The Dark Remains (5 page)

“It is late,” the queen said, “and I have much yet to do before sleep, so I will be direct. I have called a High Coven to meet here in Ar-tolor at the next dark of the moon.”

Aryn frowned. She had never heard of a High Coven before. However, by the sudden brilliance in her eyes, Lirith had. The dark-haired witch gripped her goblet in both hands.

“May I ask, sister, are we to be part of it?”

Ivalaine nodded. “It is my great hope that both you and your sister Aryn will choose to attend.”

“It is the first High Coven to be called in seven years,” Tressa said, beaming. “All our sisters shall be there.”

Lirith’s smoky lips curved in one of her mysterious smiles.

An unnamable excitement filled Aryn, and she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “But what
is
a High Coven?”

Tressa laughed softly. “Why, it’s a wondrous thing, my child. Witches from all the seven Dominions—and from beyond—are journeying to Ar-tolor even now. We shall all come together beneath the stars to weave a common web.”

“And what is to be discussed?” Lirith said.

Ivalaine moved to a silver basin that rested on a pedestal, her gown rustling like the wings of a bird. “Matters of great importance.”

“But what are they?” Aryn asked.

The queen did not turn around. “I believe that is enough for you to know at present. You will learn more at the coven.”

Lirith glanced at Aryn. Both knew when a meeting with the queen was over. Questions burned inside Aryn, but they would have to wait. They set their cups down, nodded to Tressa, then moved to leave the chamber.

“One more thing, sisters,” Ivalaine said, halting them at the door. “You have yet to tell me if you enjoyed your visit to the Mournish caravan.”

Aryn went stiff, and Lirith sucked in a sharp breath. Ivalaine still gazed into the basin of water, and a jolt of realization coursed through Aryn. The queen had no
enchanted mirror, but she had other means to see things. Aryn recalled that day when Ivalaine halted her and Grace in the corridors of Calavere and bid them to gaze into a basin just like this. It was there, in the water, that Aryn had seen the vision of herself riding a white horse, sword in hand, before a castle with seven towers.

Now the queen did look up, turning piercing eyes upon the two women. “It is said the magics of the Mournish are like dark seeds that can grow only into thorned flowers. You would do well to remember that. Sisters.”

Aryn and Lirith could only nod. Together they stepped through the door, into the passage beyond, leaving the queen to her work.

“Going so soon this time, are you, my lord?” the woman said in a sleepy voice, burrowing deeper beneath the bedcovers.

Durge only grunted as he sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cool against his bare feet. He drew in deep breaths as sweat dried on his naked back. Dawn was still an hour away, and steely air drifted through the window along with the soft, lonely call of a dove.

He shut his eyes, remembering. Ever were the doves her favorite. He would laugh at her when she threw grain on the ground for them in the morning. But as night fell, she would open all the windows of the manor and let their music fill the house. Back then he had never understood; he had thought it the most forlorn sound he had ever heard. Why had it taken him so many years to realize just how beautiful it was?

“Shall I expect you again this eventide, my lord?”

Durge opened his eyes. “You should never expect me.”

He stood, took his breeches from a chair, and pulled them on. Behind him, he heard Lesa sigh and roll over in bed.

He had found her not long after their arrival in Artolor. Lesa was a townswoman who worked sometimes as a maid to one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Her husband had died a year ago, but she had been left barren by the difficult birth of her second child and so no man in the town would have her for a wife. She was plain and dull, but good-hearted enough, and kind to her children on the few times he had seen her with them. Durge had liked that. Besides, she needed coin for bread as he needed a mistress. It worked well enough.

Durge cinched the waist of his breeches, then straightened. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in the murky depths of a bronze mirror. The mirror was short, so that he could not see above his shoulders, and for a moment it was like seeing a ghost.

With his face hidden, he did not look so different than he remembered looking in younger days. His arms were still hard, the thick hair on his chest still dark, and his belly had not gone to pudding as with many men his age. It was his hands that gave it away. They were rough, big-knuckled, etched with lines and scars. The hands of an old man.

He shrugged his gray tunic on over his head, belted it into place, then turned around. Lesa was sitting up in bed now, her snarled brown hair falling about her shoulders, watching him with small eyes. Her face was lined and battered beyond her years by a hard life, but her breasts were small and well shaped.

She hugged her arms around her knees beneath the covers. “When will you make me your lady, my lord?”

“I shall never make you my lady,” he said, and pulled his boots on.

She laughed and patted the bed beside her. “I’m your
lady here, I am. So solemn you seem. But you’re bold enough when you press yourself to me. Is that not enough for you?”

Durge laid three silver coins on a small table. “Buy some shoes for your children. I saw them barefoot in the town commons.” He moved to the door.

“I will, my lord,” she said. “Buy some shoes that is. Jorus bless you.”

Durge said nothing as he stepped through the door and shut it behind him.

The castle was quiet; most of Ar-tolor was still abed. He trod the passages back toward his chamber, but he did not hurry. This was one of his rare moments to himself, and it was proper to savor it. Over the last two decades, Durge had grown accustomed to being alone, and he did not find it a burden. There was so much that could be heard—so much that could be seen and felt—only in the stillness of solitude.

Not that he regretted the time he had spent with Aryn and Lirith. Above all else, a knight must have purpose. But then, that was part of his present difficulty, wasn’t it?

A knight needs someone to serve, but what need have they of your service here, Durge of Stonebreak?

He knew with the solidness of stone that it was time for him to leave, to go back to Embarr. Yesterday evening, upon their return to the castle, Aryn and Lirith had dashed off without a backward glance at Durge. But then, what use were somber knights when brilliant queens requested one’s attention?

Left to himself, Durge might have worked on his alchemical studies, but he had been unable to procure the proper supplies and equipment here. As far as he could tell, engineers and men of logic were as rare in Toloria as witches and blades of grass were common. So instead he had gone to Lesa. After the day’s events, he might rather have occupied his mind with his research, but it was good
to occupy one’s body as well, lest one or the other grow weak from neglect.

He paused before a window, gazing at the world beyond the glass. A fine mist rose from the ground, and all things—hills, sky, trees—were cast in shades of gray. Sometimes Durge preferred it this way: a world without color, filled only with shadows. Or was it simply that this was all he knew?

No, there
had
been color in his world once. In his mind, he pictured a beautiful young woman with eyes as brown and warm as honey. Only then the color of the woman’s eyes changed, so that they were no longer brown but a vivid sapphire blue.

And you are an old man, Durge of Stonebreak
.

But that wasn’t true, either. For he didn’t always feel old. Sometimes, when Lady Aryn was near, he almost felt young again, full of hope and vigor. But that was a foolish fancy, and he knew it.

Strong as stone, you present yourself, Sir Knight
, a remembered voice hissed in his mind,
and yet your heart is tender and weak with feelings for another … if only you were young and handsome enough to deserve her
.

It was cruel, but dragons spoke truth. Was that not what Falken had said? The ancient creature called Sfithrisir knew his heart better than he did.

As did another …

Somehow, in the Barrens, when he and Lirith huddled out of the soundless fury of the storm while Falken ventured into the ruin that had once been the Keep of Fire, the witch had touched his hand, and she had come close to him. Perilously close. He had seen his past play out while she watched, as if performed by actors on a stage, and all the deepest secrets of his heart had been laid bare.

In the time since, he and Lirith had never discussed that moment. However, he could see the knowledge in her eyes each time she and Aryn were near. Which was
all the more reason why it was best that he return to Embarr. Aryn could never know of his feelings—
would
never know. She had burdens enough to bear without having a love she could never return placed upon her.

If only Durge could find a way to take his leave of the baroness without causing her harm. In her innocence, it seemed she had grown fond of his care and protection. It was a fondness Durge knew must not be mistaken for something deeper. All the same, to leave her might cause her distress, and that was something he could not do.

With a sigh—and no answer to his dilemma—the knight turned from the window.

As he did, he nearly collided with a trio of young women. Durge did not know any of them by name, although he recognized them as ladies of the queen’s court. What had caused them to rise before the dawn? Then he noticed their wind-snarled hair, the dirt on their hands and cheeks, and the bits of dry grass and twigs that clung to their gowns, and he was certain they had not just risen but instead were only now going to their beds.

He nodded to them, and the young women burst into giggles. They bent their heads, whispering as they glanced at the knight, and despite himself he felt his cheeks grow hot. This brought more peals of mirth. Then, clutching each other, the three ran down the hall.

Durge glowered. He appreciated women of strength. His noble mistress, Lady Grace, was a woman of power. But of this—these idle games of spells and mischief—he did not approve. Would that Aryn not become such as these women. Although he doubted that would happen. Her teacher, the Lady Lirith, was not given to frivolity, and for that Durge respected her.

All the same, Durge wondered if perhaps Sir Beltan wasn’t onto something. There were too many women in this castle with too many secrets, all watching and waiting. It was like the card he had drawn from the crone’s
deck: the woman gazing down from the moon, beautiful but watching.

He had been right about the Mournish; they were indeed a queer folk. Going to them had been unwise, for the old woman’s words had seemed to upset both Aryn and Lirith.

And what of her words to you, Durge of Stonebreak?

But it was more trickery, that was all. In these last months Durge had seen wonders, yes, but they had been wrought by the hands of gods, not men. He did not believe in such human magic.

And yet magic shall be the death of you
.…

An icy breath of air coiled around Durge, and he shivered as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Had the window behind him swung open? If so, this was a wind out of the depths of winter, not the gentle days of late summer. He turned back toward the window to shut it and for the second time that morning saw a ghost.

Man of logic though he was, he knew at once those shades were more than a mirror’s tricks of light and shadow. They stood before the window—which was still tightly shut—as colorless and translucent as the mist beyond. She was a maid of twenty, lovely if far from perfect, with an overlarge chin and wide eyes, her hair the stuff of shadows. Before her stood a tiny child, his mouth a pretty bud. His hair was as light as hers was dark. They had never known where he had gotten it, for both of them had hair of brown.

Durge’s heart had stopped beating. This was a stillness akin to death. The two seemed neither sad nor happy. They only stared forward, their expressions without emotion. Did they even see him? Then her eyes met his, and there was pale recognition in them. She opened her mouth, but no sound issued forth.

Durge staggered back. It felt as if the blood had been drained from his veins by a cold knife.

“Go away,” he croaked. “I am an old man now. Will you not let me be free?”

Tears coursed down his cheeks, steaming in the frigid air. Now the woman’s expression seemed sorrowful. She reached for him, but at that moment the rising sun broke through the mist outside. Its light pierced the substance of the ghosts, and in an instant they were gone.

Lirith woke with a gasp.

She sat up in bed, her nightgown damp and clammy with sweat. Something had awakened her—but what was it? She saw only mundane objects in the colorless light that filtered through the narrow window: a chair, a table, the wardrobe. Quickly, she shut her eyes, gazing with another sort of vision.

At once she saw the shimmering web of magic that wove itself over and among all things, brilliant with color where all had been dull gray before. The warmth of the Weirding flooded her, filling her with reassurance. Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps it was only her dream that disturbed her. Why it had come to her, she didn’t know. It had been so long since she had thought of that place, that time. Yet she could smell the heavy smoke of incense, hear the clink of beads and harsh laughter drifting on steamy air as if she were still there.

Dance, my dark one. Dance if you ever hope to be free. What a beautiful thing you are, as lovely as the night itself. Yes, you see it now—this is the only way
.…

Despite the comforting tendrils of the Weirding that coiled around her, Lirith shivered. What had made her
think of things so long and far ago? But perhaps it was not such a mystery.

You flee your fate. Yet you cannot escape it, for it lies within you
.