by Mark Anthony
It’s like Ivalaine said … the Pattern is set. No matter what we do, the Witches are going to search for Travis. Don’t you think it’s better if we’re the ones who find him—his friends who care for him?
Lirith knew the young woman was right. Ivalaine had not forbidden them to talk to Travis, to warn him, to tell him to return to his home and never come back to Eldh. That was the thread Sister Mirda had risked everything in order to weave into the Pattern.
Besides, Lirith knew it was possible they would never see Travis again. Or Grace or Beltan, for that matter. But the thought was bitter comfort.
It was only the next morning, as they mounted their horses in the bailey of Ar-tolor amid the rising mists of dawn, that Lirith looked up, saw a pale face gazing down at her through a high window, and realized that she had broken her promise after all.
How Teravian had known she would be leaving Artolor was a question Lirith had pondered with every passing league. Perhaps he had overheard Ivalaine and Tressa talking about the plan to send Aryn and Lirith south with Melia. After all, Teravian had a way of watching without being seen.
But of course that didn’t make sense. Lirith had spoken to Teravian the final night of the High Coven, hours before Melia learned of the murdered god. Difficult as it was to believe, there could be only one answer.
Teravian has the Sight.
True, the talent was not unheard of in men; Lirith knew the boy Daynen had possessed some fragment of it, for he had seen in the blinding light of the sun the moment of his death, and the vision had proved true. However, the talent was rare in males, and any vestiges of the Sight were lost upon entering manhood. But Teravian was over sixteen winters, a man in body if not in mind, and if his words were to be believed, this was not the first time he had seen things.
But what did it mean? Lirith was not certain, but she had a feeling there was more to Queen Ivalaine’s willingness to foster Teravian than simple courtesy to her ally King Boreas of Calavan.
Although they were journeying from the mystery of one murder to that of another, somehow Lirith felt her spirits lift as they left Ar-tolor and set off on the road to Tarras. The gold afternoon of summer had given way to the copper evening of autumn, and while the days were warm they never quite lost the crispness of dawn before purple dusk settled over the land.
They talked little as they rode south through Toloria, and although the silence was tinged with the sorrow of Melia’s loss, it was also peaceful in its way. It was through well-populated lands that they rode. All the same, by unspoken agreement, they eschewed manors and inns in favor of camping each evening in some well-tended copse of trees, or a few times in a talathrin, one of the old Tarrasian Way Circles. The weather was too mild, too glorious, to be wasted on the indoors.
Curled next to Aryn in warm blankets on the ground, Lirith would wake before the sun to hear Melia’s soft prayers and the gentle clatter of Falken making breakfast. Soon after would come a faint chiming, then Durge was there in his mail shirt, kneeling beside them, telling them it was time to rise. The rich fragrance of maddok would draw Lirith from the makeshift bed, and she would sit by the fire and curl her fingers around a hot clay cup while Falken served them pan-fried bread. Then they would break camp, mount the horses, and ride once more across the burnished landscape.
It was strange, but Lirith could not remember a time in her life when she had been happier.
After eight uneventful days they reached the Free City of Gendarra. This was a large, dirty, noisy, and exhilarating port city situated on an estuary of the Summer Sea, at the mouths of the Rivers Kelduorn and Dimduorn.
Lirith was grateful fate had not taken them to the Free City of Corantha. She had not stood within that city’s walls since the day she fled north to Toloria to begin her life anew. For all her changes since then, she was not certain she would ever have the power to set foot within those walls again. Fortunately, the sea at Corantha was rough this time of year, and so they had made for Gendarra instead.
The Free Cities were a league of loosely allied city-states that, two centuries earlier, had overthrown their ruling lords in favor of a government controlled largely by merchants. Rather than a count or duke, each city was governed by a mayor who was elected by representatives of the various merchant guilds. As a result, the Free Cities were prosperous and busy—but not always so orderly and stable as the castle keeps of the Dominions. Although she had spent nine years of her life in one, Lirith had always thought the name Free Cities was a bit misleading. While you could buy anything you wanted there, everything had a price.
As Falken learned when he went to the docks to book passage for them on a ship to Tarras.
I was robbed! the bard had exclaimed upon entering the inn where they were staying. The captain might as well have turned me upside down and shaken the gold out of my pockets.
Yes, that’s terribly upsetting, dear, Melia had said. But you did get us a nice ship, didn’t you?
In fact, Falken had gotten them a very nice ship. Captain Magard’s trade centered on jewels, spices, and other precious but compact commodities, which meant his vessel was neither smelly nor crowded. Falken’s gold bought them three tiny cabins, one for Melia, one for Durge and the bard, and one for Aryn and Lirith.
It was a good thing Melia had her own room, for as it turned out the amber-eyed lady was not at all good at crossing the water. Lirith wasn’t certain why, but for some reason this pleased her. Nobody, not even a former goddess, should be perfect. However, Falken—who spent much of his day running buckets to and from Melia’s room—looked considerably less happy with the situation.
Lirith had never been on a ship before; she loved it. While Aryn and Durge were not in such dire straits as Melia, both seemed to prefer keeping belowdecks. Not Lirith. She spent almost all of her waking hours basking in the sun and spray, watching sleek dolphins race alongside the ship, or gazing at the night stars while Captain Magard told her which were most useful for navigating across the open sea.
Not that the Fate Runner was ever far from shore. Often Lirith caught glimpses to starboard of rocky cliffs or green lines of trees and, once, of pale peaks merging with a distant line of clouds. Then that morning, their fifth at sea, she scrambled up a ladder onto the deck to see a glint of sun on gold directly before them, and with a queer note of sadness she knew their journey to be over.
35.
By the time the Fate Runner was secured at the dock, the others had appeared on deck. Durge staggered under a heavy load of bags and bundles; they had sold Queen Ivalaine’s horses in Gendarra, and apparently the knight believed it his duty to replace them single-handedly. Lirith hurried to take a pair of bags from him. Aryn seemed to wince, then rushed to do the same.
Falken guided Melia toward the gangplank, where Captain Magard oversaw the unloading of his cargo. There was still a greenish tint to the lady’s usually coppery skin, but the sight of land seemed to have vastly improved her condition.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, “for a journey I shall not soon be able to forget.”
Magard grinned and bowed low. “If I could have stilled the sea for you, great lady, I would have.”
She smiled and gave his rough cheek a pat. “Do keep working on it, dear.”
The docks of Tarras were crowded, filled with colors and smells at once vivid and rancorous. Passersby jostled against Durge, so that the knight spun in circles, fighting to keep hold of his many burdens. The city soared above them, and Lirith could see now that it was built upon a hill. A pinnacle of white rock soared upward near its center, a striking contrast to the smooth towers and gilded domes that surrounded it.
Lirith started toward the others. Suddenly the glare of the sun went thin and cold, and the din of the crowd receded to a muffled roar like the voice of the sea. A dread spilled through her, chill as water from the bottom of a frozen ocean.
The figure stood across the dock, twenty paces away, beyond a screen of people. Everything seemed to move with
a strange slowness. The figure was already turning away, black robe billowing on the heavy air, but she caught a spark of gold in the shadow of the robe’s cowl. He had been watching them, just like before.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Several times on their journey south, in one of the towns or cities through which they passed, Lirith had felt a tingling along the Weirding, and she had turned just in time to glimpse a flutter of dark cloth just vanishing around a corner or into a doorway. It was never much—never enough to be certain, but Lirith had a feeling they were being watched as they journeyed.
Yet while those incidents had left her curious and unsettled, none had filled her with the cold fear she felt now. The planks of the dock seemed to yaw beneath her, as if she still stood on the deck of the ship. Nor had she ever seen the glimmer of gold before.
“Lirith?”
The crowd knotted before her, then thinned again, and the figure in the black robe was gone.
“Lirith, are you well?” It was Falken, his faded eyes concerned.
“It’s nothing,” she said, licking her lips. “A moment of dizziness, that’s all. It has passed.”
Falken nodded, then returned to Melia.
That is not all it was, Lirith.
She looked up as the voice spoke in her mind. Aryn’s brilliant blue eyes were locked on her.
You saw something, didn’t you? Just now. What was it?
There was no point in telling anything but the truth; lies were impossible to speak across the Weirding. I don’t know, Aryn. Maybe I saw something. I can’t be sure. But it’s not—
Before Lirith could say more, Melia spoke. It was obvious the lady was feeling well again; her amber eyes shone as brilliantly as the gold domes of the city. But then, Melia had just come home.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said. “We need to go to the Second Circle. I would speak with Orsith at once.”
There was no time to ask who Orsith was or why they might want to talk to him. Melia started off along the dock, weaving smoothly among the tangles of people, and the others had to hurry in order to keep up with her.
36.
Aryn marveled as they ascended through the outer circles of Tarras, craning her head in an attempt to see everything at once. Only a year ago she had greeted the idea of stepping outside the walls of the castle with no small amount of trepidation. But since then she had learned there was a whole world out there she had never imagined, and while it was sometimes terrifying, it was wondrous as well.
She had savored every moment of their journey south, and not only for the sight of new lands. For she had been exploring in a different way. As they rode through Toloria, she had used her time to practice reaching out and weaving the threads of the Weirding. Often she spoke with Lirith about the Touch, but she was not afraid to experiment on her own. After all, she had learned to speak across the Weirding without help. And Lirith seemed impressed with her rapid progress.
It is as if you have suddenly found a key to your talent, sister, Lirith said over the Weirding as they sat by the fire one evening, making a lesson of sensing and identifying every living thing within twenty paces.
Except it was more like the key had been there all along, gripped in her twisted right hand, only Aryn had never let herself open her fingers to see it.
Always the balance seeks something in return when a great gift is given, the old Mournish woman had told her.
Belira and the others had jeered at her because of her arm, but they were silly girls, unaware that there was so much more to being a witch than what appeared on the surface. Aryn no longer feared them. Nor was she angry. Rather, she felt sorry for them, and she hoped one day they might learn what she had—that the key to power was not wanting something you didn’t have. Instead, it was daring to see what was already yours.
One day, excited, she had tried to explain these things to Lirith over the Weirding. Except an image had formed in her mind: a proud woman in blue, holding a sword as she rode from a castle with seven towers, a crumpled form in the grass beneath her.
You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you.…
Hastily, Aryn had broken the thread that spanned between her and Lirith. The dark-haired witch had given her a puzzled look as the thread was severed, but Aryn had mumbled a hasty excuse about being weary and had gone to bed.
But who had the old Mournish woman been talking about? Surely she was not so cruel as the old woman had said.
Or was she? A fragment of a singsong rhyme echoed in her mind.
Her beautiful sisters
All have dismissed her,
But one day they’ll sorrow the deed.
With a sword in her hand,
She’ll ride ’cross the land—
And trample them all ’neath her steed.
In a way the fool’s poem reminded her of the dragon’s words. Sfithrisir had said she and Lirith were both doomed to betray the Witches. Was that what the fool Tharkis had been trying to tell her as well?
But Aryn would never harm any of her sisters. Not even Belira. The fool and the dragon were wrong. Certainly one had been mad and the other wicked. All the same, these thoughts had hung over her all the way south, the one dark cloud marring the otherwise brilliant journey.
Now, as they walked through the ancient, thronging streets of Tarras, Aryn pushed such troubles from her mind. There was too much to see to dwell on riddles told by fortune-tellers, fools, and dragons.
From the docks, they walked through a triumphal arch of white stone that was no less than thrice the size of the main gates of Calavere, into the Fifth Circle of the city. It was the largest of the city’s five circles, and—according to Falken—the place where the laborers and common folk dwelled. While the main avenue they walked was wide, spotlessly clean, and lined by columnlike ithaya trees, to either side she could see the mouths of dusty lanes too narrow for the sun to reach. Filthy faces stared out from the shadowed openings. Aryn was glad when they passed through another arch and into the Fourth Circle.
The main avenue was steeper there, climbing rapidly past larger, well-kept homes and businesses. Honeysuckle climbed up iron gates, filling the air with a sweet scent, and everywhere the sound of fountains chimed on the air. The Fourth Circle was the home to the city’s merchants and craft guilds. Clearly the merchants had good standing in this city, given the beauty of their dwellings. But, Falken explained, the tiers of Tarras were arranged so that those farthest in and highest up belonged to the classes with the greatest power.
Soon they passed into the Third Circle, which belonged to the Tarrasian military. They passed blank walls with infrequent doors, each portal guarded by a pair of soldiers. The Tarrasian soldiers were dressed in peculiar fashion compared to the knights of the Dominions. Their chests were covered by leather jerkins and breastplates of beaten bronze, and bronze helmets adorned their heads, but they wore only short kilts, leaving their legs bare, and sandals on their feet. Still, by the hard expressions on their faces, Aryn did not doubt that these were skilled men of battle. For all its decline from greatness, it seemed Tarras had not entirely forgotten how to make war.
Aryn was glad when they passed through another archway into the Second Circle.
“This is as far as we’re going to go for now,” Falken said. “Unless any of you besides Melia happens to be close personal friends with the emperor and simply forgot to mention it. Only his guests, his servants, and members of his court are allowed into the First Circle.”
“We shall concern ourselves with Emperor Ephesian later,” Melia said. “At the moment, this is precisely where we need to be. The Holy Circle of Tarras.”
Aryn gazed around and saw white-stone shrines and domed temples in all directions. Men and women moved along the quiet streets, wearing flowing robes of myriad hues, and Aryn knew at once they were priests and priestesses of the temples.
Some wore crimson, their heads shaved. Others had carefully curled their hair in oiled ringlets and wore sashes of
gold over emerald robes. Yellow, azure, flame orange—all colors were represented. If the priests and priestesses of Tarras were so varied a group, Aryn could only imagine what the gods themselves were like. She knew there were more mystery cults in Tarras than the seven known in the Dominions, but just how many she had never imagined until now.
Durge cleared his throat in a nervous rumble. “Melia, may I ask exactly how many gods there are in this city?”
“Don’t worry, Durge,” Falken said, faded eyes twinkling. “The Second Circle is also home to the Tarrasian university, where the greatest scholars, mathematicians, and engineers in the world are said to be gathered.”
Durge raised his eyebrows at this. “I believe I should like to see this university, as you call it.”
“Oh, you will,” Falken said with a wink. “But first—”
“My brothers, my sisters,” said a soft voice, “is this truly to be our home? It is so much more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.”
Melia swayed back and forth, her arms folded about herself, a beatific smile upon her lips.
Aryn saw Falken and Lirith exchange looks. It was like the incident Lirith had described, when she found Melia dancing in the shrine of Mandu. Melia had not had another such spell on their journey, although there had been peculiar moments. Melia seemed to speak of the past a great deal, and her visage would grow dreamy when she did. However, Aryn had simply assumed it was because they were traveling to Melia’s home. Now, it seemed as if Melia was not even there.
No, that’s not it, Aryn. It’s as if we’re the ones who aren’t here, as if Melia really is seeing Tarras as it was long ago, when she first came to this place.
Gently, Falken touched Melia’s shoulder.
“Dear one,” he whispered.
For a heartbeat Melia went stiff, then she turned and glared at the others. “Well, don’t just stand there and gawk. We’re going this way.”