The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  Of course, you dolt. This is the first street you’ve come to that wasn’t crowded. You should have known it would be like this. After all, they’re in mourning.

  The wind ceased, and the black cloth settled again over the gilded stone carving of the flame. Her thirst forgotten, Lirith turned back down the street. There were a score of workshops, although all of them were dark and silent. She chose a large door near the center of the street. It was painted green and adorned with a golden hand—the sigil of the god Ondo, she guessed. She raised her own hand to knock.

  “Go away!” said a muffled voice from the other side.

  Lirith snatched her hand back. In the center of the hand was a small hole. So that was how they had seen her.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to direct her voice at the peephole. “If you have a moment, I would speak with you.”

  A snort. “You mean you would kill us and swindle us out of our gold.”

  Lirith frowned. If the owner of the muffled voice was at all representative of his guild, then these goldsmiths were a suspicious lot. Then again, having one’s god murdered no doubt did little for one’s sense of security.

  “That is not so,” Lirith said. “It would be quite impossible to swindle you out of your gold after I’d killed you.”

  “Oh, well then, in that case …”

  There was the click of a lock being turned, then the door swung inward a few inches. Beyond was a dim space and an exceptionally tiny and wizened old man in a yellow robe.

  Lirith nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Wait just a moment, girl.” A few wisps of white hair fluttered above the old man’s head. “You weren’t mocking me just now, were you? I think perhaps you were.”

  “Of course not,” Lirith lied hastily. “I was merely trying to reassure you, that’s all. I’m completely harmless. See?” She spread her arms, showing her empty hands.

  “Humph. Well, you’re certainly skinny enough. And you dress strangely. Are you a beggar, then? Don’t think we’re inclined to be generous with our gold just because your god was done in, too. You’ll not get anything from us!”

  “You mean you know about Geb?”

  “Geb, Shmeb! What does the Rat God matter when Ondo the Golden is no more?” The old man passed a withered hand before his eyes. “No more gold for the domes of Tarras. Dull and drab they shall be forevermore, like our hearts.”

  Sympathy crept into Lirith’s breast. This poor man—he had lost everything that mattered to him, and she was teasing him. She reached out to touch his arm.

  He batted her hand away with a stinging smack!

  “Get that thing away from me, girl! The gods know when it’s been washed last. Probably never. Can’t you beggars ever ask for soap? Always so greedy for gold, you are. But you’d do well to make yourself presentable. Maybe then someone would take you as an apprentice so you could earn an honest living. Of course, no doubt you’re stupid and have no talents. But certainly the dyers would take you to stir their vats. That doesn’t require a shred of wit or skill. You’d be perfect for it.”

  Any sympathy Lirith had felt for the other evaporated like water in the sun. She tried to speak, but she could find no words, and only by clamping her arms at her sides did she prevent herself from throttling the old fellow right there.

  “What?” he sneered. “Have you lost your tongue? Well, I suggest you go look for it somewhere else. We have no use for peculiar-looking, slack-mouthed dimwits here. Now leave me to my woe and suffering!”

  The door slammed, coming to a halt a hairbreadth from Lirith’s nose.

  She spent another hour on the Street of Flames, but with little more luck. With the help of the Touch, she sensed which workshops were populated, then knocked on those doors. However, the conversations that ensued were, if possible, even less pleasant than the first. While all of the goldsmiths were bereft at the loss of their god, to a one they were haughty, insulting, and mean. If Ondo had been anything like those who followed him, Lirith could imagine that the other gods would be only too glad to be rid of him.

  Weary, longing to return to the cool quiet of the hostel, she forced herself to try one last door. A pretty woman no older than herself answered, and for a moment hope rose within her.

  It was as quickly crushed as the woman launched into a caustic tirade that made the greetings of her fellow guildsmen seem warm in comparison.

  “How dare you come at a time like this, seeking treasures from us?” the woman shrieked.

  “But I’m not seeking treasure,” Lirith said, “I simply wanted to—”

  “I demand to know who you follow. Is it Imai? Jorus? Ah, I see.” She jabbed a finger at Lirith’s chest. “It’s Sif that you follow. Well, you might as well leave. You’ll never get your precious gold amulets, not now. Until we are granted a new god by the Etherion, the goldsmiths aren’t making jewelry for any of the temples. And we’ll never make anything for those who would plot to steal from us! Bronze is all you’ll ever get.”

  This time Lirith was ready for it. She stepped back, narrowly avoiding the door as it slammed shut. Her good mood gone, she left the Street of Flames and started back toward the hostel.

  At the first vendor she came upon, Lirith bought a cup of wine. Or tried to anyway. For after she handed the man a coin, he tipped a clay jug, spilling wine on the street, then handed her a wooden cup with a smile and a nod.

  “Excuse me,” Lirith said, gazing at the empty cup, “but doesn’t one usually get the cup first and then the wine?”

  The vendor slapped his forehead. “Forgive me, mistress. I can’t seem to do anything right today. I keep mixing everything up, I do. Why, just after I came back from temple, I tried to fill my pitcher when it was already full. I spilled wine all over a lady’s feet. She wasn’t happy about that.”

  “I imagine not,” Lirith said. She held the cup out.

  This time the fellow got the order of things right. Lirith accepted his apologies—and the cup, which he told her to keep for her trouble—but she hardly tasted the sweet liquid as she drank. She did not want to have to tell the others that she had learned nothing from the goldsmiths.

  Or had she? Something that last woman had said seemed important. She had mentioned something about Sif, about thinking that was who Lirith followed. Was Sif a god? And if so, why had the other thought Lirith to be one of Sif’s followers?

  She remembered the way the woman had pointed at her and looked down. Revealed by the unlacing of her bodice, the bronze spider amulet glowed dully in the sunlight.

  Bronze is all you’ll ever get.…

  Yes, that was important, she was sure of it. But what did it mean? Lirith closed her fingers around the Mournish amulet as she turned down another street. She would ask Melia about this Sif as soon as she got back to—

  A scream escaped her, half-strangled by terror. There, beyond an archway, she saw it: a writhing mass that filled an entire courtyard. Even as she watched, more bright threads were pulled toward it. The threads dimmed to gray, becoming part of the tangle. Lirith felt the first tugs on her being; her feet skittered along stone, toward the archway.

  It was bigger here, far bigger than it had ever been in Ar-tolor. And it was growing. Even as she looked it shuddered, then expanded. The courtyard couldn’t contain it. It spilled onto the street, gray tendrils probing. It wouldn’t stop until it found and consumed her, until it consumed all of the Weirding and every living thing that was part of it.

  Sickness flooded her. The cup fell from her hand. She bent forward to spill what wine she had drunk onto the pavement.

  That action saved her life. Something hissed just over her head, like an insect, and there was a flash of silver. She jerked her head up. A slender knife quivered in the trunk of an ornamental tree only an arm’s length away. Already the bark of the tree was turning black where the knife had pierced it.

  Poison.

  She turned, searching with her eyes; she did not dare use the Touch, not now. The tangle still se
ethed on the corner of her vision. If she tried to touch the Weirding, it would drag her in for certain.

  There—a flash of gold. A figure clad all in black stood in the dimness of an alley. It was him, the one she had seen at the docks. Then she saw the figure lift another knife. There was no time to turn, to run.

  At least the tangle will not be able to consume you if you are already dead, sister.

  It was small consolation. The figure in black tensed to throw—

  —then snapped his head around. Again Lirith caught a glint of gold deep in the cowl. The figure stood motionless, as if listening. Then, like a shadow before the dawn, he spun around. There was a flutter of black, then the alley was empty.

  Lirith lifted a hand to her throat, quite stunned to discover she was still alive. Surely the figure in the alley had possessed the necessary desire and skill to murder her. Why had he fled so suddenly? It was as if he had seen something coming toward him.

  She looked around but saw nothing that might grant her a clue. The tangle had disappeared, and the courtyard beyond the arch was empty. Lirith hesitated, then reached out with the Touch. She sensed life all around, whole and beautiful: people, trees, birds in the air. That was all.

  No, that wasn’t true. For a fleeting moment she felt something else: a presence, watching her. But that was not the thing that shocked her most. For a delicious warmth rose within her, flooding her veins like rich, heady wine.

  Then the presence was gone, and the feeling spilled out of Lirith, leaving her an empty husk.

  40.

  Aryn spun one more time, reveling in the soft swish of fabric around her. It was foolish, she knew, and more becoming of a girl than a woman grown, but there was something about her new garb that simply required spinning.

  “By the Swiftest Arrow of Yrsaia,” she said, “I thought I would never be clean again. I had imagined that the thieves and beggars in this city might have to dwell in the sewers. But I never thought Geb’s temples would be there as well.”

  “Well, he was the Rat God,” said Lirith, who sat before a window in their room at the hostel. “I believe they prefer those sorts of places.”

  Aryn shuddered, wondering if any amount of perfume would be enough to make her forget the smell. At first, in the Fifth Circle, when she and Durge had asked folk where they might find the Rat God, she had thought their answers to be mocking insults at the god’s expense. However, before long it became clear it was no jest.

  They had entered the sewers through the mouth of a pipe tall enough for them to walk upright next to one another. An old woman had told them to follow the rat once inside. Aryn had wondered how a rat could possibly lead them, then Durge had pointed to scratches on the wall: a triangular shape with two dots. Clearly it was meant to represent the face of a rat. Beneath had been an arrow; they had followed, carrying a torch Durge had bought from a vendor.

  As far as Aryn could tell, the sewers ran for leagues beneath Tarras. Many of the tunnels were obviously ancient and unused, and those were not so terrible to tread, aside from being musty and littered with broken tiles that were treacherous underfoot. A few times she reached out with the Touch, and she sensed the threads of many lives not far down tunnels that branched to either side. And she sensed eyes watching them out of the dark as well. After a while she stopped reaching out to the Weirding.

  It was when they were forced to traverse a newer—and still actively used—section of the sewers that their trek turned more nightmarish. They waded through dark water that came up to their knees, so that Aryn’s gown floated out around her. It was not the only thing floating in the water. And things swam in it as well. More than once she saw sleek, wriggling forms fleeing the circle of light cast by Durge’s torch. The stench was fierce and relentless, so that breathing was torture.

  When Aryn dared to cast a thread out to the Weirding, she sensed no human lives nearby, only the rats in the water. She supposed those who dwelled beneath Tarras and knew its ways had no need of symbols to find the temple of Geb. The signs were for visitors only, and no doubt by intention led through the most unpleasant ways. Aryn was certain none of the followers of Geb frequented this tunnel themselves.

  At last the passage ended, and they had trod dryer ways, soon coming upon a cavernous, echoing space that could only be the temple of Geb. Tiled columns rose to a vaulted ceiling that was lost in shadow despite the flickering light of hundreds of candles. Weathered boards and crates were arranged into makeshift benches before a rude altar atop which stood a wooden likeness of Geb: a thin man with the head of a rat.

  Unfortunately, their journey to the temple proved to be far from worth the smell and trouble. Few of Geb’s followers were in the temple. Most had fled deep into the sewers, fearing hunts and reprisals now that their god was no more; that was why Aryn had sensed so many lives hidden in the tunnels. Without a god to protect them, there was nothing to stop others from doing what they wished with the city’s outcasts. Sympathy blossomed in her heart. These people had little enough to begin with; now even that had been taken from them.

  My lady, Durge had said in a hoarse whisper, I think it is best if we leave now. I do not believe we are … wanted here.

  Sympathy had drained from Aryn, replaced by dread. Quickly she reached out with the Touch. Yes, there were eyes upon them again. Angry, suspicious eyes. She grabbed Durge’s hand, and together they hurried back the way they had come.

  By the time they reached the streets of Tarras, they were so filthy and reeking that people scrambled to get out of their way. Aryn knew her gown was ruined, and the only other garment she had was far too heavy for the warm climate of Tarras. What was she going to do?

  Despair turned to elation when they stepped into their room at the hostel and discovered that Melia had bought new clothes for all of them.

  I had a feeling you might be needing these, she had said, her small nose wrinkling.

  Aryn had soaked for at least an hour in the marble tub in the bathing chamber, sprinkling flower petals and scented oils in the deliciously warm water. Now she felt fresh and light in the dress Melia had bought for her: a gauzy confection of sky-blue fabric that, for all the manner in which it flowed about her, was surprisingly modest and simple to move in. Lirith wore a similar dress of bright yellow, a striking contrast to her dark skin.

  Aryn’s spinning did not go unnoticed.

  “I believe that gown suits you, sister,” Lirith said.

  Aryn curtsied low. “Why, thank you, sister. And may I say that you look lovely in yours.”

  Lirith smiled, but the expression was fleeting, and she turned her head to gaze out the window. Was something wrong?

  Before Aryn could ask, the door to the bathing chamber opened, and Durge stepped out. At least she thought it was Durge.

  The knight had shed his customary heavy gray tunic and instead wore the new attire Melia had bought for him: a pair of billowing, sea-green pants that were gathered at the waist and ankles, and an open vest of dark purple. He tucked a dagger into a black-leather belt slanted across his hips. However, it was not really his clothes that made Aryn stare.

  She had never seen quite so much of Durge before. His bare arms were chiseled like those of a statue, and the thick, dark hair of his chest swirled in circular patterns. She could count the muscles of his stomach as if they were precisely lined paving stones in a Tarrasian road.

  Durge frowned, apparently noticing Aryn’s attention. “Is something amiss, my lady? I suppose I’ve managed to get these trousers all wrong and look the fool for it. I fear I couldn’t tell which was meant to be the front and which the back.”

  He had trimmed his mustaches and shaved his cheeks, and his wet, brown hair was slicked back from his brow. The soft glow of late afternoon through the curtains softened the crags and valleys of his face.

  “Durge,” Aryn breathed, “you’re so … that is, I mean, you look …”

  Melia drifted forward. The lady still wore a white kirtle, but it seemed lighter
than before, almost translucent, and trimmed with fine silver thread.

  “I believe Aryn means to say that you look very manly, Durge.”

  He glowered as he plucked at his gauzy pants. “That is passing strange, my lady, for I do not feel particularly manly at the moment.”

  “Just trust me on this one, dear.” She squeezed his arm, and her eyebrows rose. “Falken, perhaps you should grow muscles like this.”

  The bard snorted and strummed a sour note on his lute. “Only if I can get them drinking ale.”

  Falken also wore new clothes courtesy of Melia: pants like those Durge wore, only soft gray in color, and a loose-fitting shirt of azure cloth belted at the waist. While more slender than Durge, Falken was in fact lean and wiry. He had shaved as well, and he looked striking in his new clothes, if still a bit wolfish and wild around the edges. However, the bard only held Aryn’s attention for a moment.

  What is it, sister? spoke a voice in her mind.

  Aryn realized she was staring at Durge again.

  It’s nothing, she spun the words back across the Weirding.

  She started to feel a question return to her, but she hastily snatched back her thread and turned toward a sideboard to pour herself a glass of wine. However, as she sipped the cool liquid, she wondered. Why had she been gawking so rudely at Durge?

  Or course—she was simply surprised to see a man of Durge’s advanced years looking so hale. After all, he was past his fifth-and-fortieth winter now. Yet she knew his greatsword weighed half as much as she did; no doubt swinging it kept him in good form. And she was glad for the fact, for Durge was her friend, and she wished him to remain well and hearty for many years to come. Satisfied with her explanation, Aryn downed the rest of her wine.

  “So were you granted an audience with the emperor?” Lirith asked. Melia’s kitten had sprung up into her lap and was playing with a corner of cloth from her gown.

  Melia let out a sound that might have been any number of different words, none of them particularly pleasant.