gathering. On the rostrum, anger glinted in Ivalaine’s eyes. While Liendra’s words had sounded contrite, they had cut more deeply than any accusation. Cool needles pricked at Lirith’s flesh. It was difficult to express in words, but at that moment she sensed a change in the tenor of the Witches. It was subtle, yet fundamental, like a shift in the direction of a wind. Something had just happened.

Before Lirith could consider it further, Aryn and Senrael moved forward to join Ivalaine. They would perform the High Incant now. Lirith took the chance to hurry to her place.

By the time she stood with a group of witches her own age, the High Incant had begun. With twisted hands, Senrael sprinkled water from her silver bowl. Aryn had unwrapped her bundle and from it had taken three candles, which she now placed on an altar. One candle was tall, one half-burnt, and the last a mere stump. With a flaming brand produced seemingly from nowhere, Ivalaine lit the candles.

Lirith held her breath as she watched the High Incant. Usually a young witch had weeks to prepare for her role as Maiden; Aryn had had days. However, Tressa seemed to have done her work well. Aryn made no mistakes as she moved through the prescribed steps of the incant.

Yet it’s more than that, sister
.

Never had Lirith seen the baroness so confident before. Her bearing was straight, even regal, and her voice was clear and strong. Usually Aryn went to great lengths to keep her withered right arm concealed, but not tonight. A few of the younger witches uttered mocking whispers, but the girls were quickly hushed by their companions.

Lirith smiled. She did not know the source of Aryn’s newfound assurance, but she was glad for it.

The High Incant was nearly over. On the rostrum,
Aryn rang a small silver bell. She snuffed out the tallest candle, and at the same time Ivalaine extinguished the middle candle and Senrael the shortest. Then the three spoke in unison, their voices melding into one.

“Let the Pattern be woven.”

It began in an instant. All were anxious to see what shape the Pattern would take. The air around Lirith tingled with magic. She shut her eyes, and she could see them: two hundred shimmering threads spinning in all directions. For a moment she hesitated—would it be there, lurking in the corners? But she saw no sign of the tangle, and she let the glittering threads draw her in.

That was when the voices began. At first they were faint and fragmentary, the shards of whispers.

 … but can you … yes, I … let me come to … so many, and so beautiful … I am here …

Lirith knew many of the voices belonged to the younger witches, entranced by the mystery of what was happening. But gradually, as the initial wonder quieted, older and stronger voices began to speak, each spun by a glowing thread.

It is said … I have seen the signs of … and Sia has ever been our … can it be that the time is close at … and the Hammer will strike against the Anvil, while all is caught … it is the Huntress that … but who are we to …

So far there had been only chaos in the movement of the threads, but all at once—as if of their own will—several strands joined, braiding themselves together. At the same moment, like the sounding of a horn, a voice rang out.

He has come!

A thrill coursed through Lirith. Before she could form the word with her mind, a hundred other threads whispered it.

Runebreaker
.

Now the voices grew louder, coming more swiftly and
from all directions. Often one voice spoke alone, but with each passing moment more and more threads bound with the others, and disparate voices were merged as one.

I have seen … we have seen him. The rune of peace, broken under his hand. It is said … the gray men themselves did turn against him. He can only … devastation. But I … and I … and we believe it must be so. Our seers foretold it … yes, we have seen it again. By his hand all the world …

A dozen threads wove together at once, and now the sound was like a chorus of trumpets.

Runebreaker will destroy Eldh!

Fear tinged Lirith’s exhilaration. She pulled her own thread back, keeping it separate from the others, then searched for Aryn’s thread, wondering if she should speak to her. But she could not see the young woman’s strand in the undulating tempest of the Pattern.

And what did it matter? The Witches had made up their minds that Travis Wilder was their enemy; that much was already clear from the Pattern. Lirith let her strand be pulled back into the weaving. The mass of threads was still largely chaotic, but not everywhere; in places, the strands had fallen into place, binding together as more witches began to speak of like mind.

Questions careened in all directions, and answers as well.

What of the men of the bull?

The followers of Vathris have always craved blood
.

But would they seek the destruction of all the world?

Surely he is their Hammer, the one who they speak will bring about the Final Battle
.

Yes, so we have heard. They believe that when they fight this Final Battle they will lose, but that they will die glorious deaths, and afterward they will dwell with their god for all eternity. Madness, it is madness
.

But what of the Anvil?

Against the Anvil the Hammer strikes, and all are
caught between. What else can it mean? They seek to crush all that is alive
.

But who is this one?

We do not know. We know him only. But the Anvil cannot be far from the Hammer
.

We must stop them!

In large places the threads of the Pattern had aligned themselves. The voices that spoke out against Runebreaker, and the ones called Hammer and Anvil, were nearly deafening now. But suddenly, from the shadowy edge of the weaving, came other voices: coarse and rough, but deep with wisdom.

It is not Sia’s way to do harm to others, even those who would harm us
.

Yes, those who do wrong will work their own ends. An evil thread has a way of turning back on the spinner
.

We must not let ourselves be caught in their folly. If the Warriors seek blood, then it is their own blood they will find. And if Runebreaker desires to destroy the world, it is his own destruction he will meet. That is Sia’s way
.

These words were like a balm to Lirith’s spirit, as cool and sustaining as a draught of water from a deep well. However, even as these voices spoke, others rose up, overwhelming them.

Sia dwells only in the past. We must think of what is to come. Those who cannot move forward must be left behind
.

It is Yrsaia who stands for us now. If Sia is not dead, then she is dying
.

We are not some band of hags cackling over toads in a cauldron
.

With these words, a great swell rose in the weaving. A number of threads—the dimmest ones, and the oldest—were pushed to the very fringes of the Pattern. They were not gone, but they had been relegated to the edge—from which they might later be easily plucked without damaging
the rest of the garment. Weak protests arose but were quickly strangled.

Sorrow filled Lirith. This was a mistake; they should not forget the old ones. However, the Pattern was beginning to take shape, and there was no resisting it. Thread after thread fell into place.

We must seek out Runebreaker
.

Yes, he cannot escape us, no matter where he has gone
.

We will stop him before he can cause more harm
.

He will never destroy the world, for we will destroy him first, and the Warriors as well
.

RUNEBREAKER MUST BE SLAIN!

These last words rumbled with the force of thunder. More and more threads flocked to the center. At the very heart of the Pattern shone a brilliant green thread around which nearly all the others were woven. It was Liendra’s strand—Lirith was sure of it. But where was Ivalaine’s?

Few single strands remained. Lirith’s was one of them, and there was Aryn’s bright blue strand, not far from a pearly thread that, after a moment, Lirith sensed to be Ivalaine’s. So there was hope yet; not all felt Liendra’s burning thirst for murder. Then, even as she watched, Ivalaine’s thread shuddered and moved to the center; the queen’s strand was lost in the Pattern.

Despair filled Lirith. There was no point in resisting so many voices. Ivalaine had no choice—not if she wished to remain Matron—nor did the rest of them. Although she hated what it was becoming, the Pattern would be woven, and Lirith could either be part of it or be nothing. She started to spin her thread out toward the center of the Pattern.

Caution, sisters. There is peril even in doing good
.

Lirith halted. This voice was low and gentle, yet filled with a quiet strength that somehow cut across the shrillness.

If we go to war, then are we not warriors? If we destroy
,
then are we not destroyers? If we are to be the healers and the preservers of the world, then let us heal and preserve. Let us seek this Runebreaker, yes, and let us watch him, that we might find a way from preventing his fate from coming to pass. But let us do no harm with our own hands
.

Whose voice was this? Lirith didn’t know, but the words filled her with a shard of new belief. She sensed anger and resistance from the center of the Pattern, but the few remaining threads aligned themselves with the new voice. Lirith hurried to do the same, and as she let her thread bind with the others she sensed Aryn there as well.

They were not many; they formed barely a scrap of cloth compared to the great tapestry that was the Pattern. But now that they were bound as one, their threads could not be denied. The resistance from the center ceased, and the new strand was woven into the Pattern. Around her, a single voice spoke in grand, resonating unison, and only as it sounded did Lirith realize her own voice was part of it.

By our hands Runebreaker will not die. But we will seek him, and we will capture and hold him. We will not let him harm himself or the world
.

There was a chime, like the ringing of a bell. Lirith’s eyes flew open. Once again she stood in the garden, two hundred witches around her. All wore looks of awe that Lirith knew mirrored her own.

On the rostrum, Ivalaine set down the silver bell. For a moment the queen seemed to sway on her feet. What had it cost her when she joined the Pattern and Liendra’s strand? However, before Lirith could wonder more, Ivalaine’s face grew hard, as if hewn of marble. She drew herself up and spoke in a crystalline voice.

“The Pattern is complete.”

Immediately, witches began to leave the gardens, their green robes merging with the shadows between the trees, leaving only moonbeams in their wake. Many of the
witches would depart Ar-tolor that night, and nearly all would be gone by tomorrow’s sunset, journeying back to their homelands. How long would it be until they all wove together again? Yet that was the purpose of the Pattern—to bind them all together even when they were apart.