by Mark Anthony
She was just about to return inside when motion below caught her eye. A small side door of the castle opened, and a figure clad in a drab brown cloak and hood stumbled out—a woman by her slender form. The woman looked back over her shoulder as if at the one who had pushed her, but the door slammed shut. She stumbled forward. Then, as if sensing eyes upon her, she looked up, and the hood of her cloak fell back. Even in the dim light, Lirith could make out the pale oval of her face, framed by dark curls.
Below, Cirynn searched back and forth, but Lirith stepped into a shadow. At last the young woman who had been Maiden lowered her gaze. She stumbled down the path that led from the castle, weaving left and right, as if she did not know where she was going.
Lirith didn’t know how—perhaps it was simply experience—but somehow she knew exactly where Cirynn was heading, even if the scheming young woman did not know herself. She sighed. Lirith, of all people, knew what a brutal and hardening place a brothel could be.
Sia watch over her, she prayed silently, then turned and stepped back into the castle.
The next morning, just after dawn, Lirith rose and went in search of Aryn—of whom she had not seen so much as an eyelash in the last two days. She found the baroness just leaving Tressa’s chamber.
“Our new Maiden is doing wonderfully,” the red-haired witch said with a motherly smile. “She will be thoroughly prepared for her role tomorrow evening.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Lirith said.
When the door shut behind them, leaving the two alone in the corridor, Lirith grinned and squeezed Aryn’s hand.
“You’re marvelous,” she said.
Aryn gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know about that. But I have managed to keep my head from exploding, despite all the things Sister Tressa has stuffed into it. I had no idea there were so many rules to follow just to be a Maiden.”
Lirith nodded. “I’ve heard it’s much simpler to be Crone. But then, by the time you’ve made it to that age, I don’t think you want a lot of younger witches telling you what to do.”
“I should think not,” Aryn said.
They walked for a time past sun-dappled windows. Lirith spoke of what she had done at the coven, and Aryn described the things she had learned in her studies. At last they made their farewells in the castle’s entry hall. However, just as they began to part ways, a woman stepped through the main doors of the castle.
She was a witch, that much was certain, although Lirith could not recall seeing her at the coven. And she was certainly striking enough to remember. Her dark eyes were slightly tilted, and her midnight hair marked by a single lock of pearl. The witch passed the two women, her multicolored robe fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
“Good morrow, sister,” the witch said, nodding to Aryn. Then she moved through an archway and was gone.
Lirith looked at the baroness. “Who was that?”
“Her name is Sister Mirda.”
Lirith had not heard the name before. “Is she one of Liendra’s group?”
“No, I don’t think so. At the first meeting of the coven, she wished for Sia to bless me.”
Lirith considered this. Surely no one from Liendra’s faction would impart such a blessing. However, Lirith knew the great majority of the witches in the Dominions by name if not by sight. Only she had never heard the name Mirda before.
“Maybe she’s a friend of Ivalaine’s,” Aryn said with a shrug.
Lirith sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure Ivalaine has any true friends among the Witches. Many respect her, of course. But she has made it her place to stay a step removed from the others, to be a source of unity when there is dissension.”
“Do you think she can remain that way? She tries to balance herself among all views, but Liendra is not the only one who wants to know what Ivalaine believes.”
Lirith could not disagree. But as for what Ivalaine truly thought—that was a mystery that would have to wait.
Kissing Lirith quickly on the cheek, Aryn turned and dashed down a corridor, looking like nothing so much as a dark-haired girl, although this coming winter would be her twentieth. Lirith smiled, then turned to make her own way through the castle.
This time it came utterly without warning. She had not even been using the Touch, but it was there all the same, undulating in the corner of the entry hall: a tangled mass of threads. Lirith’s mouth opened to scream, but no air passed into or out of her lungs. Even as she watched, the seething knot seemed to reach out hungrily, drawing more shimmering threads into itself. They dimmed to dull gray as they merged with the tangle. Then Lirith felt the first few tugs on her being. Memories flooded her. Once before she had been pulled like this toward a destination that would devour her.
Dance, my little grackle. Ah, but you are not so little anymore, and you can hide your beauty no longer. Come dance, and they will shower you with gold. Dance!
A moan escaped her lips, and Lirith began to sway back and forth. The seething of the knot quickened, as if excited by her movements. A gray thread spun out, reaching for her.
“My lady?”
The far corner of the hall was empty; the tangle was gone. Before Lirith stood a serving maid—barely more than a girl—a fearful look on her dirt-smudged face.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you ill? Should I send for the queen’s men?”
Lirith found her voice. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The serving maid ducked her head, then scurried from the hall.
Lirith glanced once more at the corner, but she knew that even if she used the Touch she would not see it again.
But it’s still there, I can feel it. And it’s growing.
Yet what did it mean?
A thought struck her. There was one who might know—one who was older and wiser than any witch in this castle. Lirith picked up the hem of her gown and ran from the hall.
13.
Melia was not in her chamber.
“I’m sorry, Lirith,” Falken said, looking up from his lute. “I’m afraid she was in one of her moods today. When she left, I didn’t ask where she was going.”
Melia couldn’t have gone far in an hour; at least so Lirith assumed. However, Melia had powers she couldn’t hope to understand. And that was precisely why Lirith needed to find her.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said breathlessly.
Falken opened his mouth to reply, but before the bard could speak Lirith turned and dashed back down the passageway.
In no particular order, she tried the great hall, the baths, the library—even the privy—all with no luck. After that, she ventured outside. However, there was no sign of Lady Melia in the bailey, the orchard, or the stables. At last Lirith was forced to halt, leaning against a stone wall near Ar-tolor’s north tower. She had run out of both castle and breath, all with no sign of the amber-eyed lady. She would simply have to talk to Melia later.
And how much larger will it grow in the meantime?
She considered going to Ivalaine, to tell her what she had seen, but something held her back. Certainly if any other witches had glimpsed the tangle, Lirith would have heard whispers. That meant she was likely the only one who had seen it. In which case Ivalaine might simply declare her mad or ill and remove her from the coven. That Lirith could not allow.
It would just have to wait until she saw Melia again. Then, if the lady could not help her, Lirith would go to Ivalaine. Drawing a breath into her lungs, Lirith started back toward the main keep of the castle. But as she heard the faint sound of singing, she realized there was one place she had not looked.
The shrine was small and shadowed; it was little more than a wooden shack, really, leaning against the outside wall of the castle. But then, the mysteries of Mandu the Everdying had never been terribly popular in the Dominions, and certainly not in Toloria. Most of the mystery cults offered its followers salvation and the promise of joy after death. However, the cult of the Everdying God promised nothing to those who followed its mysteries—
no final peace nor golden land of promise. Instead it offered only the story of its godhead: Mandu, who was born, who grew, and who was slain by treachery again and again, as inexorably as day was stolen by night.
But while the cult of Mandu might not have been popular in Toloria, Lirith knew that would not matter to her. They were her brothers and sisters, were they not? Lirith stepped forward, into the shadow of the little shrine.
Inside, Melia was dancing.
Lirith froze. The singing was clearer now; it was Melia whom she had heard outside. The lady’s voice was rich and bright as burnished copper, rising and falling in a wordless melody that reminded Lirith, in a way, of the undulating music of the Mournish.
As she sang, Melia moved in a slow circle, holding her arms in elegant curves. Her head was tilted back so that her onyx hair spilled down the back of her white kirtle, and her eyes were closed in rapture. On the stone altar stood an ivory likeness of Mandu, arms at his side, one foot forward. He gazed ahead with blind, serene eyes, a knowing smile on his lips.
“Melia?” Lirith gasped.
At once the small woman staggered, her eyes fluttering open. Lirith rushed forward, grasping Melia before she could fall. The lady was as light as a bird against her.
“Sister?” she whispered, her voice tiny and forlorn. “Sister, is it you? I do not think I can bear it. I know now that it was he who made the river run red with the blood of our people. I would rather die than wed such a monster.”
For a horrible moment Melia’s face was a mask of confusion, her amber eyes wide with fear. Then Melia stiffened. Gently, but forcefully, she disentangled herself from Lirith’s grasp.
“Lirith,” she said, her regal face stern. “What is the meaning of this?”
Lirith fought to keep from reeling. “You were dancing, Melia. You nearly fell. I … I caught you.”
Melia frowned. “Dancing? I have not danced in more than two thousand years. Not since …”
Her voice trailed off as she followed Lirith’s gaze to her bare feet and the gold rings on her toes.
Melia’s ire melted. She glanced over her shoulder at the altar. “I had come to speak to my brother. Mandu was ever the most sensitive of the Nindari, and I have been hearing such strange news from the south. I wished to know what he thought of it all. Only I must have lost myself in the past for a moment.” Her gaze grew sharp once more. “But I am quite well now, Lady Lirith. Is there something you wish of me?”
Lirith winced at Melia’s formal manner. But it was her own fault; she was the one who had chosen to greet the lady so coldly when she arrived at Ar-tolor. Now she regretted that action. What cause did she have to be so mistrustful of Melia?
You know perfectly well the cause, Lirith. She and Falken are agents of Runebreaker, are they not?
Lirith forced this thought from her mind; right then there was a more immediate question to answer. Before she lost her nerve, she explained in clipped words about the tangle she had twice glimpsed in the Weirding.
When Lirith finished, Melia folded her arms and paced before the altar. “Can this possibly be related to the whispers we have been hearing?” she murmured, although Lirith had the sense Melia was speaking not to her but to the statue of Mandu.
She answered nonetheless. “What whispers do you mean?”
Melia glanced up, as if she had already forgotten Lirith was there. “I’m not entirely certain I can put them into words. They aren’t really whispers in the sense you think.” She cast a fond glance back at the altar. “Words are limiting things. Yet most of what I have heard has, at its heart, the same matter. Of late, some among the New Gods of Tarras have sensed a change.”
“A change?”
Melia sighed. “How can I explain it any better? It’s as if … you’re sitting in a lovely garden at noon, dozing in the warmth, when suddenly a cloud passes before the sun. Nothing in the garden itself is different than it was a moment ago, and yet the entire nature of the place is altered.”
Lirith thought she understood. “So you’re saying the city of Tarras is like that garden?”
Melia nodded. “Many of the New Gods are uneasy, although none can really say why.”
The words startled Lirith. She had not thought it possible for a god to be afraid. But were not the gods simply reflections of the people who followed them? More powerful and beautiful and sublime by far—but reflections all the same? And certainly people feared things which they could not name.
Lirith nodded to the figure on the altar. “What does he think? Is this shadow in the garden the same as the knot I have seen in the Weirding?”
Melia sighed. “I fear Mandu speaks little anymore. With each circle he completes, he grows more perfect—and, I think, more distant. And I’m afraid I know little enough of the Witches and the Weirding to be able to tell you what this tangle is. Yet it seems to me there must be a connection somehow. Why else would you see a change in your web even as we have seen in ours?”
Lirith felt a bit of the tightness leave her chest. Melia’s words weren’t exactly an answer, but it was a relief to know she wasn’t the only one in the castle who had sensed something strange.
“Do not worry, Lady Lirith,” Melia said. “I shall be happy to tell you any more I might learn.”
Lirith winced—not because the amber-eyed lady seemed to have read her mind, but rather at the coolness in her voice. Once more Lirith rued her foolishness in the great hall.
Before her courage fled her, she lifted the hem of her gown and stepped forward. “You must forgive me, Melia. I did not mean to be so cold to you before. I know you and Falken both work to great good in the world. It’s just …”
Melia’s visage softened. “Of course, dear. And I forgot how difficult it must be for you right now. I doubt the names Falken and Melia are fondly spoken in your circles.”
Lirith gave her head an emphatic shake. “But they don’t—”
Melia raised a slender hand. “No, dear, there is no need to speak of it further.”
Warmth filled Lirith. She knew she should resist, but she could not help herself as she rushed forward and caught the small woman in an embrace. However, Melia did not push her away, but instead returned the gesture with equal fierceness.
“We women of mystery must stick together, dear.”
At last the two women stepped apart. As they did, Melia cocked her head. “Where did you get that necklace, dear?”
Puzzled, Lirith glanced down. The spider charm rested against the bodice of her gown; it must have slipped out when she rushed forward.
“It’s just a trinket of the Mournish. It doesn’t mean anything.” Lirith felt her cheeks flush, for these words weren’t entirely true. It reminded her of him, did it not?
Melia tapped her jaw with a finger. “I believe you are wrong, dear. In my experience, the Mournish make no meaningless trinkets. Everything they craft, however simple, has a purpose and a power. And of all the symbols they fashion, the spider is among the strongest—and the most secret.”
“You sound as if you know them.”
“I know of them. In all the centuries I have walked upon Eldh, I have been among them countless times. Yet I cannot say I truly know the Mournish. I’m not certain anyone who is outside their clans does. And they have never accepted outsiders.”
Lirith turned away, toward the door of the shrine, and clutched the spider charm. “Is that so?”
“What is it, dear? Is something wrong?”
Lirith opened her mouth and knew she would not be able to stop herself from telling Melia everything: the card, the dreams, Sareth. However, at that moment two silhouettes appeared in the door of the shrine.
“Melia, there you are,” Falken said. The bard glanced at Durge beside him. “You were right—I don’t know why I didn’t think to look in the shrines first.”
The Embarran nodded. “It seemed the logical choice.”
Falken moved to the amber-eyed lady. “Are you all right? You were acting a bit peculiar
this morning, and then I couldn’t find you.”
“It’s gallant of you to worry about me,” Melia said, “but I’m quite fine now.”
She smiled at Lirith, and Lirith smiled back.
Falken groaned. “Don’t tell me she’s been giving you lessons.”
“Lessons?” Lirith said in her most mysterious voice. “Concerning what?”
“That!” the bard said. “One beautiful woman who speaks in knowing riddles is quite enough. We don’t need another.”
“Come, Falken,” Melia said, taking the bard’s arm. “Let’s go back to our chamber. You can rant to your heart’s content there.”
The bard gave a snort, then stamped from the shrine, Melia in tow.
“They care for each other deeply,” a solemn voice said after a moment.
Lirith had almost forgotten Durge; the knight’s gray tunic blended with the gloom. But it was what he said that startled her most, for it seemed a tender expression for the usually stern knight. But then, Lirith knew the truth locked beneath his armored exterior.
“I think we can never understand what they have endured together,” she said.
Durge only nodded. In the dimness his craggy face seemed more somber than ever. But it wasn’t just the gray light. These last days the air of grimness the knight wore had become more like a mantle of sorrow. Lirith had first noticed it the morning Melia and Falken arrived at Ar-tolor. She had seen Durge little since that day, but each time he had seemed sadder.
“What is it, Durge?” she said. “Has something happened?” She reached a hand toward him.
The knight’s brown eyes went wide and he shrank from her touch. Her fingers curled in, and she drew her arm back. Then Durge took a half step toward her, as if realizing what he had done.
“My lady …”
“No, Durge, I don’t blame you. Not after what I did to you in the Barrens. You’re wise to keep your distance.”
There was silence for a long minute.
“Have you told her?” Durge asked.
“I have not,” Lirith said. “I gave you my word. I will never tell her.”
