The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  “You say you must grant hospitality to those who have done no wrong?” Even from a distance Lirith could glimpse the dangerous smile on Liendra’s face. “But did not the bard Falken, by his own hand, bring about the fall of Malachor? All the tales say it is so, and he has never denied it. I would say the murder of an entire kingdom might count as doing wrong.”

  Ivalaine opened her mouth to reply, but Liendra was swifter. “No, Matron, you are wise in your decision to rebuke me. Indeed, I have delayed the weaving of the Pattern far too long. Please forgive me.”

  With a nod to the queen, Liendra returned to her position near the center of the gathering. On the rostrum, anger glinted in Ivalaine’s eyes. While Liendra’s words had sounded contrite, they had cut more deeply than any accusation. Cool needles pricked at Lirith’s flesh. It was difficult to express in words, but at that moment she sensed a change in the tenor of the Witches. It was subtle, yet fundamental, like a shift in the direction of a wind. Something had just happened.

  Before Lirith could consider it further, Aryn and Senrael moved forward to join Ivalaine. They would perform the High Incant now. Lirith took the chance to hurry to her place.

  By the time she stood with a group of witches her own age, the High Incant had begun. With twisted hands, Senrael sprinkled water from her silver bowl. Aryn had unwrapped her bundle and from it had taken three candles, which she now placed on an altar. One candle was tall, one half-burnt, and the last a mere stump. With a flaming brand produced seemingly from nowhere, Ivalaine lit the candles.

  Lirith held her breath as she watched the High Incant. Usually a young witch had weeks to prepare for her role as Maiden; Aryn had had days. However, Tressa seemed to have done her work well. Aryn made no mistakes as she moved through the prescribed steps of the incant.

  Yet it’s more than that, sister.

  Never had Lirith seen the baroness so confident before. Her bearing was straight, even regal, and her voice was clear and strong. Usually Aryn went to great lengths to keep her withered right arm concealed, but not tonight. A few of the younger witches uttered mocking whispers, but the girls were quickly hushed by their companions.

  Lirith smiled. She did not know the source of Aryn’s newfound assurance, but she was glad for it.

  The High Incant was nearly over. On the rostrum, Aryn rang a small silver bell. She snuffed out the tallest candle, and at the same time Ivalaine extinguished the middle candle and Senrael the shortest. Then the three spoke in unison, their voices melding into one.

  “Let the Pattern be woven.”

  It began in an instant. All were anxious to see what shape the Pattern would take. The air around Lirith tingled with magic. She shut her eyes, and she could see them: two hundred shimmering threads spinning in all directions. For a moment she hesitated—would it be there, lurking in the corners? But she saw no sign of the tangle, and she let the glittering threads draw her in.

  That was when the voices began. At first they were faint and fragmentary, the shards of whispers.

  … but can you … yes, I … let me come to … so many, and so beautiful … I am here …

  Lirith knew many of the voices belonged to the younger witches, entranced by the mystery of what was happening. But gradually, as the initial wonder quieted, older and stronger voices began to speak, each spun by a glowing thread.

  It is said … I have seen the signs of … and Sia has ever been our … can it be that the time is close at … and the Hammer will strike against the Anvil, while all is caught … it is the Huntress that … but who are we to …

  So far there had been only chaos in the movement of the threads, but all at once—as if of their own will—several strands joined, braiding themselves together. At the same moment, like the sounding of a horn, a voice rang out.

  He has come!

  A thrill coursed through Lirith. Before she could form the word with her mind, a hundred other threads whispered it.

  Runebreaker.

  Now the voices grew louder, coming more swiftly and from all directions. Often one voice spoke alone, but with each passing moment more and more threads bound with the others, and disparate voices were merged as one.

  I have seen … we have seen him. The rune of peace, broken under his hand. It is said … the gray men themselves did turn against him. He can only … devastation. But I … and I … and we believe it must be so. Our seers foretold it … yes, we have seen it again. By his hand all the world …

  A dozen threads wove together at once, and now the sound was like a chorus of trumpets.

  Runebreaker will destroy Eldh!

  Fear tinged Lirith’s exhilaration. She pulled her own thread back, keeping it separate from the others, then searched for Aryn’s thread, wondering if she should speak to her. But she could not see the young woman’s strand in the undulating tempest of the Pattern.

  And what did it matter? The Witches had made up their minds that Travis Wilder was their enemy; that much was already clear from the Pattern. Lirith let her strand be pulled back into the weaving. The mass of threads was still largely chaotic, but not everywhere; in places, the strands had fallen into place, binding together as more witches began to speak of like mind.

  Questions careened in all directions, and answers as well.

  What of the men of the bull?

  The followers of Vathris have always craved blood.

  But would they seek the destruction of all the world?

  Surely he is their Hammer, the one who they speak will bring about the Final Battle.

  Yes, so we have heard. They believe that when they fight this Final Battle they will lose, but that they will die glorious deaths, and afterward they will dwell with their god for all eternity. Madness, it is madness.

  But what of the Anvil?

  Against the Anvil the Hammer strikes, and all are caught between. What else can it mean? They seek to crush all that is alive.

  But who is this one?

  We do not know. We know him only. But the Anvil cannot be far from the Hammer.

  We must stop them!

  In large places the threads of the Pattern had aligned themselves. The voices that spoke out against Runebreaker, and the ones called Hammer and Anvil, were nearly deafening now. But suddenly, from the shadowy edge of the weaving, came other voices: coarse and rough, but deep with wisdom.

  It is not Sia’s way to do harm to others, even those who would harm us.

  Yes, those who do wrong will work their own ends. An evil thread has a way of turning back on the spinner.

  We must not let ourselves be caught in their folly. If the Warriors seek blood, then it is their own blood they will find. And if Runebreaker desires to destroy the world, it is his own destruction he will meet. That is Sia’s way.

  These words were like a balm to Lirith’s spirit, as cool and sustaining as a draught of water from a deep well. However, even as these voices spoke, others rose up, overwhelming them.

  Sia dwells only in the past. We must think of what is to come. Those who cannot move forward must be left behind.

  It is Yrsaia who stands for us now. If Sia is not dead, then she is dying.

  We are not some band of hags cackling over toads in a cauldron.

  With these words, a great swell rose in the weaving. A number of threads—the dimmest ones, and the oldest—were pushed to the very fringes of the Pattern. They were not gone, but they had been relegated to the edge—from which they might later be easily plucked without damaging the rest of the garment. Weak protests arose but were quickly strangled.

  Sorrow filled Lirith. This was a mistake; they should not forget the old ones. However, the Pattern was beginning to take shape, and there was no resisting it. Thread after thread fell into place.

  We must seek out Runebreaker.

  Yes, he cannot escape us, no matter where he has gone.

  We will stop him before he can cause more harm.

  He will never destroy the world, for we will destroy him first, and the
Warriors as well.

  RUNEBREAKER MUST BE SLAIN!

  These last words rumbled with the force of thunder. More and more threads flocked to the center. At the very heart of the Pattern shone a brilliant green thread around which nearly all the others were woven. It was Liendra’s strand—Lirith was sure of it. But where was Ivalaine’s?

  Few single strands remained. Lirith’s was one of them, and there was Aryn’s bright blue strand, not far from a pearly thread that, after a moment, Lirith sensed to be Ivalaine’s. So there was hope yet; not all felt Liendra’s burning thirst for murder. Then, even as she watched, Ivalaine’s thread shuddered and moved to the center; the queen’s strand was lost in the Pattern.

  Despair filled Lirith. There was no point in resisting so many voices. Ivalaine had no choice—not if she wished to remain Matron—nor did the rest of them. Although she hated what it was becoming, the Pattern would be woven, and Lirith could either be part of it or be nothing. She started to spin her thread out toward the center of the Pattern.

  Caution, sisters. There is peril even in doing good.

  Lirith halted. This voice was low and gentle, yet filled with a quiet strength that somehow cut across the shrillness.

  If we go to war, then are we not warriors? If we destroy, then are we not destroyers? If we are to be the healers and the preservers of the world, then let us heal and preserve. Let us seek this Runebreaker, yes, and let us watch him, that we might find a way from preventing his fate from coming to pass. But let us do no harm with our own hands.

  Whose voice was this? Lirith didn’t know, but the words filled her with a shard of new belief. She sensed anger and resistance from the center of the Pattern, but the few remaining threads aligned themselves with the new voice. Lirith hurried to do the same, and as she let her thread bind with the others she sensed Aryn there as well.

  They were not many; they formed barely a scrap of cloth compared to the great tapestry that was the Pattern. But now that they were bound as one, their threads could not be denied. The resistance from the center ceased, and the new strand was woven into the Pattern. Around her, a single voice spoke in grand, resonating unison, and only as it sounded did Lirith realize her own voice was part of it.

  By our hands Runebreaker will not die. But we will seek him, and we will capture and hold him. We will not let him harm himself or the world.

  There was a chime, like the ringing of a bell. Lirith’s eyes flew open. Once again she stood in the garden, two hundred witches around her. All wore looks of awe that Lirith knew mirrored her own.

  On the rostrum, Ivalaine set down the silver bell. For a moment the queen seemed to sway on her feet. What had it cost her when she joined the Pattern and Liendra’s strand? However, before Lirith could wonder more, Ivalaine’s face grew hard, as if hewn of marble. She drew herself up and spoke in a crystalline voice.

  “The Pattern is complete.”

  Immediately, witches began to leave the gardens, their green robes merging with the shadows between the trees, leaving only moonbeams in their wake. Many of the witches would depart Ar-tolor that night, and nearly all would be gone by tomorrow’s sunset, journeying back to their homelands. How long would it be until they all wove together again? Yet that was the purpose of the Pattern—to bind them all together even when they were apart.

  “Lirith! There you are!”

  She looked up and saw a flash of white moving through the remains of the gathering. Lirith rushed forward, and they met in the center.

  “Aryn.”

  She embraced the young woman, holding her tightly. Aryn returned the gesture with no less fierceness for her one arm. At last they pulled back.

  “You were beautiful tonight,” Lirith said. “No, radiant. I was glad to see it, although I must say you were not so confident when last I saw you. What happened?”

  Aryn shrugged, smiling. “I decided to be myself. Just like you told me to do.”

  Lirith squeezed the baroness’s left hand. She started to say more, then halted as a tall form with fiery gold hair passed nearby. Lirith felt the warmth drain from her, and Aryn stiffened. Liendra walked at a stately pace from the garden, surrounded by a tight knot of witches. She kept her gaze fixed forward, as if unaware of the attention she was receiving, although her smug smile betrayed the illusion.

  Suddenly, as if she sensed eyes upon her, Liendra turned her head. Green eyes sparkled in Lirith’s and Aryn’s direction, and the smile on her lips deepened. Then Liendra walked from the garden.

  Aryn drew in a hissing breath as if to speak. However, her words sounded not in Lirith’s ears, but in her mind.

  She’s absolutely awful. Look at how smug she is. You’d think she was queen of this place.

  The delivery of these words startled Lirith more than their content. When and how had Aryn mastered the art of speaking along the Weirding? Lirith had yet to work with her at the skill.

  Lirith spun a quick thread, answering the young woman.

  She is not queen. But remember—it was Liendra’s thread at the very center of the Pattern. I don’t know who she is or where she came from, but the Witches seem more than ready to follow her lead.

  Not all the Witches, a warm voice said.

  The voice was not Aryn’s, but by the baroness’s wide blue eyes she had heard it as clearly as Lirith.

  Do not forget, the voice continued, there were some threads who did not align themselves with the heart of the Pattern. Not all witches think the same as Sister Liendra.

  For a moment Lirith wondered if it was Ivalaine who was speaking, but there was no sign of the queen. Besides, the voice was different than Ivalaine’s. Softer, smokier, yet powerful in its way. Then the thinning crowd parted, and Lirith saw a witch whose jet hair was marked by a single streak of ice-white.

  “Sister Mirda,” Aryn whispered.

  Lirith nodded, and she knew why the woman’s serene voice sounded so familiar.

  “It was you,” she murmured. “You were the one who reminded us that the Witches must do no harm. And it was your thread that changed the Pattern.”

  The hint of a smile touched Mirda’s lips. “May Sia guide you both on your journey,” she said. Then she turned and moved through the garden, green robe fluttering, and was gone.

  Aryn frowned, her expression puzzled. “What was that supposed to mean? What journey was she talking about?”

  Lirith thought of the young prince Teravian and the look of sorrow on his face.

  You’ll be going soon.…

  “Come on,” she said, taking Aryn’s arm. “I think I need a strong cup of maddok.”

  16.

  “Do you require anything else, my lady?”

  Aryn did not turn from the polished silver mirror as she adjusted her gown.

  “No, Elthre. Thank you.”

  In the mirror’s reflection she saw the serving maid curtsy, then slip from the room. Aryn smiled—Elthre was a sweet girl, if timid—then concentrated, using practiced motions of her left hand to fasten the buckles and tie the straps of the gown. It was just after dawn, but she had awakened over an hour ago, her body still light and tingling with the magic of the Pattern. She had talked to Lirith until well after midnight, but since waking Aryn had thought of a hundred other questions she wanted to ask the dark-eyed witch.

  In her mind, Aryn saw again the weaving of the Pattern, and how the last remaining threads—hers and Lirith’s among them—bonded with the strand that spoke in calm, immutable words. There was no doubt that the strand had been Sister Mirda’s. But who was this wise, serene witch? And where had she come from? No one Aryn asked seemed to know, nor did Lirith. Yet it was Mirda who had prevented all the witches from flocking to Liendra’s thread.

  Except most did, Aryn. Even Ivalaine joined with the heart of the Pattern in the end.

  But certainly Ivalaine had had no choice, not if she wished to remain Matron. And this way, perhaps Ivalaine could have some influence over Liendra’s faction. At least that was what Aryn hoped
. However, she had seen neither Tressa nor the queen since the coven.

  Nor had she seen Senrael. It was wrong how the old ones had been dismissed. Their voices were rough, but they carried such wisdom. Beauty had little to do with true power. But the crones had been shunted to the fringes of the Pattern, and if Mirda had not spoken the Witches might have vowed to do anything—even shed blood—to destroy Runebreaker. As it was, Aryn was glad Travis Wilder was a world away. And while she would liked to have seen him, she hoped he would never leave his home again. For his sake. And perhaps for Eldh’s.

  Aryn decided to forgo breakfast and head right for Lirith’s chamber. She could only hope Lirith was awake. But at that moment, Aryn couldn’t imagine sleeping.

  Besides there’s always maddok. If you bring a pot to her room, Lirith won’t be able to resist getting out of bed to drink it. She’s a bee to honey for the stuff.

  She finished adjusting her gown, then started to draw an extra fold of cloth over her right arm. It was a completely instinctual motion, one she had made every day for as long as she could remember.

  All at once, she hesitated. Slowly, Aryn pushed the fold of cloth back over her shoulder, leaving her right arm exposed in its linen sling.

  She stared at her reflection. In her mind she had never pictured herself with her withered arm; always she imagined it concealed. But now that she gazed at the pale, twisted shape, she could not envision it any other way. It was strange, yes, but it was her.

  A warmth filled her, almost like giddiness. Always before she had dreaded people seeing her arm, but now she almost looked forward to it. Let them stare, let them mock her as Belira had. It would only make her stronger. Smiling, she adjusted her arm in its sling, then moved to the door.

  Sister, can you hear me?

  The voice sounded faintly but clearly in Aryn’s mind.