by Mark Anthony
These words filled Aryn with awe and dread, and the amethyst tumbled from her hands, cracking as it struck the floor. It didn't matter; she had heard enough. The prophecies were true. The Warriors of Vathris would come, they would march to the Final Battle. And they would be defeated.
But how can any of this possibly make a difference if they're doomed to lose?
“There you are, sister,” said a warm voice, snapping her back to the present. “I thought I might find you here.”
Aryn looked up to see Mirda walking along the battlement. The witch wore only a light cloak against the cold, and her multihued gown fluttered in the wind. Aryn smiled as the elder witch halted beside her, then her smile faded.
“What is it, sister?” Mirda said.
“I don't know. I think, despite everything that's happened, I still wanted to believe it was all just a story. But it's not a story, is it? The Final Battle is coming, if it hasn't already begun.” Aryn pointed. “Look—more warriors ride to the castle even now.”
Mirda sighed. “You're right, sister. It isn't simply a story, much as you or I might wish it were. There are dark times ahead of us, but there is yet hope that we will find light on the other side.” A smile touched her lips. “And are you so certain it is a group of warriors who rides to the castle now? Your eyes are keen, but you have sharper senses.”
Aryn shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch. Swift as a sparrow, she let her consciousness fly along the threads of the Weirding toward the band of riders. She could see them far more clearly than before, outlined in shimmering green . . .
Aryn gasped as her eyes flew open. “We have to find Lirith at once.”
Mirda nodded, her smile gone.
As it turned out, Lirith found them first, coming upon them as they rushed down a corridor. Aryn met her dark eyes and saw the knowledge in them.
“You already know,” Aryn said. “You've had a vision, haven't you?”
Lirith nodded. “It's Queen Ivalaine. I saw her in my mind. She'll reach the castle in minutes.”
Aryn's chest grew tight. “Do you think she knows about us? About our—?” She didn't dare speak the words shadow coven.
Mirda started down the corridor. “Come, sisters. Let us hope we can meet the queen before she takes an audience with King Boreas.”
When they reached the massive set of doors that led to the great hall, Aryn let out a breath of relief. The doors were open. She picked up the hem of her gown and started toward them.
“Now that's a funny sight,” said a sardonic voice just to Aryn's left. “I thought witches were supposed to be so mysterious and powerful, but you look more like three field mice who've just seen the shadow of a hawk.”
Aryn pressed a hand to her chest. A shadow separated itself from the dimness of an alcove and stalked toward her.
“Prince Teravian!” she said, and surprise gave way to annoyance.
A smirk crossed his face, marring its handsomeness. “That was fabulous. I thought you were going to faint.”
She gave him a stiff bow. “Anything to please you, Your Highness. Shall I fall and crack my head open on the stones for your further amusement?”
He rolled his eyes. “Gods, Aryn. I thought you had learned how to take a joke.”
“Perhaps it would help if you actually learned how to tell one, Your Highness,” Lirith said, moving closer. “You seem to subscribe to a rather abnormal definition of humor. I can mix a potion that will cure you of that affliction, if you like.”
Teravian grinned. “Now that's funny.”
Aryn gave Lirith a grateful look. The dark-eyed witch had a deft way with the prince. Of course, the fact that he had a crush on her certainly helped. Aryn wished she was as good at dealing with him, especially since he was soon to be her husband. True, they had made strides in their relationship—Teravian had even helped her on one occasion. However, conversations like this were still the norm rather than the exception, and in the last week he had seemed more sullen and solitary than usual.
Aryn decided to start over. “What are you doing here, Your Highness?”
He scowled. “You know perfectly well why I'm here. Queen Ivalaine will ask to see me—she always does. I was fostered at her court, after all.”
Mirda gave him a sharp look. “And how did you know the queen was coming?”
A startled look crossed his face, but it was replaced so quickly by anger that Aryn wasn't certain she had seen it.
“Why bother asking me?” he said, glaring at the elder witch. “Can't you just use a spell to pick apart my brain and find the answer for yourself?”
Mirda gazed at him with her wise eyes.
Teravian looked away first. “I'm going to wait with my father.” He turned and strode into the great hall—so swiftly he didn't notice as something fell to the floor. Aryn bent to retrieve it. It was a glove; he must have had a pair tucked into his belt. Except why had he been carrying gloves inside the castle?
Aryn didn't care. She would return it to him later. “Every time I think maybe he's not so awful as I thought, he does something to prove me wrong.”
“Do not judge him too harshly, sister,” Mirda said, touching Aryn's shoulder. “There is much that troubles him.”
“Yes, but what? He's been acting strangely lately. More strangely, I mean. I often see him riding out of the castle alone. I think he's up to something.”
Lirith gave a rich laugh. “I believe the prince is always up to something. It's his nature.” She glanced at Mirda. “But Aryn is right. He is changed of late, and his power is growing. He seems able to disappear into shadows at will, and I would wager a month of maddok he's weaving a spell of illusion to do it.”
Mirda gazed after the prince. “In the end, he may be stronger than all of us.” She glanced at Aryn. “Or nearly all. However, he will not come into the true fullness of his power until he is a man.”
Aryn frowned. “But the prince is eighteen now. Surely that's old enough to be considered a man.”
“I do not speak of his age,” Mirda said.
Lirith raised an eyebrow. “I see. But he is a prince. Any number of bold young women in the castle would be glad to make themselves available to him. I'm surprised he has not already lost his maidenhead.”
“Perhaps he knows what it will make of him,” Mirda said.
Before Aryn could ask what that meant, one of the king's guards pounded down the corridor and dashed into the great hall. Moments later, Queen Ivalaine appeared around a corner, accompanied by a pair of knights. She still wore her mud-stained riding gown, and her flaxen hair was tangled from wind. Whatever her business here was, it must be urgent indeed.
Ivalaine strode swiftly down the corridor, her pale eyes fixed on the doors of the great hall. It seemed she would walk right by the three women.
“Your Majesty, please!” Aryn gasped.
Ivalaine hesitated, then turned to look at her. The queen's eyes were feverish, and they darted about, not focusing on anything for more than a moment.
“Do not approach me again,” Ivalaine said, her voice flat and cold. Her hands twitched against her gown; her fingernails were dirty, worried down to the quick. “I have nothing to say to any of you. I come here for one and for one only.”
Aryn felt Lirith go stiff beside her. “But, sister, we ask only that—”
“Do not call me that ever again,” Ivalaine hissed. “I am no one's sister anymore. Nor am I Matron. Though perhaps, if it is not too late, if I have not ruined everything with my folly, I may still be a mother.”
With that the queen strode into the great hall. The doors shut with a boom like thunder, leaving the three women to stare in astonishment.
That night, Aryn hoped to get another chance to speak with Ivalaine at supper. However, the seat at the high table to King Boreas's left remained empty; there was no sign of the queen anywhere in the great hall. Or of Prince Teravian, not that his absence was a surprise. He rarely took the seat to Boreas's right these days, t
hough it was always reserved for him.
The king sat in the center of the high table, glowering at no one in particular. Despite the many warriors who streamed into the rapidly growing camp below the castle, Boreas had been in a bleak mood ever since the day of Lady Grace's departure. And it wasn't just Grace's absence that troubled him, for it was later that same day that Beltan had disappeared, along with Vani. No doubt Boreas missed having his nephew for a commander.
“They've gone to find Runebreaker,” Mirda had said. “They're going to bring him back to Eldh.”
The gate artifact had gone missing with Vani and Beltan. Somehow they had found a way to activate it, and they had left without telling anyone, though where they had gone was not in question. Both loved Travis Wilder. Surely they had gone to him as Mirda said.
Aryn sighed, and such was her own bleak mood that she had little appetite. Lirith and Sareth had opted for a quiet supper alone, and Aryn wished she had followed suit. When the servants brought out the subtleties—usually her favorite dessert—she stared at them without relish. The sugary confections were molded into various shapes. Aryn had gotten a dragon.
Remembered words hissed again in her mind. And here are two daughters of Sia, both doomed to betray their sisters and their mistress. . . .
Did Ivalaine know of their betrayal of the Pattern? Was that why she had spurned them? Aryn smashed the dragon with a spoon, then excused herself from the table.
She walked the castle corridors for a time, then found herself before the door to Sareth's chamber.
You shouldn't bother them, Aryn.
However, even as she thought this, the door opened, and she found herself facing Lirith.
“What is it, sister?” the witch said. “Is something amiss?”
“No, nothing.” Aryn grimaced. “Except that Grace has ridden off to the Final Battle, Beltan and Vani have gone to bring Travis Runebreaker back to Eldh, and Queen Ivalaine won't even talk to us. Oh, and I'm going to be married to a prince who abhors me. Other than that, things are just fine.”
Sareth—who sat next to the fire—let out a bell-like laugh. “Well, you might as well come in and have a cup of maddok. It doesn't sound like you're going to be getting any sleep tonight.”
Aryn imagined not. She gazed around as she stepped into the room. “I'm not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”
“Only my departure for the evening,” Lirith said briskly. “But you know me—I can always be persuaded to take another cup of maddok.”
It turned out to be two cups, not one, and Aryn was glad of the company. Sareth relinquished the chair by the fire, and Aryn sat in it, sipping the hot, spicy liquid. The last things Aryn wished to speak about were current events, so instead Sareth told stories of ancient Amún and the fabled city of his ancestors, Morindu the Dark. Aryn tried to imagine what it would be like—an entire city of sorcerers. What a strange, shadowed, and wonderful place it must have been.
At last the hour grew late. The women bid Sareth farewell, then walked together back to their own chambers. However, Aryn found it odd that Lirith didn't stay behind.
Her thoughts must have been louder than she intended.
“There is no reason for me to stay with him,” Lirith said softly.
Aryn glanced at her, shocked. “I don't understand. Don't you love him as he loves you?”
“I do, but . . .” Lirith hesitated, then took Aryn's hand in her own. There is no hope for us, sister. I cannot give him a child as a woman should. And ever since the demon took his leg, he cannot do what a man would do with a woman in his bed.
Anguish squeezed Aryn's heart. But is there no spell that can help you?
I have tried with all my skill, but if there is a magic that can help either of us, it is beyond me.
It doesn't matter, Lirith. You love each other, and surely love is more than lying down together, or making children between you. It has to be.
Lirith pulled her hand from Aryn's and let out a bitter laugh. “Love doesn't matter to his people. Their laws forbid him to wed outside his clan. One day he will return to them. And on that day he will leave me. Good night, sister.”
Lirith stepped into her chamber and shut the door. There was nothing for Aryn to do but continue to her own room.
She chided herself as she walked. You are small and selfish, Aryn of Elsandry. Your problems are nothing to what Lirith and Sareth are suffering. So what if you are to marry Prince Teravian? He's sullen, yes, but you could do far worse. Besides, it's not as if there's another whom you love.
Except for some reason that last thought left her feeling strange and weak, and her hand shook as she fumbled with the latch on her door. It was the maddok, of course. She shouldn't have drunk so much; she would never be able to fall asleep.
Her room was dark—the fire had burned low—but a sliver of moonlight fell through a crack in the curtains. She stumbled her way to the window and pulled back the curtains to let more of the silvery light into the room.
Aryn froze. Below, a slim figure clad all in black stalked across the courtyard of the upper bailey. The figure stepped into a pool of shadow and vanished, but Aryn had seen enough to know who it was.
“Where are you going, Teravian?” she whispered. There was no way to find out without following him, but by the time Aryn got all the way down to the bailey, he would be long gone.
Maybe there's a swifter way, sister.
Aryn didn't give herself a moment to think about it, afraid she would change her mind. She moved to the sideboard and picked up the glove Teravian had dropped earlier that day, then she sat in a chair.
This was foolish and dangerous. Once, when performing a spell like this, Grace had nearly lost her spirit forever. If Ivalaine had not intervened, Grace would have died. Aryn knew she should go fetch Lirith.
No, there isn't time. They always keep saying how strong your talent is, Aryn. Well, now's the time to prove it. If they're right, you can do this.
She gripped the glove with both hands, then she reached out with the Touch, spinning a thread along the Weirding and weaving it around the glove.
An instant later she was flying. Aryn glanced over her shoulder and saw herself through the window of her chamber, sitting in a pool of moonlight, eyes open and staring. A silver strand stretched back to her body. She knew if the thread was severed, she would die. Forcing away the thought, she faced forward and let the magic draw her on.
The spell led her down into the upper bailey. She passed through the shadow of the keep, then feathery shapes rose before her, frosted by the light of the moon. Aryn felt a tug as the spell pulled her through a wrought-iron archway and into the castle's garden.
A dizziness came over her as she flew along twisting paths, and she was terribly cold. Was she dying? She glanced back, but the thread still stretched behind her. The spell led her onward, deeper into the garden.
“I knew you would come to me,” said a woman's voice.
If she could have, Aryn would have let out a scream. Had she been seen somehow?
“It's not as if I really had a choice,” sneered another voice, which Aryn instantly recognized as Teravian's. It was not Aryn the woman had addressed, but the prince.
Aryn drifted around a curve in the path and came to halt. Before her was a grotto sheltered by valsindar trees. Teravian stood in the center, his dark attire blending with the night, his face pale in the moonlight. The woman who had spoken stood a few feet from him, though who she was Aryn couldn't say, as she was clad from head to toe in a dark cloak.
“You are dutiful,” the woman said to Teravian, her voice hoarse. “Just as a son should be.”
He let out a sharp laugh. “I'm his son, too, aren't I? But here I am all the same.”
Confusion filled Aryn. What were they talking about? Teravian was son only to King Boreas. His mother, Queen Narenya, had died long years ago.
“You know what you will be asked to do, don't you?” the woman said.
He stared into the dar
kness. “I've seen it. Bits of it, anyway. It comes in flashes. There's a battlefield, and two armies face each other. Both of the armies carry banners bearing the crown and swords of Calavan, only one is green and yellow instead of silver and blue.”
The woman drew closer. “And what else do you see? Which army will prevail?”
“I don't know. It's all a fog after that—I can't see it.” His eyes narrowed. “And what do you care, anyway? You've cut yourself off from them, haven't you?”
“Care? What do I care?” The woman muttered the words, as if trying to fathom their meaning. “I suppose I care for nothing now, save to keep him from using you.”
His lip curled into a sneer. “What, so you can use me yourself, is that what you mean? I know you've been watching me all these years, prodding me, trying to figure out a way to use me for your own ends.”
The woman pressed a hand to her chest. “You know much. And yet so much less than you think. Perhaps once I did seek to use you, though my intentions were good. But no more. My thoughts are for you only. I would have you do this thing not for them, but for yourself. That's why I've come.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
She reached a hand toward him. “You must trust me.”
“Trust you?” Anger twisted his face, and he clenched a fist. “How can I trust you when you've lied to me all these years about who you really are, who I really am? You're no better than he is. Why should I trust either of you, Mother?”
Shock coursed through Aryn. Mother? What was he talking about? Before she could wonder more, the woman reached up with shaking hands and pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her flaxen hair was colorless in the moonlight, and tears streamed down her smooth cheeks.
“Trust me because I love you, my son,” Queen Ivalaine said. “As I have always loved you, even when I could not tell you the truth.”
