by Mark Anthony
Tarus snorted. “That would be a help, wouldn’t it?” He took a step closer to her. “But I’m puzzled, my lady. First you tell me we’re not enemies, but then you say your sisters will work against my brothers.”
“Not all of us.” Aryn forced her chin up.
He held her gaze, then nodded. “So you’re betraying the Witches.”
She winced, and she recalled the words spoken by the dragon Sfithrisir. And here are two Daughters of Sia, both doomed to betray their sisters and their mistress. . . .
“No, I’m not betraying the Witches,” she said, forcing her voice to hold steady. “It is others who have done that for many years now by ignoring the truth.”
His gaze was sad and knowing. “I think I understand you, my lady. There are those in the Cult of Vathris who seem to spend so much time praying and chanting around the fire that I think all the smoke has gotten to them. They’ve forgotten what it means to be a warrior—not to make war for the sake of war alone, but to protect, to preserve.”
She found herself smiling. Yes, he did understand.
He stamped his boots. “I have to be going now. Off on my errand, as you call it. So what is it you came out here to ask me? And don’t pretend you don’t want something. We swore a pact to be as honest as we can with one another, remember?”
“I need you to keep your eyes open for me.”
“That’s easy enough, my lady. I find I fall down far less often that way.”
She did not try to disguise her pained expression. “That’s not what I meant.” She explained how she wanted him to keep a lookout for anything unusual around the castle. Anything in the shadows, watching.
“And who is this person who you fear is watching us?”
“I’m not certain. In fact, I’m not certain it’s a person at all. Or even if it’s alive.”
The knight groaned. “Well that’s all good and fine. I’m supposed to be looking for a not-human, not-living thing that’s spying in the shadows. Next you’ll be telling me the Little People exist.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s right—I almost forgot. Could you keep your eyes open for them as well? Especially near Gloaming Wood. I think they’re stirring again, and that can only mean there’s danger close at hand, just like last Midwinter’s Eve.”
Tarus looked nauseous. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Perfectly.”
He sighed, then bowed low. “Very well, my lady. For you, I’ll chase after fairies and shadows. And after my brethren cast me onto the fire for being a heretic, I’m sure I’ll feel a sense of great peace and comfort knowing that everything I did was not foolishness, but utterly worthwhile.”
“I’m sure you will,” Aryn said, and with a smile she left the young knight to his mission.
The remainder of the day passed quickly, as did the day after that. Farvel asked her an endless array of questions about her wedding (How many attending maids did she wish? What were her favorite flowers? Did she prefer mead or wine to be served at table?) and Aryn did her best to answer them. One happy stroke of luck was that the king’s dyers were having trouble making large quantities of orange cloth, as the best dyes of that hue came from Eredane, with which there had been no trade in a year. Feigning disappointment as best she could, Aryn informed Farvel that they would just have to make do using orange as an accent color, and that she would somehow manage if the primary color for the wedding was blue.
After one of her conversations with the seneschal, the shadows behind a statue uncoiled, and Aldeth stepped out, causing Aryn to clutch her chest.
“You like startling people, don’t you?”
“Is that so wrong?” the Spider said.
She glared at him, and his smile quickly vanished. Unfortunately, the spy had discovered very little since their last meeting. Ivalaine spent most of her time in her chamber, where it was difficult to get close to her.
“Your sisters have a way of seeing things others can’t, if they choose to look,” he said with disgust. “All of those years spent practicing my hiding skills are useless when all you have to do is wriggle your fingers and I start glowing.”
“It’s hardly that easy,” Aryn said, but she knew the Spider was right. If he lurked too long around Mirda and Ivalaine’s chamber, one of them was bound to feel his presence.
Despite those limitations, Aldeth had discovered a few interesting items. First of all, King Boreas and the queen had spoken once again in the council chamber, and the meeting had ended in some sort of argument.
“I couldn’t get close enough to hear properly,” Aldeth said, annoyance flashing in his gray eyes. “There were guards at the entrance, which I expected, of course, but there were also men posted at the secret door that leads to the council chamber. And I ask you, my lady, what good is a secret door if you’re going to place guards at it? It’s an insult to spies everywhere. Why I ought to give King Boreas a—”
“Aldeth,” Aryn said, prompting the Spider. “The meeting.” The spy regained enough composure to tell her what he had heard from his perch outside one of the chamber’s high windows. The king and queen had talked of war, but that was hardly a surprise, with Brelegond under the control of the Onyx Knights.
“That’s all you heard?” Aryn said.
“Doves nest on the ledges of those windows. The blasted birds kept cooing in my ear. But there was one more thing. The king mentioned his son, Teravian. Isn’t that your husband-to-be? Well, I don’t know what he said about the prince, but that was when the show began. Ivalaine slapped Boreas.”
Aryn gaped. “She slapped him?”
“Right across the face. His cheek turned crimson, and not just from the blow, mind you. He was shaking, and he looked ready to throttle her right there and then. She spoke several things I couldn’t catch. But then she said one thing that echoed clearly in the chamber. After that, she turned and left.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘I won’t let you sacrifice him like one of your bloody bulls.’ ”
Aryn paced, thinking. Had the queen still been speaking of Teravian, or someone else? “Didn’t you say there was something else you found out?”
The spy nodded. “The queen has been writing daily missives to Ar-tolor. I think they’re for her advisor, Lady Tressa.”
“That’s odd. I wonder why she doesn’t just speak to Tressa over the—” Aryn clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late.
“So you witches can speak to each other with a spell, even when you’re leagues away.”
Aryn sighed. “Not all of us.” Despite trying again several times over the last two days, she still hadn’t been able to reach any farther along the Weirding than the castle garden. The threads always tricked her into going in circles.
Except they can’t be deceiving you, Aryn. Mirda said the magic of the Weirding can’t lie.
Which meant the deception lay within herself.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Aryn recognized the uneven cadence of Lord Farvel.
“Until next time, my lady,” Aldeth said, and before she could say anything the Spider coiled his shimmering cloak around himself and was gone.
Once she extricated herself from Farvel’s questions—this time he wondered about her preference for swans or doves, and she didn’t know if he meant as decoration or as something to eat, so she said she liked both—she headed for Mirda’s and Ivalaine’s chamber. It was time for another lesson.
On the way she caught a glimpse of Teravian, but only at a distance, and he was quickly gone. He seemed to be avoiding her since their last conversation. No doubt he was enjoying his last few days of freedom. The next day, on the night of the full moon—the same night Aryn was to tell Sister Mirda her decision—a feast was to be held at which the prince and Aryn’s engagement would be presented to the entire court.
Aryn still wondered how Teravian had known to follow her the other day. Could the prince really possess the Sight? If Ivalaine believed so, it mig
ht explain why she had been arguing with Boreas. Perhaps the two had differing plans for the prince. But if so, what were they?
Aryn didn’t know. However, she imagined those missives Ivalaine was writing to Tressa would tell her. There could be only one reason the queen was committing her words to paper: She feared they would be overheard if she used the Weirding. Which meant Liendra was indeed still in Ar-tolor.
Maybe the missives contain something about the shadow coven, Aryn thought with growing excitement. Except what did any of that have to do with Teravian? Nothing Aryn could imagine. But she still wished she could see one of those missives; it might help her with the decision that lay before her— whether or not to join the shadow coven herself.
There was no sign of Ivalaine when Aryn reached the queen’s chamber, but Mirda was waiting for her. However, once again the lesson ended in frustration, as Aryn tried to reach far across the Weirding but only ended up getting lost somewhere in the sheep pen in the lower bailey.
“I don’t understand, Mirda. What’s wrong with me? I know you’re right, that the Weirding can’t possibly lie. But how is it that I’m deceiving myself into going astray?”
“No one has more power to deceive us than ourselves,” the elder witch said, pouring a cup of rose hip tea. “How often do we tell ourselves it is fine for us to do something when deep down we know it is not? Listening to the truth of the Weirding means listening to the truth inside yourself. I’m afraid that’s something it seems you’re not yet willing to do.”
Aryn shook her head, frustrated. “But I am willing. I know I’m far from perfect, Mirda. I know others stare at my arm, and that they think it’s horrible, but I don’t care anymore. It’s part of who I am, and I accept that. That’s why I don’t hide it anymore. Isn’t that being honest?”
“It is. And I’m proud of you for it.” Mirda sipped her tea. “But there must be something else, something you’re hiding even from yourself. Something you have forgotten.”
Outside the window, the sun dipped below the horizon, and a shadow stole into the room. The darkness brought words to Aryn—words first spoken to her in the cramped space of one of the Mournish wagons below Ar-tolor.
See how the woman rides so proudly? All love her beauty even as they fear her sword. Yet there is always a price to wielding power. For see? She does not notice the poor man in the grass who is trampled beneath the hooves of her horse.
Yes, Aryn remembered the card: a proud queen in blue, a sword in her arm, riding from a castle with seven towers. It had been like the vision she had once seen in the ewer, revealed by Queen Ivalaine. Except for the man lying in the grass, eyes shut.
Again the old Mournish woman’s voice rasped in her ear. You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you....
All at once, in a terrible flood, it came gushing back to Aryn. The sweltering day the previous summer, stealing away from Calavere to ride eastward after Grace, convincing Lirith to go along with the plan. But their absence would be quickly discovered. They needed to find a way to throw the king’s knights off their trail. With her growing power, it had been so simple. Talk to a young servingman and sow in his mind a small seed, so that when he was questioned later he would say he had seen the Lady Aryn riding away from the castle. Riding westward.
A sickness gripped her, one so strong she feared she would vomit. That was why he had looked so familiar to her, despite the vacant stare in his eyes, despite the dent in his skull.
Please. Don’t let him be beaten again. My brother didn’t mean it. I beg you, my lady...
And in that moment Aryn knew what she had been hiding from herself, from the world. It wasn’t the ugliness of her arm. It was the ugliness inside herself.
She sank to her knees, chest aching, and a sob ripped itself out of her. “Oh, Mirda, what have I done?”
The witch’s eyes were filled with sorrow, but her touch on Aryn’s brow was warm and gentle.
“You’ve just told yourself the truth, sister.”
55.
Aryn sat beside the window as darkness settled over the world outside.
“I thought they were the cruel ones, Mirda. Those young witches—Belira and her friends, the ones who mocked me at High Coven. When I stood up to them, I felt like I was so much better than they were. But I’m not, am I? They only used words to harm. But I used my magic to hurt them when they were laughing at me. Just as I used it to hurt the servingman.”
“You don’t have the Sight as your sister Lirith does,” Mirda said, standing by the fire, her face serene as always. “You couldn’t have known he would come to such harm. Did not his sister say the blow to his head was an accident?”
Aryn clenched her left hand into a fist. “No—that doesn’t make it any better. If I’d thought it through, I would have known he would get a beating for misleading the king’s men. But all I cared about was running after Grace.”
“And did not your following eastward after your sister Grace result in much good? Did you not aid the Runebreaker in ending the plague of fire by your actions?”
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened after doesn’t change what I did at the time. I did this thing, and I won’t deny it. Because that would be crueler still.”
Mirda nodded, and while her expression was serious, there was a faint smile on her lips. At last Aryn realized what Mirda had been doing. With each of her questions, the elder witch had offered her a way out of her predicament, a way to explain away her actions. But Aryn hadn’t taken the lure, as tempting as it was. She wanted more than anything to dull the pain in her chest. But that pain was nothing compared to what she had caused others. If Mirda’s actions had been some sort of test, Aryn supposed she had passed it, but that didn’t matter now.
“You have found the deception in yourself, sister.” Mirda rested a hand on Aryn’s shoulder. “And now it can no longer deceive you. You should try once more to reach out across the Weirding. Nothing can hold back your power now.”
Aryn trembled at these words. No, there was nothing to hold back her power. But shouldn’t there be? She had known since Midwinter’s Eve that she had the power to harm; with a thought she had murdered Lord Leothan. Yet he had been an ironheart, and he had attacked her, provoking her. Just like Belira and her cronies had done with their taunting. But what had the servingman—Alfin, he had a name—what had Alfin ever done to her to deserve her cruelty? And what good was power if all she ever used it for was to hurt others? Maybe Belira and the rest were right. They weren’t the monsters; she was.
“No, do not think such thoughts.” Mirda moved in front of Aryn’s chair, her face stern. “You have many choices before you. But one thing you cannot choose is to deny the talent within you. You are strong, sister—stronger than any witch in a century.”
Aryn looked out the window, into the night. “But I didn’t ask for this power. And I don’t want it.”
“And you can no more change it than you can the shape of your right arm. Power is in your blood. And the more you try to deny it, the less control you will have over it, and the more control it will have over you.”
“But what’s the point of it?” Aryn caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window: pale and lost as a ghost. “What good is all this power anyway?”
“That,” Mirda said, her voice crisp, “is up to you.”
In that moment, Aryn knew Mirda was right. Power was neither good nor evil in and of itself. It was only what the wielder chose to do with it that made it one or the other. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, only it was a good feeling. It was like something breaking, like some small piece of her falling away. Aryn knew what it was; it was her pride in believing that she was better than others, that she was kinder and more virtuous than they were. However, from that moment on, she would use her power as wisely as she could. And not just her power as a witch, but her power as a baroness—and soon as a queen— as well.
Aryn rose from her chair and met Mirda’s steady gaze. “I must talk to the king at
once.”
Mirda only nodded.
A quarter hour later, Aryn stepped into Boreas’s chamber. She was not nervous, as she had been every other time she had set foot in this room; she knew what she had to do. The king sat at the table, poring over sheaves of parchment; at last he looked up, squinting at her with tired eyes.
“I’m busy, my lady.”
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Majesty. I have something I must tell you. Something that can’t wait.”
The king cocked his head and set down the parchments. “What is it, my lady?”
“Your Majesty, there are others who must hear this as well. May they enter?”
The king was clearly puzzled by her words, but he nodded, and she moved to the door, gesturing for the two waiting outside to come in. They did so, one tentatively, her eyes wide as she gazed around, the other with shuffling footsteps.
The serving maid gasped when she saw the king and hastily dropped into a curtsy.
“Alfin!” she whispered, tugging on the young man’s sleeve. “Alfin, you must bow to the king!”
She tugged again, and he slowly bent forward.
“Rise,” the king rumbled.
The young woman leaped up and tugged again at her brother’s tunic, causing him to straighten. He gazed forward, expression placid. The dent in the side of his head was plain to see.
Boreas frowned, although not unkindly. “What is all this about, Aryn?”
She drew in a breath, expecting it would be difficult to form the words, only it wasn’t. “I have done a grave wrong to this man. And to his family.”
The young woman—her name was Alfa, Aryn had learned when she went to find the pair working in the kitchens— clasped a hand to her cheek. “My lady, nay, it—”
The king raised a finger, silencing her. He looked at Aryn. “Explain yourself, my lady.”
She spoke in precise words, leaving nothing out, in no way trying to disguise the lowness of her act or the suffering it had caused. The king listened, his visage unreadable. At last she finished, and she stood, shoulders straight, waiting for him to mete out his justice.
