The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  But what did all of it mean? She had never been prone to nightmares. Why, of late, had she been possessed of so many?

  One thing is certain, sister. No more maddok before bedtime for you.

  Or was there something else to it? She had not seen the tangle in the Weirding again since that morning after visiting the Mournish. Perhaps it had simply been her imagination. She had listened, but she had not heard any of the witches in the castle mention seeing such a thing.

  But it hadn’t been her imagination. She could still feel the sickness that had filled her at the sight of the abomination. No amount of maddok was enough to induce that. She wished Grace Beckett were there; somehow Lirith knew her friend would have understood. Except Grace was far beyond her reach now. Perhaps if she glimpsed the tangle in the Weirding again she would know better how to find it, and she would be able to show another. Perhaps Tressa, or Ivalaine.

  Lirith hesitated, then before she lost her nerve she closed her eyes and reached out with the Touch.

  A loud thump shattered the predawn air.

  Lirith gasped, the shining threads slipping from imaginary fingers as her eyes fluttered open. This time she remembered to throw a robe over her nightgown before she answered the door. However, it was not one of the castle’s guardsmen.

  “Sister Lirith,” the girl said in a serious and slightly lisping voice, “Mistress Tressa wishes to see you.”

  The girl could not have yet passed her twelfth winter. A novitiate then; she would not be able to glimpse the Weirding until after her first blood. Sometimes Lirith envied the young ones, like this girl, who would learn to use the Touch from the first moment possible. When Lirith was twelve winters old, she had not yet even heard of the Witches.

  Sulath blast you, you little grackle. Couldn’t you have waited another year? Now there’ll be no work from you tonight, nor tomorrow I warrant.

  I’m sorry, Gulthas.

  Sorry! The little bird is sorry? Well don’t that fill my coffers. Now you listen here, grackle. You’re going to have to watch yourself now. No bastards are made at my house—that’s what I promise all my lords. Minya will show you how to clean that mess up, and how to keep anything from taking root in you. She’s too old and worthless to do anything else.

  “Sister Lirith?”

  The shadows vanished, and the room snapped back into focus. Lirith pressed an unconscious hand to her abdomen, as if she could still feel the warmth of the sparks that had once dwelled there, however briefly.

  “I will be there at once,” she said.

  Minutes later, clad in her favorite gown of russet, she hurried through the corridors of Ar-tolor. What did Sister Tressa want of her? Perhaps she wished to discuss the happenings at the opening of the High Coven last night.

  It had not gone as Lirith might have guessed.

  She knew there was growing discord among the Witches. It had been many years since village hags who spoke the name Sia were burned upon piles of sticks or pelted with stones—but not so many that such things had been forgotten. Some in the Witches wished to distance themselves from those old images, and nor could Lirith entirely blame them. Yet the Crone was a facet of who the Witches were. She was old and ugly, but She was wise as well, and subtle in Her power. If they dismissed Her, they would lose much.

  However, Lirith knew that not all believed as she did. What she had not guessed was that such individuals would speak openly on the first night of the High Coven. And who was this golden-haired witch named Liendra? Lirith had never heard of her before, although she had caught a few whispered rumors last night—how Liendra hailed from Borelga in Brelegond, where she had come into the Witches only a few years ago, the daughter of a minor noble house, and had quickly risen to a role in the triumvirate of the Borelgan Coven.

  Still, despite the dissension among the Witches, when Ivalaine had called for them to weave as one, Lirith had felt all the women come together, binding their threads into one great, shimmering web. Perhaps their differences could be overcome. Not that Lirith had been able truly to immerse herself in the weaving. She had barely Touched the Weirding at all since the morning she had glimpsed the seething tangle of threads. She could only hope Ivalaine had not noticed that her strand had been missing from the web.

  She reached Tressa’s chamber to find a lady-in-waiting outside the door. The young woman quickly ushered Lirith inside, then departed. Tressa’s chamber was much like the woman who dwelled within it: motherly and comforting. Crimson carpets softened the floor, and pillows seemed to strew every available flat surface.

  The queen’s advisor stood near the arched window. Next to her was another woman. With a jolt, Lirith realized it was Aryn. The young baroness’s blue gown was slightly askew.

  “Thank you for coming so early, sister,” Tressa said. She wore a simple robe of green, and her red hair was bound in a tight knot at her neck.

  “Of course, sister.” Lirith’s gaze flickered to Aryn. The young woman gave a slight shrug; evidently she had no idea what this was about either.

  “I saw that look, sisters,” Tressa said in musical tones.

  Both Lirith and Aryn winced. However, Tressa smiled to show she was not displeased.

  “Well, I don’t suppose I can blame you. Curiosity is hardly a crime in our circle, now is it? And I’m certain you both wonder why I’ve called you here at this hour.”

  “What is it, sister?” Lirith asked.

  Tressa’s smile faded. “There’s been an incident.”

  Lirith listened with increasing interest as Tressa described what had happened.

  It seemed, earlier that morning, a novitiate had been dispatched to wake Sister Cirynn, for it was customary for the one chosen as Maiden to greet the dawn on each day of the High Coven. However, Cirynn had not been in her bed. A quick search of the castle—no doubt with the assistance of the Touch—had revealed the young woman’s location: the barracks room of some of the queen’s guardsmen. Tressa had found Cirynn fast asleep, wearing a smile upon her face. As were several of the guards.

  Tressa heaved a deep sigh. “It seemed our Maiden is a maiden no longer, and likely has not been one for some time. Which means we must find a replacement at once.”

  Lirith felt her chest tighten. “But Sister Tressa, I—”

  The red-haired witch lifted a hand. “Of course, dear one. A Matron you would be. But there was another I was thinking of.”

  Of course—how could she have been so stupid? Lirith gave an emphatic nod. “I quite agree, Sister Tressa.”

  “And is she ready, then? You are her teacher, Sister Lirith. That is why I summoned you here.”

  Lirith thought carefully—this was not a decision to make lightly—but then she nodded again. “There is much she has yet to learn, and her command is not so deep as her ability. But she is ready for this. You could not choose better than Sister Aryn.”

  Lirith couldn’t help smiling at the effect these words produced. Were it not attached to her face, Aryn would have had to pick her jaw up from the carpet.

  “There, there, child,” Tressa said, taking her hand. “You needn’t make such a fuss. It’s a simple enough role, you’ll see. You’ll be a lovely Maiden. And you are a maiden, are you not?”

  Aryn’s face blazed bright red as she fumbled for words.

  “Very well, that’s answer enough,” Tressa said, patting her glowing cheek.

  Lirith moved to the young baroness and embraced her. “Sia be with you, sister. I am so pleased.”

  Aryn let out a small gasp as she returned the embrace with her left arm, but she seemed unable to utter any words.

  “All right, then,” Tressa said. “We must be off, Sister Aryn. There is much to teach you before the coven meets again.”

  “Good luck,” Lirith said, releasing the young woman.

  Aryn gave her hand one last squeeze. “Thank you,” she said at last, blue eyes shining. “For everything.”

  Lirith only nodded as Tressa bustled the young woman from t
he room. The door shut, and Lirith sighed, alone again.

  Now what? There was little for her to do until that evening, when the witches in the castle would meet in smaller circles and covens. It was in three days that the High Coven would reach its climax, when the Witches charted their future course as one. In the meantime, the witches in the castle would meet in smaller groups, exchanging simples, spells … and whispers.

  Lirith was to meet with a group of witches her own age that evening. She looked forward to it, for there would be seven of them, one hailing from each of the seven Dominions. But what could she do until then? She could think of nothing … unless she tried once more to use the Touch.

  She started to shut her eyes.

  “I knew she’d forget me,” a sullen voice said.

  Lirith’s eyes popped open. So she was not alone after all.

  He slouched in a corner, half-sunk into a pile of pillows, his bloodred tunic merging with the crimson fabric. Long, black hair half concealed the pale oval of his face.

  “Lord Teravian!” Lirith said.

  The young man sat up, cross-legged on the pillows. “You were about to cast a spell, weren’t you? Your kind are always casting spells. So did I ruin it?”

  Lirith drew in a breath, her composure quickly returning, and took a step toward him. “It was nothing, my lord. You needn’t apologize.”

  A smirk touched his mouth. “I didn’t apologize. I think it’s funny when you make mistakes. It’s like seeing a spider get caught in its own web.”

  Lirith forced her visage to remain smooth. Aryn was right; Teravian was a frustrating boy. He hardly seemed related to the blustering but good-hearted king of Calavan. Boreas was a solid bull of a man; his son seemed more like a shadow—slight, dark, and ephemeral. Still, Teravian was King Boreas’s heir and Queen Ivalaine’s ward. Lirith knew she must treat him with respect.

  “We have never properly met, my lord,” Lirith said. “I am the countess of—”

  “I know who you are, Lirith of Arafel,” Teravian said in a bored voice. He flicked his hair back over a thin shoulder. “I know everyone in this grotty castle. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

  Lirith sighed. So much for that line of polite conversation.

  Teravian stood and walked to the window. Unlike so many young men of sixteen winters, Boreas’s son was anything but awkward. He moved with lean, catlike grace, leaning on the stone sill, gazing through rippled glass at the bright world beyond. Lirith supposed there was nothing to do but ask her leave. She took a step forward—then was surprised as her lips uttered a different question.

  “Why are you here in Lady Tressa’s chamber, my lord?”

  He kept his back to her. “Are you a dolt? I was being punished, of course. It’s not like they talk to me for any other reason.”

  Lirith ignored his insult. “What were you being punished for?”

  He turned, his green eyes piercing beneath the sharp, black line of his eyebrows. They nearly joined above his nose, but the effect was striking rather than homely.

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you? Sister. Why should you care?”

  Lirith said nothing; she knew he would speak if she waited. It did not take long.

  “I’m being punished for stealing bread from a bread-monger in the bailey.” His voice was defiant, although his shoulders crunched inward.

  “Why did you steal bread? Does not Ivalaine feed you all the bread you wish?”

  Teravian clenched his hands into fists. “You’re just like they are! You’d rather believe some horrid little peasant instead of me. But I don’t care what you think. I didn’t do it—I didn’t steal his grotty bread.”

  “I believe you.”

  Teravian opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, as if only just hearing what she had said. His eyes narrowed.

  “Why do you believe me?”

  “Did you speak a lie?”

  “No. I told you I didn’t do it.”

  “Then that is why I believe you.”

  Instead of replying, Teravian flopped back down on the heap of pillows. He picked one up, fidgeting with the tasseled fringe, not looking at her.

  “I’m sure you can go now,” Lirith said.

  “No, I can’t. Tressa never dismissed me. She was just getting into it about the breadmonger when she learned about some grotty maiden who was having a roll with a few guardsmen. It sounds to me like the maiden was just trying to have a little fun. But I suppose that’s a crime in this castle. The news put Tressa all in a spin, and she forgot about me. People always forget about me.”

  Lirith arched an eyebrow. “And why do you suppose that is?”

  Teravian seemed to think about this, then he looked up at her. “Don’t people always forget the things they don’t like?”

  Lirith pressed her lips together. How could she deny the truth of that? She wasn’t certain why—he was without doubt a self-centered, brattish young man—but she felt a desire to comfort him. Maybe it was that, in a small way, he reminded her of Daynen: a slight youth lost in a world of shadow.

  “You’re wrong,” he said before she could speak. “Talking to Ivalaine about it won’t make it any better. She won’t believe me, either.”

  Lirith stiffened. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  These were the first words she had spoken that truly seemed to affect him. He blinked, his lips going slack. “I don’t know. I suppose … I just know things sometimes.”

  Lirith studied him. Were he female, she would have probed, tested. But he was male—it couldn’t be. Yet she knew, on rare occasions, that there were men with some scant shred of talent.

  His expression sharpened into a frown. “Quit looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “All hard and wondering. She’s always looking at me that way, like I’m something she’s got in a jar.”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  Teravian stood. “Can I go now? If you say I can go, then I can blame you if Tressa gets angry at me.”

  Lirith took a step back, then nodded. “You may go.”

  He brushed past her, leaving without another look. Lirith started to turn, to at least say good-bye, then froze as something caught her eye.

  It was the pillow Teravian had been idly playing with. Somehow he must have pulled apart one of its seams, for spilling out of it was a mass of yarn. The tangled knot of threads seemed to seethe and expand even as she watched, and a sickness filled her. But it was an accident. He couldn’t have done it on purpose. Could he?

  I just know things sometimes.…

  Lirith clasped a hand to her mouth and hurried from the chamber.

  11.

  “Do you have any sense at all of what they’re up to, Melia?” Falken said, pacing back and forth before the sun-filled window of Ar-tolor’s library.

  “Just a moment, Falken,” the amber-eyed lady murmured, not looking up from the wood-covered book open on the table before her. “I’m just getting to the good part.”

  Durge craned his neck, attempting to peer surreptitiously over Lady Melia’s shoulder. He was curious what a person like Melia—who was so terribly wise—would choose to read.

  “Don’t even bother trying, Durge,” Falken said with a snort. “It’s not as if she’s reading something interesting. I’m afraid it’s one of those newfangled romances the bards here in Ar-tolor have taken to penning.”

  Durge frowned. “Romances? How could one compose an entire book about romances?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Falken said. “But as far as I can tell, they’re all about long-haired knights in white armor who sing songs about flowers and slay dragons in order to win the hearts of wan maidens who don’t seem to do anything but pine about having to marry some rich king.”

  Durge stroked his drooping mustaches. “These knights and maidens you describe sound demented.”

  “Oh, they are,” Falken went on, grinning wolfishly now. “They’re always s
pouting poems about how gold and jewels mean nothing, how love is stronger than a thousand swords, and other positively absurd ideas. All I want to know is whatever happened to good stories—you know, ones where the dragon eats the suitor and the maiden forgets about him, marries a wealthy baron, gets fat, and has lots of kids?”

  Durge nodded in approval. “I like that story.”

  “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? But these romances”—Falken waved his hand at an entire shelf of books with ornate gold writing on their spines—“as far as I can tell, they contain nothing of any importance.”

  “And what would you know about what is or isn’t important to a woman, dear?” Melia said pleasantly, her eyes still on the book. “The last time I counted, it had been a century since you had good fortune with a lady. Or has it been two?”

  Falken clenched his hands into fists, sputtered something completely unintelligible, then turned and stamped back to the window.

  Melia sighed, shut the book, and clasped it to her chest. “Now this,” she said, “is how a man should behave.”

  “My lady …” Durge began. It was time to quit discussing modern literature and find out why Melia and Falken had called him there.

  “Of course, dear,” Melia said, handing him the book. “You may borrow it. But don’t get any blood or food on it. And pay particular attention to page seventy-four. Only use more flower petals.”

  Durge accepted the book in fumbling hands. He flipped through the stiff parchment pages, but the few words and pictures he glimpsed were far more strange and mysterious than anything he had ever read in one of his tomes concerning the alchemical arts. The knight hastily set the book on a stack of others the moment Melia turned her back.

  “Oh, quit sulking, Falken,” she said.

  He didn’t turn away from the window. “It hasn’t been that long since I got lucky.”

  “Of course, dear. I forgot to count the one-eyed fishwife in Gendarra.”