by Mark Anthony
They reached a crossing of ways and came upon another group of women in green shifts. All of them wore wide-eyed expressions. They were even younger than the witches of Aryn’s group; the eldest couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and the youngest was surely not beyond her twelfth winter. Could she truly be a witch at so young an age?
As if sensing eyes upon her, the girl looked up, a knowing expression on her face, her lips curving in a smile. Aryn looked hastily away.
It was only when Nayla nodded to the woman leading the second group that Aryn realized the other was in fact Lirith. The dark-eyed witch looked elegant in her green robe, her black hair tumbling behind her in tight ringlets. Aryn opened her mouth to say something, but a slight shake of Lirith’s head stilled her question.
Not just yet, sister, Aryn thought a voice whispered in her mind. Follow now, speak later.
Lirith nodded in return to the tall witch, then without exchanging words the two led the way down a corridor. The others trailed after in a single group.
It was only when they stepped through a door into cool, purple air, and Aryn breathed in the perfume of evening flowers, that she realized what their destination must be. They left the stone walls of the castle behind, walking down winding paths deeper into Ar-tolor’s gardens.
The gardens of Ar-tolor were both larger and wilder than Calavere’s, with its neat paths and well-tended hedge maze that Aryn had played in so much as a girl she could navigate it with her eyes closed. Here, the walkways tangled back on themselves, leading at every turn to unexpected grottoes, shaded fountains spilling over mossy stones, and thickets where gods peered from leafy shrines with serene marble eyes.
They passed through an arch of moss-covered stone Aryn never recalled seeing in all her garden wanderings and stepped into a great space beyond.
It was like a temple all of green. Ancient trees formed twin colonnades, their trunks like columns arching into slender beams overhead. Flowering vines wove among the branches, completing the walls and vaulted dome. Silver moonlight tinged with emerald filtered down from above, and fallen petals glowed on the ground. Leaves stirred on the night breeze like the whispers of many voices. Then Aryn shivered, and she knew it was more than just the leaves that were whispering.
The garden was filled with witches.
All of them wore the same light green robes, and in the dimness the garments melded with the shadows of the trees, so that it was impossible to be certain how many there were. But Aryn was certain it was tenscore if it was one. A thrill rose in her chest.
Oh, Grace. I wish you could be here for this. It’s so marvelous—I never knew there were so many like us. You’d see that you’re not alone, that you’re never alone.
At the far end of the grove, marble steps led up to a circular rostrum. On the rostrum were seven pedestals, and atop each one shone a globe of light. At first Aryn wondered if they were glass balls filled with fireflies, but that was absurd. How could they be kept alive? Besides, it was too late in the year, and the light the globes gave off was not yellow but greenish like the leaf-filtered moonlight.
“What can it be?” Aryn murmured.
She felt eyes upon her and looked up into Lirith’s midnight gaze.
It is called witchfire, sister. Bright to look at, but cool to the touch.
Witchfire? Lirith had never spoken of such a thing before. But then, there were so many things Aryn had yet to learn. She opened her mouth to say more, but at that moment the tall witch who had led her group spoke.
“This way.”
Nayla guided Aryn and her companions toward the middle of the grove, while Lirith led her group to one side. They passed by other small clusters of women, and when they halted again Aryn saw that there was an order to the placement of the green-robed witches. The youngest were gathered on the right as one faced the rostrum. Aryn’s group was to their left, while in the middle of the grove were witches who were more of an age with Lirith and Grace. Beyond were witches of greater maturity, many beautiful still, but their hair graying, their faces lined with wisdom. And nearly lost in the shadows on the far left side were the eldest of the witches: the hags and crones, backs hunched, limbs gnarled, jaws toothless.
As she turned back, a flash of white caught Aryn’s eye. She glanced in that direction, then gasped. For a moment she thought the young woman was clad in the snowy petals that still drifted down from above, for she seemed to shine in the green gloaming. Then Aryn blinked, and she understood: It was a white robe the other wore—the very same garment she and Lirith had helped to weave only days ago.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” one of the witches of Aryn’s group—the one who had stared at her arm earlier—now whispered in her ear, her brown eyes shining.
Aryn nodded. As a girl, she had gazed into mirrors and had tried to picture what she might be like when she was grown: dark, slender, radiant, and whole. However, as she grew older, Aryn had never seen that beautiful young woman reflected back at her. Until now.
The young witch in white might have been Aryn’s sister. Her hair was dark as shadows, her eyes blue gems, her skin smooth as ivory. Yet there were realms of difference between them, for the other carried herself proud and straight, gazing on everything around her with an assured expression—two well-shaped arms folded across the white robe.
“Who is she?”
Now the young woman with brown eyes laughed; it was a mocking sound. “Why, don’t you know anything? Cirynn is to be the Maiden for this coven.”
The Maiden? Aryn started to ask. However, at that moment, a clear sound rang out over the garden. Three of the very youngest witches stood on the steps of the rostrum, each holding a silver bell of a different size. Three disparate tones blended together, shimmering on the night air.
As the tone faded, the girls left the rostrum and returned to their group. Obviously the first meeting of the coven was about to begin, for other witches hurried through the gathering, making their way to their places.
“Pardon me, deary,” a cracked voice said. “These old bones are sharp, and I’d hate to poke you with them.”
Startled, Aryn turned around to see a hunched form. She breathed a sigh, recognizing the ancient witch she had given the cobweb to the other day. The crone looked just the same—head balding and knobby, hands twisted like roots, red-rimmed eyes like bright buttons lost in masses of wrinkles—except now she wore a robe of ash gray. Once again Aryn recognized her own handiwork: This was the gray robe she and Lirith had helped sew.
“What is it, deary? You look as if you’ve got a bird in your mouth trying to fly out.”
Aryn remembered herself. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Please, come through.”
The crone grinned—displaying bare gums—and hobbled past, disappearing into a shadow near the foot of the rostrum. Next to Aryn, the young witch with brown eyes shuddered.
“She’s positively awful.” The young woman glanced at the left side of the grove. “They’re all awful.”
Aryn shrugged. “They’re just old. We’ll all be old someday, if we’re lucky to live so long.”
The other made an exaggerated grimace. “I should never want to live so long if it means I’ll look like that. I don’t know why we let them come. All they do is mutter about Sia and the old days when nobody cares.”
“But everyone should care,” Aryn said. “Maybe they aren’t young anymore, but they are wise. And beauty isn’t everything.”
The young woman’s brown eyes narrowed to slits. “I suppose someone like you would say that.”
Aryn’s face stung. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the young woman with brown eyes bolted from their group and hurried to the knot of young women clustered around Cirynn. She whispered something in Cirynn’s ear, and Aryn felt blue eyes upon her. As Aryn watched, Cirynn smiled, then twisted her right arm into an unnatural position, drawing it halfway up the sleeve of her white robe as she curled her fingers inward. Those gathered around her clasped hands to m
ouths, failing utterly to stifle their laughter.
Still Aryn stared, turned to ice. The grove dimmed, and the laughter of the young women transmuted, growing higher in pitch, echoing in her mind until it phased into something else—the singsong rhymes of children.
Little Lady Aryn,
What is she wearin’
Under that dress of blue?
A dead bird wing,
Such an ugly thing.
She’d fly if she had two.
Shut up, Aryn wanted to shout at them. Shut up, all of you! But her voice was too small, a little girl’s voice. She couldn’t speak, and she had no wings to let her fly from this place. All she could do was run—run and hide somewhere they wouldn’t be able to find her.
“Sister, are you well?”
Aryn staggered, then a cool hand touched her good arm, steadying her. The images of the past faded, and a figure came into focus before her.
The woman clearly belonged with the witches who stood in the center of the grove—that must have been where she was moving when Aryn stumbled against her. She was beautiful, although not in the pale and perfect manner of Cirynn. Rather, her beauty seemed to radiate from within, its brightness independent of its housing, like the light of a lamp.
Her skin was the color of almonds, her cheeks high, and her nose small and flat across the bridge. Her dark eyes tilted at the corners, and fine lines radiated from them, lending her a sage look. A single streak of frost marked jet hair. Some years ago, Aryn had met a countess who possessed this same exotic look; she had hailed from the eastern reaches of Eredane. Perhaps this witch did as well?
“Sister?”
“I’m fine—really. Thank you.” However, as Aryn spoke, her eyes flickered toward Cirynn’s group.
Her glance was not lost on the other. The witch nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “You must not heed them, sister. They doubt their own beauty and so must belittle that of others. When they grow older, they will learn that beauty is found rather than given. As shall you.” She paused. “But then, you are old beyond your years, are you not?”
The witch lifted a hand and pressed it to Aryn’s cheek. Aryn closed her eyes; it was, strangely, a comforting gesture.
“Sia bless you,” a voice murmured in her ear.
The warmth against her cheek vanished. Aryn opened her eyes to see the witch already moving away.
“But what’s your name?” she said, more to herself than the other, for she dared not shout. All the same, an answer came back, whispering in her mind.
You may call me Sister Mirda.
Then the other was lost in the crowd. Before Aryn could wonder more, motion caught her eye. From the shadows, three figures stepped onto the rostrum: one clad in white, one clad in jade green, and the other in gray.
“I am Her dawn,” said the young woman in white. It was Cirynn. Only she seemed graver now, more poised and less proud. Perhaps Aryn had misjudged her.
“I am Her day,” said the woman in green, and Aryn gasped, for only as the witch spoke did she realize it was Queen Ivalaine, regal beyond all others.
“And I,” croaked a rough voice, “am Her twilight.”
The hag in gray whom Aryn had spoken to earlier hobbled into place next to Ivalaine and Cirynn. Aryn wondered what her name was.
She is called Senrael, said a soundless voice in Aryn’s mind. She is to be Crone at this High Coven, just as Ivalaine is Matron and Cirynn is Maiden.
Aryn glanced around, searching, then saw Lirith standing not far to her left. She wanted to send words back to Lirith, but she had no idea how to do it. However, Lirith seemed to anticipate her question.
She has three faces, and so three women stand for Her. It is how it has ever been.
Aryn wanted to know more, but on the rostrum Ivalaine spoke again, her graceful arms spread wide.
“In Her name, let the circle be closed, and let this coven be called.”
At these words, a tingling coursed through Aryn. By the intake of breath around her, others felt it as well. There was power in the air.
“In whose name do you mean, Matron?” a voice called out.
All turned their heads, searching for the speaker. Then Aryn saw her, standing near the center of the gathering, close to the rostrum. It was hard to make her out, for her back was mostly to Aryn, but she was tall and carried herself proudly. Her hair was flax touched with hints of fire, coiled high upon her head, and she wore many fine bands of gold about her wrists and throat—the only jewelry Aryn had seen upon any of the witches that night.
“What do you mean, Sister Liendra?” Ivalaine said, as if this interruption were all part of the ceremony.
The witch who had spoken stepped forward. Her voice was clear and sharp, like glass. “You say you call the witches to this coven in Her name. Do you mean the name Yrsaia? Or the name Sia?” With this last word, her voice edged into a sneer.
On the rostrum, Senrael’s wizened visage wrinkled in a frown, while Cirynn shifted from foot to foot and chewed her lower lip. Whispers ran through the crowd.
“And does it matter which name it is?” Ivalaine said, her features tranquil as a deep ocean.
Aryn couldn’t see Liendra’s face, but somehow she knew the witch was smiling.
“I believe it does matter. To many of us, at least. We would know what our Matron believes before the circle of this coven is bound.”
More whispers rose from the witches, along with some nods. Above it all, Ivalaine stood without motion. Only when silence fell again did she speak.
“Then this is your answer,” Ivalaine said, her words cool and precise. “Even as all women are one, so are all goddesses.”
Murmurs of assent rippled through the gathered women. Aryn let out her breath and only then realized she had been holding it. It was like Lirith had once said; it seemed as if some of the witches did not like the name Sia anymore, that they believed she was a goddess followed by only hags and hedgewives. But it wasn’t so for all of them, was it? Aryn could still hear Mirda’s soft words. Sia bless you. Certainly Mirda was no hag.
Once again silvery bells rang out. Aryn shivered and turned her face forward. Lirith had said this first meeting was to be only a welcoming, that the real work of the coven would not come until later. All the same, instinct told her something was about to happen. Something marvelous.
“The moon is full in Her darkness,” Senrael rasped in her ancient voice.
“From darkness will Her light be reborn,” Cirynn said, her voice only slightly unsteady.
Ivalaine took Senrael’s hand in her left and Cirynn’s in her right. Then Cirynn and Senrael joined hands—one smooth, one withered—closing the circle: Maiden to Matron to Crone, round and round.
“Now let us all weave together as one,” Ivalaine said in a chantlike voice, “so that our circle may never be broken.”
And Aryn forgot everything as two hundred shimmering threads coiled around her.
9.
Lirith was dreaming again, but she didn’t care. The dream was far too beautiful to resist, so she let herself sink into vibrant swirls of color, let them draw her on.
She was on the common green beneath the castle again, strolling among the Mournish wagons, gazing at their fantastical shapes. Then she saw him—Sareth—standing beside a gilded wagon carved like a lion. He was more handsome than she remembered, clad only in his vest and billowing trousers. With a look he beckoned her.
As she drew near he held out his hand. On his palm lay a spider charm like the one she had found. Except this one was not bronze but gold. She reached out to take it, but before she could it started to move, scurrying across his hand as if it were a living thing. Even as she watched, she saw tiny, gold pincers sink into his flesh, and a drop of blood welled forth, glittering like a small ruby.
Sareth screamed. A hole appeared in his hand where the spider had bitten him. As Lirith watched in horror, the hole spread outward. His entire hand vanished into nothingness, then his wrist, his elbow,
and his shoulder. Then his scream ceased as, in a heartbeat, the remainder of Sareth’s body blinked out of being. Only the wooden peg of his false leg remained, clattering to the ground.
Lirith turned to flee, but from the shadows of the trees to either side gray threads sprang forth and spun around her, tangling her limbs, muffling her cries. She was caught in a web—a great, tangled web—and the more she struggled against it the more tightly it held her.
The wagons vanished as everything went dark. The only sound was a faint clicking that grew rapidly louder. Straining against the web, she turned her head, then saw them: gold spiders. Hundreds of them—no, thousands. All scuttled toward the center of the web where she lay entangled.
But there was something more, something lurking in the dimness beyond the golden spiders. It was gigantic, its terrible bulk weighting down the very web that supported them all. From the shadows it stared at her with eyes like black voids while ichor drooled from its open maw. It was hungry, this thing, so terribly hungry, and Lirith knew with perfect certainty that no matter what it consumed, it would never be sated. She tried to scream again, but this time sticky globs of web filled her mouth, choking her.
Then Lirith felt the first sharp pricks of pain.
10.
Lirith sat up in bed, clutching a hand to her throat.
Breathe, sister. It was merely a dream, nothing more.
With conscious effort, she forced her lungs to function, drawing air into her body and moving it out again in shuddering breaths. She reached beneath her nightgown and pulled out the bronze spider that hung from a cord around her neck. She stared at the Mournish charm; it lay still and lifeless on her palm.
Lirith slipped from her bed, shivering as the dreamsweat dried from her skin. The chamber’s window glowed with colorless light. It was not yet dawn; yet she knew further sleep was impossible after the dream. It had been horrible. Although, in some ways, it was better than the others she had been having. The dreams of the past. The dreams of dancing.