The Last Rune 4: Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  Aryn knew it was not her place to ask about Ivalaine’s private matters, but all the same she couldn’t help herself. “But what is it? What troubles the queen so?”

  “The moon wears three faces, does it not? And so does Ivalaine, even though she is but one woman.”

  Aryn chewed a knuckle. It did seem as if that was what Ivalaine had been saying to herself: something about how she was a queen before she was a witch, and how maybe she should be a mother above all. But that didn’t make sense. The queen wasn’t married, and she had no children. Perhaps she was referring to her subjects. Were they not like children to a queen? That had to be what she meant.

  “It must be very hard for her,” Aryn said.

  “Sometimes we are forced to make unbearable choices.” Mirda reached out and took Aryn’s left hand. “Even as you yourself have a choice to make.”

  Aryn felt a surge of warmth that was not from the fire. Mirda had not spoken in her mind with the Touch, but all the same Aryn understood.

  “Yes,” Mirda said, her almond-shaped eyes serious. “A dangerous path lies before you. I have given you knowledge some in the Witches have sought to keep secret for long years— knowledge they yet try to hide, or even destroy. It is up to you what you will do with it. But before you decide, let me tell you this: There are those among the Witches who have never forgotten the prophecies of the wise ones. We are the same who were saddened to see the crones shunted to the very edges of the Pattern. And while we are few, there are yet things we can accomplish, as you saw in the weaving of the Pattern. For many years we have met and worked together in secret.”

  The heat of the fire went thin; it felt as if a cold draft had blown through the room.

  “You’re part of a shadow coven!” Aryn gasped.

  Mirda gave a tight smile. “I suppose that’s what others might call us.”

  Lirith had told Aryn of the shadow covens during one of their lessons: small groups of women who met apart and in secret from the Witches, working their own spells, weaving their own patterns. Many of the shadow covens of old had been dark in nature, seeking ways in which to use the Weirding for the purpose of controlling and manipulating others. It was the discovery of this by common folk that had, a century ago, led to the burning and drowning of many witches.

  Aryn pulled her hand back from Mirda. “But all of the shadow covens were disbanded. That’s why we come together in a single High Coven now, so that we all work as one.”

  “And would you work with Sister Liendra and her faction?” Mirda’s words were spoken in her usual even tone, but all the same they were like a slap.

  “So one shadow coven survived.”

  “One that I know of, at least,” Mirda said. “But if we persisted, who is to say there might not be others? Regardless, now you come to your choice. You can join with us, and in so doing become a renegade, a heretic—crimes punishable by having your thread plucked from the greater Pattern of the Witches. And believe me, it is a terrible punishment, worse even than you imagine. For once the spell is worked, if enough Witches join in its weaving, you can never Touch the Weirding again.”

  Aryn shuddered; the very thought made her ill. It would be like death, only worse. For she would know every minute of every day exactly what she was missing.

  “Or you can reveal our presence to our sisters in the Witches,” Mirda said. “You can send a missive to Sister Liendra. Be assured this will cause you to rise high in her favor. And you can watch as my sisters and I are discovered and, one by one, cut from the Pattern and the Weirding forever.”

  “And what if I do nothing?”

  “That is the one thing you cannot do.”

  “Then I—”

  Mirda held up a hand. “No, sister. Such a decision should not be made in a moment. Think on it until the moon is full, three days hence, and tell me your decision then. Unless, of course, it is your desire to go to Liendra at this moment.”

  “No!” Aryn blurted out, horrified.

  “Then in the meantime let us continue your lessons.”

  It was nearly impossible to concentrate after what she had seen, after what Mirda had told her. All the same, Aryn commanded herself to focus on the task at hand. Her goal that day was to learn her first spell in the art of illusion, and soon Aryn lost herself in the lesson.

  “By reshaping the threads of the Weirding,” Mirda said, “you can convince the eye that it sees something that isn’t truly there.”

  Mirda handed Aryn a silver hand mirror. Aryn’s task was to alter the appearance of her own face in the mirror. It was hard. Aryn stared into the mirror for what seemed an eternity, but the only alterations to her visage were in the way it twisted into horrible grimaces as she concentrated, and the slight blue tinge it took on when she held her breath too long.

  She couldn’t do it. How could she ever deceive another if she couldn’t even deceive herself?

  But that’s not true, Aryn. There was another once whom you deceived, wasn’t there?

  Even as she thought this, the mirror seemed to ripple like the surface of a smooth pond after a pebble is thrown in. A woman gazed at Aryn out of the mirror, her hair a burnished red-gold, her eyes sharp and scheming. Aryn gasped, and in a heartbeat the image of the strange woman was gone; now it was her own startled face that stared out from the mirror.

  “Very good,” Mirda said, taking the mirror. “That was a difficult spell. Few master it their first time. But you’ll need much more practice to be able to maintain it.”

  Aryn hardly heard these words. What had she been thinking just before the image in the mirror changed? She was certain it was important, only now she couldn’t recall what it was. Just that for some reason it made her think of Lirith and Grace.

  “Sister?”

  Mirda’s voice was soft with concern. Aryn shook her head. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking of Sister Lirith and Lady Grace, that’s all.” A sigh escaped her. “I wish I could speak to them.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  Aryn stared at the elder witch. What was she talking about?

  “You know the spell of speaking across the Weirding,” Mirda said. “I’ve heard your voice.”

  “But I don’t know where in the world Lirith is. And Grace is leagues and leagues away from here. I can’t possibly talk to someone so far away.”

  “And why not?”

  Aryn didn’t have an answer to that, other than that it seemed impossible. Once she had tried to speak to Lirith over the Weirding when the witch was in another part of the castle, and she had failed.

  Mirda moved to the window; sunlight bathed her face. “The Weirding is a vast web. It spans the entire world, weaving among all things and connecting them together no matter how far apart they are. Wherever your friends are, if they are on Eldh, then at this very moment you are connected to them. All you have to do is follow the right threads, and you’ll find them.”

  It was madness. Aryn’s power couldn’t possibly reach so far. All the same, she found herself saying, “I want to try it.”

  Mirda studied her for a moment, and Aryn didn’t know what she saw, but at last the witch nodded.

  “Sit down,” Mirda said. “Shut your eyes and form a clear picture of your friend in your mind.”

  Aryn did as instructed. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the sun against her cheeks. In her mind she pictured Grace—for of the two Grace seemed somehow a little closer right then.

  “Start with your own thread,” Mirda said, her voice a low chant. “Follow it outward until it crosses another strand. Test that strand, ask it if it will lead you closer to your friend. If so, follow it, if not, stay on your original path. At each crossing, test the strands again.”

  “But how do I know that what the strands tell me will be true?” Aryn said, eyes still shut. “What about the illusion I just wrought with the Weirding?”

  “You are the worker of the spell. Just as you knew what you saw in the mirror was illusion, so you will know
what is a lie and what isn’t in the Weirding. Life cannot deceive you if your heart is true.” Aryn felt a gentle touch against each of her temples. “Now go, find your friend.”

  Aryn gathered her will, then reached out with the Touch. Her own blue strand shimmered before her. She followed it outward and saw other threads: Mirda’s brilliant pearl-white strand, the threads of servants passing by outside the room, and the delicate gossamer of other creatures that lived in the castle—spiders and mice and doves. Then she was in the garden, a vibrant green tapestry of life.

  She came to a crossing of threads. Which way? She tested one of the threads as Mirda said, probing it gently, showing it the picture of Grace in her mind. This way, the thread seemed to say to her.

  Eagerly, Aryn followed the strand. Soon she came to another crossing of threads. She tested one of the threads, and words seemed to resonate in her mind. Yes, this is the way. Again she tested threads, and again. Each time they led her onward. Exhilaration filled her.

  And then confusion. Why was she still in the garden? Shouldn’t she be outside the castle already? And why was it that at each crossing she was always lucky enough to test the right thread the first time?

  She came to an intersection of many threads. She tested one. Come this way, it seemed to whisper to her. However, this time she didn’t follow the strand. Instead, she tested another thread, and another.

  This way. Yes, this is right. Follow me!

  They couldn’t all be the right strand to follow, but each one claimed it was. Only how could that be? Mirda had said life couldn’t lie.

  No, that wasn’t exactly what she had said.

  Life cannot deceive you if your heart is true....

  The spell unraveled in Aryn’s hands, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Sister Mirda gazed at her with sad eyes. Then the witch turned away. The door opened and shut, and Aryn was alone.

  46.

  That afternoon, Aryn went hunting for spiders.

  She walked through empty parts of the castle, down dusty corridors, searching with both her eyes and her mind. No bells drew her onward this time, but she didn’t need them. Once she got close to her quarry, she would know he was there. For it was not an arachnid she wanted to find, but a man with a pointed blond beard and a gray cloak.

  As she walked, thoughts crowded her mind. Never would she have guessed, of all witches, that Sister Mirda belonged to a shadow coven. Nor would Aryn have ever thought she would be deciding whether or not to join herself. Was Mirda leading her down a path to darkness? Perhaps. To danger? Most certainly. The shadow covens had all been banned by the Witches a century ago, and seemingly for good reason, for many of them had practiced evil magic, using their talents to bind and control others. Only it was difficult to believe Mirda could be leading her astray.

  Was Ivalaine a member of this shadow coven as well? Aryn didn’t see how that could be; after all, the queen had joined her thread with Liendra’s faction in the weaving of the Pattern. Ivalaine had had no choice, not if she wished to remain Matron.

  Then again, it seemed likely Ivalaine was aware of Mirda’s shadow coven, and if she believed the same as they believed, it might explain why she had told Boreas so much about Aryn and the Witches. Liendra and her cronies believed the Warriors were the enemy because they were destined to somehow aid Runebreaker in the Final Battle. But if Runebreaker wasn’t their foe, then neither were the men of Vathris. That might be why Ivalaine confided in Boreas, especially since Calavan and Toloria were historically close allies.

  Aryn turned her mind to other matters. After returning to her chamber the previous night, she had finally realized what it was that had been bothering her since her first conversation with Mirda. It had to do with the missive she had sent to Ivalaine, the one she had written in Gendarra describing what had taken place in Tarras. Ivalaine couldn’t have gotten the missive; she had to have left Ar-tolor before it arrived there. So how had she and Mirda known about Lirith’s absence?

  Maybe there really is a way to speak so far across the Weirding, even though you couldn’t do it. Maybe someone in Ar-tolor contacted Mirda or the queen.

  But who was it? Who in Ar-tolor would have received the missive in Ivalaine’s absence?

  With a sudden surge of dread, Aryn realized she knew the answer.

  “Liendra,” she whispered aloud.

  Yes, it made perfect sense. Liendra had a way of usurping power that didn’t belong to her. In the queen’s absence, surely she would have elevated herself above any other witches in Ar-tolor. Likely even Tressa, the queen’s advisor. Although Aryn guessed it was probably Tressa who had somehow contacted the queen over the leagues, letting her know about the missive.

  However, there could be no doubt Liendra had seen Aryn’s letter, perhaps had even seen it first. And that meant she knew everything about Travis.

  But Travis is lost, along with the others, I know you want to see them all desperately, but maybe he won’t come back. That way Liendra and her witches can’t capture him.

  But that wouldn’t do, would it? Travis had to come back to Eldh because somehow he was going to save the world in the Final Battle. And if he didn’t come back, then neither would Lirith and Sareth. Or Durge.

  Thoughts flitted about in Aryn’s mind like agitated bees. It was all so confusing, and in just three days she was supposed to make a decision that would at the very least change her life, and which could even cause her thread to be cut off from the Weirding forever. If only there was a way she could discover more before she had to decide, something that would help her know what to do.

  But there was a way she could learn more, and that was why she had come there. At that moment she felt it: a ripple in the threads of the Weirding. Something—someone—was near.

  “Spider!” she hissed on the dusty air. “Spider, I know you’re there. Show yourself!”

  The solid stone to her left seemed to melt, and suddenly the slender blond man stood beside her.

  “Why were you hiding from me? I’m certain you knew I was looking for you.”

  Aldeth smoothed his gray cloak. “Just as I’d know if there were a herd of cattle walking down the corridor. But I’m a spy, my lady. Hiding is in my blood.”

  Aryn was quite certain she hadn’t been that loud, but in the spirit of goodwill she opted to ignore the insult. “So, have you found out anything spying on the king?”

  “If I did, I would have to be a drooling half-wit to tell his ward and soon to be daughter-in-law.”

  “Interesting,” Aryn said, tapping her jaw. “You know I’m to marry Prince Teravian. So that’s one thing you’ve learned so far. Is there anything else?”

  He scowled. “Don’t ask me, my lady. Go talk to that Witch Queen of yours. She’s the one who’s been meeting with Boreas every night in the council chamber. I’m certain she can tell you everything you want to know about this little war they’re planning.”

  “So they’re making plans for a war?” Aryn chewed her lip. “But of course, it makes sense. All the signs point to the Final Battle. They must believe it’s coming soon. You’re full of all sorts of interesting facts, Spider.”

  Aldeth shook a fist at her. “Stop it!”

  “Stop what?”

  “You know very well what. You’re reading my mind with some sort of spell, aren’t you?”

  “No, but we could try it if you’d like. It could be fun. You see, I’ve never done that sort of spell on a human before, just mice. And all they ever seemed to think about was cheese. Until their brains oozed out of their ears, that is. And after that, they were no fun at all.”

  The Spider backed away from her, mouth open.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m kidding.”

  “Well, it’s not funny,” he said in a wounded voice. “Some of us are rather attached to our brains. They provide us with hours of joy and entertainment, and we’d really prefer to keep them inside our skulls.”

  “Fine. No
mind reading. I promise.”

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Now maybe you’ll tell me why you’ve come here. Unless it was just to bother me, in which case you can consider the mission a rousing success.”

  Aryn took a step forward. “It’s about our conversation the other day.”

  “And here comes the extortion part.”

  “Well, it was your suggestion.”

  The Spider gave her a sour look. “Get on with it. You’re cutting into my valuable skulking time. What onerous favor do you want in exchange for not revealing my presence to the king and having my head put on a pike?”

  Aryn could hardly believe she was really going to say the words. “I want you to spy on Queen Ivalaine.”

  Annoyance left the Spider’s expression, and he raised a single eyebrow. “It seems you’ve taken to heart my lesson about the importance of spying on one’s friends. What do you want to know about the queen?”

  Aryn drew in a deep breath. “Everything.”

  Minutes later, feeling less than good about herself, Aryn walked back toward more frequented parts of the castle. It was wrong to ask Aldeth to spy on Ivalaine, but it seemed like the only choice. Ivalaine knew something that was causing her grave distress. It had to do with the shadow coven, and what they believed about Runebreaker, Aryn was certain of it. If she could learn what Ivalaine thought, it might help her to make the right decision. Still, she felt vaguely ill. Despite Aldeth’s admonition, she was fairly sure that true friends didn’t spy on one another.

  “Well,” said a sneering voice, “did you have fun talking to your little spy?”

  Aryn’s heart skipped a beat in surprise. He had no mistcloak to hide him from her eyes, but his black attire served almost as well in this dim corridor. She had been walking briskly, head down, lost in thought, and so hadn’t seen him until he spoke.

  “Prince Teravian!” she gasped.

  A smile cut across his face. Clearly he enjoyed having startled her. “You aren’t going to fall over from fright, are you? Not that it wouldn’t be funny...”

  Her cheeks grew warm. “Is that so, my lord? No doubt you’d laugh even harder if I was so lucky as to crack my head open and bleed. Well, when you are my husband, you may order me about as you wish. I can perform a pratfall for you anytime you like. Perhaps the prince would prefer it if I wore not a gown at our wedding but a jester’s motleys.”