by Mark Anthony
26.
The king sat before the fire in a dragon-clawed chair. He did not look up as she entered and shut the door, but instead kept his gaze on the flames. One of the mastiffs sprawled by the hearth lifted its head to growl at Aryn, but a flick of the king’s hand silenced the animal.
Aryn found herself thinking of the day years ago when she first came to Calavere—a girl of ten winters, both parents dead, journeying to meet the king who was to be her new guardian. She would never forget her first sight of Boreas. He had looked like a giant sitting on his throne, and when he spoke, his voice had rumbled like thunder in her body. She had thought him the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life, and it had been all she could do to force her legs to carry her to his throne and curtsy.
So it was again now. For a moment, the fierceness of his profile paralyzed her. If she had fancied he might look haggard from care, then she was disappointed. Despite the touches of gray in his glossy black hair and beard, the king of Calavan appeared as powerful and striking as ever.
Before her hesitation became so great as to be noticeable, Aryn moved halfway to his chair and curtsied. “I have come as you requested, Your Majesty.”
He grunted but still did not look up. “You have come, Lady Aryn. But hardly as I requested. I have been waiting for you for over an hour now.”
“I felt it was best if I washed away the dirt of traveling before coming to see you.”
“Is that so, my lady?” At last he turned his eyes upon her. “And did you know that once Lady Grace answered my summons wearing a gown drenched with the blood of Sir Garfethel? She did not seem to think a bath was more important than my command.”
Aryn sighed, only not from the sting of the king’s words, but rather at memories of dear, wonderful Garf. Grace had done all she could to save the young knight from the wounds inflicted by the mad bear, but it hadn’t been enough.
Boreas seemed to realize his words had not had the desired effect. “Where is Lady Grace?” he said. Did she detect a faint note of disappointment in his voice? “Lord Farvel tells me she did not come with you. Has she remained in the south?”
Aryn stepped toward him and spoke in as direct a manner as she could. “She is on a ship to Toringarth, Your Majesty, where she hopes to find the lost shards of King Ulther’s sword.”
It was a fault of the king—or a virtue, depending whom one asked—that he made little if any effort to disguise his emotions. Astonishment registered on his visage, followed a moment later by a look of narrow-eyed caution. He knew as well as she did that the statement had been intended to shock him, and to demonstrate that there were things she knew that he did not. She had not spoken it out of pettiness or anger. He was still her king, and he would always have her respect. But she was no longer a little girl. There was so much she had done, so much she had seen, since the day she dared to venture beyond these castle walls. He needed to understand that before this conversation continued.
Because of his physicality and quickness to action, there were those who believed the king was not particularly intelligent. They were mistaken. Aryn knew Boreas was anything but dull. He leaned forward in his chair, an eager light in his eyes. “Sit down, my lady.” He gestured to the chair opposite his.
Yes, he had gotten her message, and he seemed pleased by it rather than angered. But then, Boreas had always preferred dealing with those who dared to stand up to him. Aryn hoped she truly had that strength. She gathered up her gown and sat in the chair. It was hot so close to the fire.
Boreas bared large teeth in a grin. “Tell me everything that’s happened to you on your travels, my lady. Leave out nothing. Remember, I am your king.”
“Believe me, that’s one thing I will never forget, Your Majesty.”
She spent the next hour describing what had happened to her since the day she stole away from Calavere the previous summer. Boreas listened without interruption, his eyes at times upon her, at others gazing into the fire. Occasionally he nodded, as if something she said had confirmed some particular belief of his. And more than once he stared at her in amazement.
But then, since leaving Calavere, she had fled beings of fire, had supped with a Necromancer, and had witnessed the birth of a goddess. She had journeyed to the oldest city in Falengarth, had spoken with gods and emperors, and had trembled before a bodiless evil born of blood sorcery. Even she was a bit amazed. Had she really lived these things?
She had. And thinking of what she had survived, she knew that, by comparison, something as small as a royal marriage was not worth her fear.
As she spoke, it was shockingly easy to leave out everything that concerned the Witches. She did it without even really thinking. The High Coven, the decision to keep watch for Travis Runebreaker, the advancement of her own powers—her tongue danced around these things as easily as if they were not there at all. In fact, it was all so simple, she began to wonder if it was not the power of the Pattern that guided her words, making certain nothing of what the Witches planned or believed was revealed to this warrior who sat before her.
After she fell silent, the king continued to gaze into the fire. She wondered what he saw there in the flames.
“A war is coming, my lady,” he said in a low voice, and perhaps that answered her question. He rose and began to pace. “I’m certain Sir Tarus has told you of the signs of trouble we’ve seen. The Onyx Knights—whose purpose and master are both mysteries to us—command Brelegond as well as Eredane now. What’s more, King Sorrin of Embarr no longer balances on the brink of madness, but has plunged headlong over the precipice. He has withdrawn his support from the Order of Malachor, and without it the Malachorian Knights are sorely weakened.”
Aryn didn’t see when he picked it up, but now there was a dagger in Boreas’s hand, and he twirled it absently as he spoke. “True, not all of the good that was wrought at the Council of Kings a year ago has come to nothing. Galt still stands with us, though it is the smallest of the Dominions. And it is my belief that our alliance with Ar-tolor will soon be stronger than ever. I count the new queen of Perridon a close ally as well, although from all reports her Dominion was ravaged by last summer’s plague, and it will be years before Perridon is restored to its former strength.
“And that’s not all, my lady. There is growing unease among the common folk, just as there was last Midwinter. They whisper of creatures that stalk the night and snatch children from their beds, of dark clouds that fly in the night sky against the direction of the wind, and of queer lights that flicker in the depths of the forest where no man lives. What few knights remain in the Order spend all of their time investigating such tales and keeping the folk from descending into panic.”
She looked at him, stunned by his words. In the past, the king had never spoken to her so openly of his fears or worries. “And what do you make of it all, Your Majesty?”
“I was wondering what you make of it, my lady. After all, there’s much you’ve seen for yourself that I’ve been able to but guess at. Yet I will tell you what I believe. An evil was averted last Midwinter’s Eve, but only narrowly, and not destroyed. And now all the signs point to one thing: This evil stirs anew, stronger than ever.”
With a quick motion, he plunged the dagger into the table in the center of the room. The knife sank into the wood as into cheese and quivered there. Aryn couldn’t help thinking how easily he had done it. Was he really so hungry for conflict?
Boreas advanced on her. Despite herself, she shrank back into the chair, as she had done as a girl when faced with his wrath. Only he didn’t seem angry now, but exultant, and somehow this was every bit as fearsome.
“Now, my lady, just when things are looking their bleakest, you arrive and bring me the King of Lost Malachor. Or the Queen, as it turns out. And what’s more, she’s our own Lady Grace.” He clenched a hand into a fist. “By Vathris, let me have the strength to believe it.”
Aryn forced herself to meet his eyes. “Lady Grace is indeed the heir to Malachor, Your
Majesty. The royal line was fostered in secret all these centuries by Falken Blackhand and Lady Melia. I have told you the truth.”
“Yes, you have. But not all of it, my lady.”
A cold sliver of pain cut into her heart. “Your Majesty, I promise I have told you everything.”
Boreas heaved his massive shoulders in a sigh. “I always complained you were hopeless at the art of subterfuge, my lady. I feared there must be common blood in your veins for you to have such a dull streak of truthfulness. But I see now I was wrong. You have at last learned how to lie.”
Panic flooded Aryn’s chest. She was certain she had revealed nothing. How could he possibly know? She rose from her chair and opened her mouth to speak.
Boreas waved a hand, silencing her. “No, my lady. There was no flaw in the fabric of deceit you wove. In fact, I’m impressed by it. I only hope my teachings had some part in the development of your abilities. Regardless, I never would have known you were lying had it not been for this.”
On the table, next to the knife, was a piece of parchment. He picked it up.
Aryn tried to moisten her lips with a dry tongue. Would that the king had bid her to pour some wine. “What is that?”
“It’s a missive from Queen Ivalaine. I received it last Dursday.”
Aryn listened in disbelief as Boreas described what he had learned in the letter from the queen of Toloria: how last winter Ivalaine had determined that both Aryn and Grace possessed talent for witchcraft, how Lirith had been dispatched to Calavere to act as their teacher, and how during her time at Ar-tolor Aryn had continued her studies.
Aryn could hardly breathe. All the while she had studied with Ivalaine and Lirith at Calavere, she had fought to keep the truth from Boreas, knowing how he mistrusted the Witches. And now Ivalaine herself had told him these things. But why?
Boreas set down the parchment. “So now I’ve had two wards dwelling in that den of mystery and cast under her spell. You can see why I believe Queen Ivalaine owes me a debt of allegiance. But perhaps it will come to good in the end, that I’ve entrusted the child of my blood and the child of my heart to that witch. By Vathris, I can only hope there was a reason to it all.”
Aryn had no idea how to answer those words.
Boreas turned to gaze out the window. Night was coming. “She says you are quite powerful, my lady. She says in her letter that you’re the strongest witch in a century.”
Aryn thought she detected a slight trembling in the king’s voice. Was it fear? Disgust? By the gods, it couldn’t be pride, could it?
He turned around. “Is it true, my lady? Can you tell my thoughts even as I speak?”
Horror flooded her, and anguish. She held out her left hand. “No, Your Majesty. By all the Seven, no.”
The king held her with his gaze, then spoke, his voice low but hard. “I hope Ivalaine is right. You see, no matter what some might think, the battle is coming, my lady. The greatest battle this world has seen. And it will be fought, no matter how others might try to stop it. I could use power like yours on my side.”
Aryn knew things had changed since she left Calavere, that she had changed, but only in that moment did she truly realize how much. Here was Boreas, every bit as strong and as fearless as she remembered him. And he was asking for her help.
“You are my king,” she finally managed to say. “I am yours to command.”
But even as she spoke the words, she wondered if they weren’t another lie, and by the sadness in his eyes it seemed he wondered the same. Then, in a flash, the look of sorrow was gone, and she wondered if she had glimpsed it at all.
Boreas clapped his hands together. “That’s enough talk of war, my lady. Let us talk of your wedding instead.”
He gestured toward a sideboard that held a pitcher and two cups. Aryn hurried over and filled the cups with red wine. She handed one to the king, then greedily drank her own.
“I am thinking it will happen swiftly,” the king went on. “I imagine you shall be married by the feast of Quickening.”
“If that suits Your Majesty,” she murmured. “And am I to know the name of the man who is to be my husband?”
“He is to arrive at Calavere in a few days. I will introduce him to you and the rest of the court then.”
She nodded. “As it pleases you, Your Majesty.” Aryn didn’t mind not knowing who he was. It gave her a few more days to entertain pleasant fancies, like that her husband would have most of his teeth, and that he wouldn’t require her assistance in using the chamber pot.
Boreas set down his cup and regarded her. “The castle has been grayer without you in it. I’ve missed you, Aryn.”
Her heart ached so fiercely she thought it would shatter. “And I’ve missed you. Father.”
Before she could think otherwise, she set down her cup and threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. He did not push her away, but instead folded his arms around her, and they were as powerful as she remembered, encapsulating her, making her feel like a small girl again. She pressed her cheek against his chest. He smelled of the fire, and of the outdoors. At last, reluctantly, she slipped from his grasp and stepped back.
“You no longer hide it,” he said, a smile on his lips. “Your right arm. I’m glad to see it. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Never forget that, my lady.”
She wiped her eyes with her good hand and nodded. “I won’t, Your Majesty. I promise.”
He grinned at her, and she returned the expression. It seemed for the moment all was—if not forgiven—then at least forgotten. All the same, there was a distance between them, a gulf, and Aryn knew it could never fully be bridged again.
He’s a warrior, a disciple of the inner circle of Vathris Bullslayer. And you’re...
But what was she? A witch, yes. What Ivalaine had said in her missive was true; there was no denying it. But what kind of witch was she? Not one like Belira and her cruel friends, who had mocked Aryn simply because she looked different. And not one like Sister Liendra, who had forced the eldest and wisest witches to the edges of the Pattern, and who had called for them to fight openly against the Warriors of Vathris.
Liendra’s desires had been softened in the final weaving of the Pattern. Yet they were still there, and the threads that bound all the Witches called for them to keep watch on the Warriors, and to prevent them from fighting their Final Battle. And Aryn was part of the Pattern as surely as Liendra was. She couldn’t go against it. Could she?
That question could wait for later. She cracked a great yawn, and Boreas instructed her to return to her chamber and rest. She kissed his bearded cheek, then stepped through the chamber door, leaving the king to his fire, his dogs, and his thoughts of war.
27.
The next few days were curiously pleasant for Aryn.
True, there was much to worry about. She thought often of Grace, as well as Beltan, Vani, and Falken. Where were they now? Had they found someone to carry them across the Winter Sea yet? Perhaps at that very moment, in an ancient keep in Toringarth, Grace was opening the dusty old chest that contained the shards of the magic sword Fellring. Aryn thrilled at the thought, although she couldn’t say exactly why. She only knew that she wished to see Grace discover all the secrets of her heritage. Surely, after what she had endured, she deserved that much.
I wish I could be there with you, Grace. At least in spirit, if not in person.
However, Grace was far beyond her reach now, and all Aryn sensed when she reached out with the Touch were the myriad lives in the castle: human, canine, feline, and rodent. If she tried to extend the Touch much beyond the castle walls, she felt an uncomfortable tugging sensation, as if the thread of her life was being pulled too taut. She could reach so far for no more than a few seconds before she was forced to let go, gasping as she felt her life thread snap back into place.
The quartet who journeyed to Toringarth were not the only travelers who weighed on Aryn’s mind. She thought often of the four who had vanished from the Etherion.
In some ways it was for the better that Travis Wilder was no longer on Eldh. But she missed Lirith achingly, and she feared for her.
At least, wherever Lirith was, Sareth was likely with her. Aryn had begun to sense there was something between those two. However, something seemed to be holding each of them back. Only what was it? Aryn didn’t know. There had been no time to ask, and now she wondered if she would ever see Lirith again, or Sareth. Or Durge.
And why was it so important she see Durge again? What was it she would tell him, and why did it matter?
Don’t think that way, Aryn. You will see Lirith again, and Durge, and you can worry about it all then. Grace and Falken will find them at the Black Tower this Midwinter. That has to be what Sky’s message meant.
Besides, she had more immediate concerns: namely, her impending wedding. Her new husband was to arrive at the castle soon, and Lord Farvel was busy with preparations for a feast to celebrate the occasion. Aryn asked if she might help, but the elderly man looked as confused as if she had just suggested they have a picnic in the garden despite the sleet angling down outside the windows.
“My lady, you’re to be one of the guests of honor. I’d sooner ask the king to scrub tables in the scullery.”
Aryn would have liked to have seen that. However, she didn’t want to give Lord Farvel cause for another collapse, so she left him to his work.
As the days passed, she occupied herself with wandering through the castle, visiting all of her favorite spots: the window seat where, as a girl, she had curled up to watch the comings and goings of people in the bailey below, and the gallery above the great hall where the minstrels played during supper, and the cooling room outside the kitchens, where fragrant loaves of bread were placed on stone tables after being pulled from the ovens, awaiting their journey to the king’s table.
