by Mark Anthony
Only it wasn’t. The ship sailed smoothly, as if it didn’t feel the force of the waves. It drifted close to the cliff, until it was no more than a dozen feet away, then halted. Only then did Grace realize that there were neither masts nor sails nor oars. How was the ship propelled?
In the failing light, she saw figures scurrying on the deck of the ship. Some were small and twisted, and others tall and slender as willow saplings. It seemed some bore antlers upon their brows, and others flowers in their hair. Grace shivered. She had seen forms like these once before. It was the previous Midwinter’s Eve, when Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe of actors had performed their play in the great hall of Calavere.
A plank extended from the ship, reaching to the stone ledge. Grace felt strangely light, her nerves tingling. She looked at Sindar. His eyes glittered in the ghostly light.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you really?”
“I think...I think that I’m a friend.”
Sindar stepped onto the plank and moved lightly to the ship. Grace glanced at the others, searching their faces, but there was nothing for them to do but follow. One by one, they stepped over to the deck. The queer figures hurried into action, the plank was pulled back. And the graceful ship moved away from the cliff, into the open sea and the coming night.
43.
The doors of Calavere’s great hall shut with a thunderous boom. Aryn felt as if she had just been struck by lightning. She had finally learned the name of the man who was to be her husband, and it was none other than King Boreas’s son, Prince Teravian.
She was alone with the king. The servants had withdrawn, leading Queen Ivalaine and Sister Mirda to their chambers. Aryn wished they had remained; she had so many questions for the two witches.
Later, sister, Mirda’s gentle voice had sounded over the threads of the Weirding as the women left the hall. Come to our chamber when the moon has risen and her light shines over the castle wall. We shall speak then.
Aryn’s heart beat against her rib cage like a frightened bird. She was painfully aware of the king’s gaze. There was no way she could disobey his order; she had to marry as the king commanded. But Teravian? Couldn’t it have been anyone else? Even ancient Duke Calentry didn’t sound so horrible now.
“Tell me, my lady,” the king growled before she could gather her wits. He descended the steps of the dais, moving with the murderous grace of an animal stalking its prey. “What do you think of my choice of husband?”
Aryn knew his words were a challenge; Boreas was daring her to defy him. That was not a trap she would fall for. “I think, Your Majesty,” she said, forcing her chin up, commanding her eyes to meet his, “that once I marry the prince, you will be my father not only in my heart, but in fact as well, and this glad-dens me beyond all my abilities to express.”
The words rang with the power of truth. Because they were true. Whatever she thought of Prince Teravian’s character—or the lack thereof—and no matter how she feared the king, she loved Boreas as the only father she had ever known.
Boreas blinked as if she had slapped him, then a broad grin crossed his face. If this were a battle, and she a general, the tactical victory would be hers—even if there was no hope she could win the war against such a vastly stronger force.
The king lifted a hand to her cheek, and when he spoke his usually booming voice was gruff. “Do not think I’m unaware of my son’s failings, my lady. If I had forgotten them in his absence, then they were made painfully clear to me once more the moment he set foot in this hall. Yet it is not such a bad lot to marry a prince, even one so peevish. And it is my hope, with a companion of strength and temperance by his side, that he might one day even learn to be a man and a king.”
Aryn could find no words with which to reply.
“You’ll need to speak with Lord Farvel soon. You must tell him how you wish your wedding to be. Now go.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Daughter.”
He withdrew, and she curtsied low, bowing her head so that he would not see the tears she knew were welling forth in her eyes; generals did not cry. Without words, Aryn turned and hurried from the great hall.
She wandered through the castle, as there was nothing else for her to do. Mirda had told her to come at moonrise, but that was hours away. And resigned as she was to her noble duty, she was far from ready to talk to Lord Farvel about wedding plans.
You should consider yourself lucky, Aryn of Elsandry, she chided herself as she sat on a window bench. Beyond the rippled glass, the land marched away in rows of gray-green downs. You were afraid the king would marry you off to someone thrice your age and with a face like a turnip. Well, Teravian certainly isn’t old. He’s your younger by two winters, and he’s actually rather handsome. When he isn’t scowling.
She sighed. All right, so he’s always scowling. But maybe Boreas is right—maybe there’s hope he can change.
“What’s wrong, my lady?” said a bright tenor voice. “Did you get a bad bit of cheese in your breakfast?”
Aryn turned from the window and looked up. Sir Tarus stood above her. The knight wore leather riding garb. Mud spattered his boots, and rain darkened his red hair.
She shook her head. “Cheese?”
“Or maybe a rotten nut? You were sighing and holding your stomach. I though perhaps you had eaten something that didn’t sit well with you.”
She sighed again. “It’s not something I ate.”
The knight raised an eyebrow.
Aryn supposed there was no point in keeping it from him. “The king just told me who my husband is to be.”
Tarus let out a low whistle. “And you’re not happy about him, I take it?”
“I suspect it’s rather the other way around.”
Tarus said nothing. Aryn supposed it was hard for him to understand. An unhappy marriage was little burden to a man of noble birth; he had other activities to occupy him—politics, hunting, war—and he could always take a mistress. But for a noblewoman, a wife was all she was allowed to be.
And is that true, Aryn? Do you honestly think Teravian can stop you from being a witch?
Besides, she supposed things were not the same for Tarus as for other men. She gazed again out the window.
“Tell me something, Sir Tarus,” she said. “Do the Warriors of Vathris...do you ever marry? Or do you just...that is, with each other...?”
He let out a chuckle, and she heard him move closer. He smelled of mist and horses. “We’re men of war, my lady. We don’t spend all of our time romping about a fire in loincloths and spanking one another. Really.”
Aryn couldn’t help a gasp of laughter. She turned around and looked at him. “But I thought all of you...I mean, that women were...”
“Tell me, do all of your sister witches spurn the favors of men in their beds?”
Aryn chewed her lip. “I know that some of them do. They say the touch of a man weakens their magic, although I can’t see how this would be. And there are some who will lie with any whom they love. But I believe most witches are like most women, and that they desire the touch of a man in bed.”
Her cheeks flushed with warmth. She had hardly ever spoken so frankly to another woman about such matters, let alone a man. Then again, she supposed she was quite secure with Sir Tarus. And, she realized, that was one reason why she liked the knight. She felt safe with him in a way she felt with no other man. Or woman, for that matter. He was strong, as men were; yet he would never harm her.
She gestured for him to sit on the bench, and he did so, although he was careful to keep his muddy clothes away from the folds of her gown. It occurred to her she had not seen Tarus in the last day or two; he must have ridden off somewhere on an errand for the king.
“The Warriors are not so different than your Witches,” he said. “I can’t tell you about our secret ways, but I can say there are certain initiations which all young men undergo when they seek to follow the Mysteries of Vathris, rituals in which they are paired with one who is
older and wiser and who acts as their mentor. But it’s also true that the great majority of the men of Vathris go on to take wives and father children. Only a few of them ever hear the Call of the Bull.”
“Like you have. And Sir Beltan.”
The knight looked away, and Aryn winced. She knew Tarus had cared for Beltan, just as she knew Beltan’s heart beat for another. Perhaps she should leave the topic. However, she found it all too fascinating to let go.
“Are you and Beltan to be priests of Vathris, then?”
Tarus looked at her again, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “It’s usually those who’ve heard the Call who go to the inner circle, as it’s forbidden for a priest to marry. Maybe, when I’m older and wiser, I’ll choose to become a priest. But I don’t imagine Beltan ever will. Speaking prayers isn’t for him—he’d rather be fighting. Only I think I might get tired of it someday. Of fighting.”
Aryn considered these words. She knew Tarus was giving her a rare gift: a glimpse into the smoke-shrouded labyrinth where the Cult of Vathris Bullslayer worked its mysteries. Rarer all the more because he knew she was a witch.
“I’ve heard King Boreas has reached the innermost circle,” she said, more to herself than to Tarus.
Now the knight laughed. “The king’s wife passed away, my lady, and he elected not to marry again out of deference to her memory. So he is free to enter the innermost circle. But I think if you were to spy upon the king at night, it would be a pretty woman you’d find sharing his bed, not a handsome man. Then again, when I...”
The knight’s gaze seemed suddenly distant, as if he was remembering. “What is it?” Aryn said.
“I can’t know for certain.” Tarus shrugged. “They throw pine boughs on the fire, so the air is thick with smoke, and they give you strong wine to drink. And the one who has been chosen for you wears a mask shaped like a bull’s head.”
Aryn suddenly felt she was hearing something she shouldn’t. It was too secret; too private. “Should you be telling me this, my lord?”
“Most likely not. But...” He shook his head. “But, my lady, I like you, and I like Lady Lirith. No matter what you are. Or what I am. No matter that they say we are enemies.”
So the Warriors talked of the Witches, just as Aryn and her sisters spoke of the men of Vathris. They all knew a conflict was coming. The Final Battle, as the Warriors called it.
“Are we?” she said quietly. “Enemies, I mean.”
“What do your sisters say?”
“Much the same as your brothers, I suppose.”
They were silent for a long minute. Outside the window, a hawk sped by in pursuit of a dove.
“Let us forge a pact, my, lady,” Tarus said suddenly. “If in the future we find ourselves on opposite sides, we’ll still be friends. And we’ll be honest with one another. As honest as we can possibly be, at least, without breaking any other vows we have made.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Will you make this pact with me?”
Aryn didn’t hesitate. She stood up and took his hand in her one good one. “I accept your word, my lord, and you have mine in turn. I swear it in the name of Sia.”
“And I swear it in the name of Vathris.”
Warmth flooded Aryn, and new hope. Only at that moment did she realize how deep was the well of her despair, now that a new glimmer of light shone into it. If there were men like Tarus and Beltan among the Warriors, then why did the Witches have to be their foes?
However, Aryn knew the answer to that. Just as Liendra and her faction craved only conflict, Aryn supposed most of the followers of Vathris wanted the same. But as long as there were witches like Mirda, and Lirith, and herself, and warriors like Tarus and Beltan, maybe all was not lost.
“Well,” Tarus said, withdrawing his hand, “that’s that, then.”
Aryn nodded. “You’d better go to the king. I’m certain he’s waiting for your report.”
Tarus opened his mouth, then shook his head and walked away. Aryn smiled. Just because they were friends didn’t mean she had to give up all of her air of mystery. She had only assumed he had been on an errand for the king based on the visible evidence; and in that case, of course he would have a report to give. But let him think she had the power of the Sight. That way he’d be sure to keep their pact.
And will you, Aryn? Will you keep your promise to tell the truth no matter what? Even if it goes against the Pattern?
Yes. Whatever it took, she would keep her vow. For she was not just a witch; she was a baroness, and soon to be a queen. She would not break her word.
44.
The day passed slowly, and with no sign of Prince Teravian. Aryn was thankful for that, although this reaction made her feel guilty. She supposed she should apologize to him for her words in the great hall. No matter that he was the one who had stamped off; if they were going to be married, they had at least better learn to act civil.
However, the prince was nowhere to be seen. Although once she glimpsed Lord Farvel at a distance, speaking to a manservant, and she distinctly heard the sound of her own name echo down the corridor. The servant turned and pointed, but before the old seneschal could start moving in her direction, Aryn scampered away.
There was no avoiding supper in the great hall that night. Aryn found herself seated at the opposite side of the high table from Ivalaine and Mirda. The queen sat to the king’s left and Teravian to his right, next to Lord Farvel. Fortunately, there were two visiting earls between Aryn and the seneschal, and the few times Farvel tried to speak across the noblemen to ask her something about her upcoming wedding, she feigned deafness and merely smiled, raising her goblet to his health.
Boreas seemed unusually subdued, and Aryn wondered what Sir Tarus had told him. The red-haired knight was not at table, although there was an empty space for him at the far end, next to where Melia sat, looking elegantly bored. Boreas leaned often toward Ivalaine to speak something in a voice too low to overhear. However, Ivalaine never responded to the king. She simply gazed over the hall, her eyes glittering like the opals woven into her flaxen hair. Only once did Aryn risk a glance at Teravian, but the prince didn’t meet her gaze. He was scowling at no one in particular, his eyebrows drawn into a single brooding line.
Aryn slipped away from supper at the earliest possible moment and was out of the great hall before Lord Farvel could rise from his chair. She considered going to look for the Spider, Aldeth. However, she didn’t know exactly what she would say to the spy. And she couldn’t go to her chamber; that was the first place Farvel would look for her. Without really thinking about it, she found herself at the door to Melia’s room.
“Come in,” said a clear voice from beyond before Aryn lifted a hand to knock.
She entered to find Melia just sitting down to her embroidery. The black kitten played on the rug before the fire, pouncing and batting at a ball of string.
Aryn cleared her throat. “I was wondering...”
“Of course dear,” Melia said. “I’m certain no one will find you here.”
Aryn was too grateful to ask just how the lady could be so sure of that. She sat in a chair near the fire, then promptly regretted it as she began to sweat.
“Are you happy, dear?” Melia said, eyes on her embroidery.
Aryn nearly jumped from the chair. What did Melia mean by that? Of course—she was referring to the news of Aryn’s husband-to-be.
“I’m lucky the king considers me worthy to wed his son,” Aryn said.
Melia looked up from her work. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Aryn rose from the chair and moved to the window. “Do you mind? It’s a bit warm in here.”
“Of course, dear.”
Aryn pushed back the curtain and opened the window a crack. The cool autumn air felt good against her face, but she was more interested in being able to see past the curtain.
They passed the time in silence. Melia continued to work on her embroidery, and Aryn wound thread on to spools in an attempt to be usef
ul, although the kitten quickly undid most of her work. At last the fire burned low, and the kitten collapsed in a heap of fur and tangled thread, nose to tail, fast asleep.
“Isn’t it about time for you to be going, dear?” Melia said. “You don’t want to be late.”
Aryn started at the sound of the lady’s voice. She must have been dozing. Quickly, she glanced out the window. A sliver of pale silver was just edging over the castle’s eastern rampart.
Aryn turned to see the lady’s amber eyes upon her. So Melia had known all along why Aryn had really opened the window.
“Be careful, dear,” Melia said. “There is great joy in wielding magic. But there is danger as well. As I’m certain Queen Ivalaine knows well.”
What did she mean? Aryn was too startled to ask, so instead she merely murmured good night and hastily departed. She hurried down empty corridors and found herself at the door of Ivalaine’s chamber. She knocked softly, and a young maidservant in a green dress, barely more than a girl, opened the door. The maidservant led Aryn to a comfortable room draped with tapestries.
“You may go now, Adeline,” Mirda said to the maidservant. “I shall call if the queen has further need of you or your sisters this evening.”
The girl curtsied, then departed through a side door. For a moment, through the open doorway, Aryn caught a glimpse of a half dozen curious faces peering out. The queen’s attendants. No doubt the young women had entered Ivalaine’s service hoping they might get the chance to learn something about magic. If so, their hopes were dashed for that night. The door shut, leaving Mirda and Aryn alone.
“Where is the queen?” Aryn said, glancing around.
“And am I not a fine enough teacher for you, sister?”
Aryn winced. That wasn’t what she had meant. Then she saw the smile on Mirda’s lips, and the warm light shining in her almond-shaped eyes, and she knew the elder witch was not angry.
Emotion welled up in Aryn’s heart. “Sister Mirda, what you did that night—when we were weaving the Pattern—it was...” She shook her head, at a loss for words to describe what she felt. So she spoke over the Weirding instead, for that way her feelings could come across as clearly as her thoughts.
