The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  At last the sickness in her subsided, and she tried another street. The afternoon was drawing on; she had been searching the city all day. No doubt the others would wonder where she was, for she had told Aryn she was merely going for a walk.

  Where would you go in this city, sister? That is where you should seek them.

  Even as she thought this, she saw a narrow arch in a stone wall. Beyond was a dim, green-gold space. As if drawn, she moved to the arch.

  There was an iron gate, and through the bars she saw a garden. It was cool and shaded, a grotto of emerald flecked with copper. She pushed on the gate, but it did not move. It must have been locked.

  She glanced down. It was locked, but not by wood or metal. Instead, living vines coiled around the bars, holding the gate shut. Yet that made little sense. The gate would have to remain shut for days for the vines to grow over it so extensively, but the garden beyond looked carefully tended.

  Then she understood. The gate was indeed locked, but only to those who did not possess the right key. Lirith slipped her fingers through the gate and brushed the vines. It was a simple spell; she didn’t even need to shut her eyes. In her mind she touched the threads that belonged to the plants and unwove them.

  The vines fell away from the bars.

  Lirith pushed, and the gate swung inward. She stepped into the grotto beyond. There was a rustling behind her, and she did not need to look to know that the vines had coiled back over the bars. She made her way down a narrow path, past braided walls of fruit trees and curtains of flowers.

  The voices were faint at first, so that she thought them merely the murmuring of unseen fountains. Then she heard faint whispers in her mind, and she knew she was not alone.

  Who is this one?

  A trespasser. A follower of the New Ones.

  No, daughters, she knew the spell. She wove it with great skill.

  She hails from the north then.

  But her face is dark as dusk.

  Yet all the same from the north she is, although the south does flow in her veins.

  What should we do? She will sense the presence of our coven in a moment.

  Ah, but she already has.

  Silence. Lirith paused, waiting. All around her leaves fluttered, but there was no breeze to stir them. She opened her mind, her thoughts, so that they might see who she was. There were a dozen of them at least, maybe more. It was difficult to be sure amidst the dense life of the grotto.

  At last Lirith could stand the silence no more. She opened her mouth, but at that moment a chorus of voices sounded softly in her mind.

  Welcome, Daughter of Sia.

  44.

  The sun had set and the sky was deepening from amethyst to onyx by the time Lirith returned to the hostel. Melia looked up from her chair near the window. The fluffy black kitten yawned and stretched on her lap.

  “We’ve been worried about you, dear.”

  Melia’s voice was gentle, but Lirith winced all the same.

  “See, Durge?” Falken said. “I told you she didn’t get hopelessly lost, knocked on the head by a robber, or pushed into an abandoned well.”

  “It is a wonder,” the knight replied.

  The two men sat at a table, playing a game Lirith did not recognize using small, polished stones. Despite the levity in the bard’s voice, his visage was drawn, and Durge seemed even more somber than usual. No doubt they had feared her dead, like the priests of Vathris in the Etherion. After all, there had already been one attempt on her life.

  “I’m fine,” she said, then realized this was utterly inadequate.

  Aryn rushed to her, her blue eyes shining. “Where were you, Lirith?” Then, in Lirith’s mind, Aryn’s voice continued. I called for you, but you never answered.

  Lirith noticed Melia’s sparkling gaze. She was not so certain Aryn’s words had not been overheard. Aloud she said, “I went to find witches.”

  Lirith might have spoken to Aryn that night in private, but no matter what Ivalaine said, Melia and Falken were her friends. And while the workings of witches made Durge uncomfortable, it was best they all knew what she had learned.

  Except what had she learned? As the words tumbled out of her, she realized she wasn’t entirely certain.

  She had gone in search of witches in the city in hopes of learning more about the tangle in the Weirding. After all, it was larger here—far larger than it had ever been in Ar-tolor. Aryn hadn’t seen the tangle, but if there were witches in Tarras maybe some of them had. And, Lirith had reasoned, if she could learn more about the knot in the Weirding, she might discover something that would help them find the murderer as well.

  At least, that was what she had hoped. The others listened as she described her encounter in the garden. The witches she had found there had been both familiar and strange. They were witches to be sure—daughters of Sia as they had described themselves—for they had known how to weave the Weirding and how to speak across its threads.

  However, there were differences as well. These witches were not part of the Pattern that was woven in the Dominions. And while Sia was indeed present in Tarras, it was a muted presence, faded by the bright glare of the New Gods. Many of their spells were weak—like the one with which they had bound the garden gate, and which Lirith had broken so easily. It was also true they had talents that were new and surprising to Lirith.

  In particular, they were adept at speaking over the threads of the Weirding. Lirith imagined followers of such old religions would not be popular in a city dominated by newer deities; no doubt that had driven them to secrecy. As a result, they were able to cast spells in a communal manner Lirith had rarely seen outside the weaving of the Pattern. There had been a coven of thirteen witches in the grotto—she had come upon them during one of their meetings—and Lirith had spoken to them almost as if they were a single entity. Of them all, she had been able to learn the name of only one: the eldest, a brown-skinned witch called Thesta, who was the leader of the coven.

  “Had any of them seen it?” Aryn said. “The tangle in the Weirding?”

  Lirith nodded. “Some of them. But only those with the gift of Sight, according to Thesta and the others.”

  Aryn’s lips pursed in a frown. “But then why have you seen it, Lirith? You don’t—oh!”

  Lirith sighed. She still doubted Thesta’s words, yet what other answer was there?

  Those among us with the Sight have glimpsed the knot you speak of, the witches had said, sometimes speaking with Thesta’s voice alone, sometimes speaking in shimmering chorus. It first appeared two moons ago, and it has been growing larger ever since. We know not its source, but we fear what it portends. Some of the others have had dreams such as yours, the dreams of the golden spiders, and the one in the shadows that seeks to devour everything caught in its web.

  Lirith had gasped at this, for she had not told the witches of her dreams. Now she forced herself to meet Aryn’s gaze.

  “I don’t know, Aryn. I suppose maybe I do have some small shard of the Sight. I suppose I’ve always known it, although I never could bring myself to admit it.”

  “But why in Sia’s name not?” Aryn said, gripping Lirith’s hand. “It’s wonderful!”

  Lirith stiffened. Could she tell Aryn the other words Thesta had spoken to her?

  Yes, I see it. You have kept it hidden, like a curtain drawn over a window. But now the curtain is unraveling. The Sight runs strong in you. Those who suffer sometimes gain such power, and your past is marked with sorrow.

  As is my future, Lirith had said, thinking of the old Mournish woman’s card, and then she had left the strange witches in their secret grotto.

  “There’s something I don’t understand, dear,” Melia said, and Lirith was glad for the lady’s question. She didn’t know how to answer Aryn, and Durge looked positively queasy at the direction the conversation had taken. “Are there not witches in the Dominions who possess the Sight? Why have none of them seen the unraveling of the Weirding?”

  �
��I’m not sure,” Lirith said. “But Thesta made some mention that the knot in the Weirding was a thing of the south, and that perhaps the south ran in my blood. But I’m not sure what she meant by that.”

  “Really, she said that? Of the south?” Melia’s eyes grew distant. “Perhaps it is so.…”

  Did Melia understand Thesta’s words? If so, she offered no further explanation.

  “You weren’t the only one who did a little investigating today,” Falken said. “Durge, why don’t you show Lirith what you found?”

  She drew close as Durge unwrapped something contained in a bit of cloth. It shone dully on his palm: a flattened piece of gray metal. Something dark and sticky stained the thing; Lirith’s gorge rose as she realized it was blood.

  “What is it?” she managed.

  Durge set the piece of metal on the table next to the unfinished game. “I returned to the Etherion today, to the place where the priests of Vathris fell. I hoped to find something that might help us understand how they died. What I found was this, embedded in one of the walls of the corridor. I believe this was one of the objects that pierced the bodies of the priests.”

  Lirith remembered the fallen men, the pools of blood. “I don’t understand. Surely such a small piece of metal could not be driven through a man’s body and into a wall of stone.”

  “It might, if it was somehow propelled fast enough.”

  “But what could do that?”

  However, even Durge’s scientific mind had produced no answer to that question. Despite what he and Lirith had learned that day, their investigation had been stopped as surely as the bit of metal in the marble wall of the Etherion. What was more, according to Melia, the Etherion was in chaos; after the deaths of the priests of Vathris, it was doubtful when—or if—another discourse would be called. And the Minister of Gates still refused to bear Melia’s messages to the emperor. Lirith feared the Weirding would unravel long before this mystery did.

  “Worry makes me hungry,” Falken said. “I think it’s time we asked Madam Vil for our supper.”

  45.

  They ate cheerlessly as stars appeared outside the window. Lirith knew the food was delicious, but it tasted like ashes on her tongue. None of them had any idea what to do to stop the murderer. And whether it was the Sight or not, somehow Lirith knew there would be more deaths before this was over. Would her own be one of them?

  “Falken,” Melia said, as servants cleared away the remains of the supper and left the room, “perhaps a song or tale is in order this evening, something to take our minds off a long and wearying day.”

  Falken retrieved his lute from its case. He seemed to think a minute, his wolfish face motionless, then he nodded. “I believe I’ll tell you about the New Gods, and how they came to Falengarth. That seems an appropriate subject given the history of this city.”

  Melia gave the bard a sharp look. “And I’m certain you’ll do justice to the tale, with no favor toward one side or another.” On her lap, the kitten hissed and spat.

  Falken laughed. “Don’t worry, Melia. The Old Gods won’t come off looking better in this tale. I promise you that.”

  Melia said nothing more, and the others drew their chairs close to the bard. He strummed a soft, melancholy song. It made Lirith think of beautiful things lost, things that had faded long ago yet were not entirely forgotten.

  “Do you remember the drawing we saw in the wilds between Toloria and Perridon?” Falken said in his resonant voice. “The giant on the side of the hill?”

  Aryn nodded. “It was one of the Old Gods. Mohg, I believe you called him.”

  Durge cleared his throat. “I mean you and your Old Gods no offense, Falken, but from that drawing Mohg did not appear to be a terribly kind fellow.”

  Lirith remembered the god’s single, staring eye, his long fangs, and the people writhing in his hand.

  “That’s because he wasn’t,” the bard said. “Mohg was a god consumed by poison and shadow; he wanted nothing less than to shatter the world. But he wasn’t always that way. And that’s part of this story as well.”

  The stars spun outside the windows as Falken told a story that alternately stirred Lirith’s blood and froze it.

  “Long ago,” Falken began, “the Old Gods dwelled deep in the forests of Falengarth in the north of Eldh. With them dwelled their children, the Little People, who were of myriad forms and manners: mischievous greenmen, clever dark elfs or dwarfs, and the light-elfs—or fairies—who of them all were closest to the hearts of the Old Gods.

  “There were no men in Falengarth then, save the Maugrim, who were not like the men of today. The Maugrim lived in the forests, wearing the skins of animals, making their homes in caves, and hunting with knives of stone, for, like the Little People, the Maugrim could not bear the touch of iron.

  “For eons, the Old Gods were the mightiest beings in all of Falengarth: Olrig One-Eye, Ysani of the Meeting of Ways, Durnach the Smith. And Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, who was stronger than all but Olrig when the sun slipped beneath the edge of the world and the day died.”

  “So even then he was wicked,” Aryn said.

  “No,” Melia countered. “There is no evil inherent in the night. Only what men and gods would bring there.”

  Falken nodded. “Melia’s right. But then, more than a thousand years ago, things began to change. While only the Maugrim dwelled in Falengarth, for eons men had dwelled in Moringarth, the great, hot land south of the Summer Sea. The Old Gods never ventured to Moringarth, preferring the cool, moist forests of the north, and so the shining cities of men did not trouble them.

  “But there came a great conflagration in the south, and many men fled north across the sea to Falengarth. There they founded many cities, including one that, in time, would become the greatest city in the world.”

  “Tarras,” Lirith murmured.

  “That’s right,” Falken said. “Now, the founding of Tarras and the other cities along the south of Falengarth sent a tremor through the Old Gods and the Little People like a wind through a forest. They did not understand these people who came across the sea in red-sailed ships, who piled stone into high towers and worked bright metal into sharp swords. But it was not just iron that men brought across the sea. For they brought their gods as well—strange, new gods.”

  Melia folded her arms. “I resent that, Falken. We are not strange. Nor are we particularly new.”

  “And yet the Old Gods are more ancient still,” Falken said. “They were deities of forest, stone, water, and sky, called into being by the runes spoken by the Worldsmith as were all the things on Eldh. However, the New Gods of Tarras were different. The Nindari were gods of men, granted their godhood by the belief of their worshipers, and their birth was a mystery. League by league, the men of Tarras pushed farther north, bringing their gods with them, and the Old Gods sensed that their days upon Falengarth were waning. One by one, along with the Little People, they began to fade into the Twilight Realm, the land that is no land, which is everywhere and nowhere at once.

  “However, there was one among the Old Gods who refused to fade into the Twilight Realm. The sight of men marching into Falengarth filled him with a burning rage, and he accused Olrig, leader of the Old Gods, of treachery and cowardice for his unwillingness to fight.”

  “And this god,” Durge said, “it was Mohg?”

  Falken nodded. “And in his words, the other Old Gods sensed at last the ancient jealousy Mohg harbored for Olrig. Mohg felt that he should be leader of the Old Gods, but they turned their back on him. Yet that only fueled Mohg’s hatred, like wind on a flame. He went in search of one who might yet help him—a dragon. Now from the beginning of the world, the dragons were ever the foes of the Old Gods, seeking to bring down and destroy everything brought into being by the Worldsmith.”

  “Or Sia,” Lirith murmured. She met the bard’s eyes. “In some stories, at least.”

  Falken gave her a sharp look. “Or Sia, if you will. Mohg went to the Barrens and climbe
d a mountain so high it pierced the sky, a mountain which has since been cast down into rubble. The sharp stone sliced his hands and feet to ribbons, but at last, bloodied and battered, Mohg reached the top, and there he found the dragon Hriss.

  “Now Hriss was a great and ancient dragon, for she was one of the brood of Agamar, who was the first of the dragons, and she was terribly wise. Like all the Gordrim, she coveted knowledge and hoarded it, and in Mohg’s coming she saw an opportunity to gain knowledge she had always craved.

  “ ‘I will grant you the knowledge you require,’ Hriss told Mohg. And with her own talon she cut a deep gash in her belly, and blood flowed, and she bid Mohg drink it, which he did greedily. Her blood was hot and thick with wisdom, but even as he drank, Hriss stretched her neck so that she might reach Mohg’s body, and while he was drunk with the taste of her blood, she ate his living heart from his breast, for she had always wondered what the taste of a god’s heart would be, and at last she had that knowledge. Satisfied, she flew from the mountaintop, leaving Mohg to be picked at by vultures.

  “God though he was, Mohg would have died there on the mountain but for the pity of a witch named Cirsa, who saw Mohg in a vision. Cirsa climbed the great mountain with a lump of Tarrasian iron, and this she placed in his breast, enchanting it with spells, so Mohg lived.”

  Falken’s visage was grim. “To drink the blood of a dragon grants the drinker great wisdom. But the price of that wisdom is that it darkens the vision, so that never again can one see good in something, or beauty, or kindness. Rather, all the world becomes cold, hard, ugly, and cruel—a thing ceaselessly in decay. Seeing that in Mohg’s eyes, Cirsa realized what a terrible mistake she had made, but before she could undo her spell, Mohg cast her off the side of the mountain. Such was her reward for helping him.”

  Aryn clenched her left hand into a fist. “She should have cursed him.”

  “And she did,” Falken said. “ ‘Love shall yet defy you!’ she cried as she fell, then she perished on sharp rocks far below. Of course, Mohg cared nothing for love now that he had a heart of iron, and so he forgot her words. And the blood-wisdom had given him what he had desired—a way to defeat the southmen and their gods.