The Dark Remains

by Mark Anthony

  This time it was Travis who got it first. “The Scirathi have another gate artifact.”

  “Yes,” Sareth said.

  Falken sighed. “So the sorcerers of Scirath are behind all the murders in the city. They’ve sacrificed gods to the demon in hopes of sating it so they can get past it and gain this scarab. And they’ve been killing anyone who gets close to discovering what they’re doing.”

  For a moment sorrow flickered across Melia’s visage, then her expression grew hard. “They will not succeed. We will not let them.”

  “But how?” Grace said. “How are we going to stop them if they have a demon on their side?”

  A cool tingling passed through Travis. Once again words whispered in his mind.

  To choose what it shall be.…

  He didn’t know how, only that it had to be so, that this was the reason it had let itself be captured and carried across worlds to him. Carefully, he drew the Stone out of his pocket. It shone dully on his hand, seeming to absorb the firelight. Sinfathisar. The Stone of Twilight.

  “We’re going to do it with this,” he said.

  72.

  Lirith stepped from the back of the wagon in which she had slept and breathed in the moist scent of dawn. White-gold light stole among the circle of ithaya, and the tall trees swayed in a wind that swept off the sea. Gulls circled in the sky, their calls drifting down like the faint voices of ghosts.

  Last night, when she had stumbled into the wagon to sleep, she had been too weary to really look at the craft. Now she saw that the wagon was shaped like a toad. She was grateful it was not a spider.

  She left the wagon’s steps, and her bare feet sank into the dewy grass. A sharp, clean scent rose from it. She moved among the trees until she could see it far below: the white towers and gold domes of Tarras. They gleamed brilliant and perfect in the dawnlight.

  No, not perfect. From the city, several thin, dark lines rose into the sky. Tarras was burning. Only in a few places, yet to Lirith it meant one thing: the darkness and confusion they had glimpsed in the city was growing. How many people had abandoned their hearths, their businesses, their loved ones to drink the Elixir of the Past and stare at the sun with blind eyes? But maybe it didn’t matter; maybe soon there would be no city and no people left to worry about. Lirith hugged herself against the wind. To her eyes, the lines of smoke looked like black threads reaching toward the sky.

  She hesitated, then shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch. Yes, she could see it: the tangle in the fabric of the Weirding. It seethed and grew as she watched, and sickness welled up in her. All the same, she forced herself to look closer, to peer into the heart of the tangle.

  There, she could see it, or rather sense it: the black void at the center. Even as she watched, a thread was drawn close to the tangle—then flashed and was gone. So it was doing more than merely entangling the threads of the Weirding. It was eating them.

  But, after what she had learned last night, that only made sense. That the demon was the source of the tangle in the Weirding as well as the change in the garden of the gods there could be no doubt. Yet why had Lirith first seen the knot all the way back in Ar-tolor?

  Think, sister. What happened that day you first glimpsed the tangle? The guard came to your door, waking you. It was …

  It was the day Melia had arrived at Ar-tolor.

  Yes, it all makes sense. Melia has been getting lost in thoughts of the past, and the moment she arrived at Artolor, the same thing began happening to you, sister. And now it is happening to the people of Tarras, even as the other gods become caught in the web of the past.

  Lirith supposed the tangle she saw in the Weirding was simply a vision—a construct of her ability with the Sight, one which strove to give form and shape to the peril she had been sensing. But why was the demon causing Melia and the other gods—as well as people near to them—to mix past, present, and future? It was as if the demon was unraveling not just the threads of the Weirding, but the very fabric of time itself.

  Lirith sighed. These were questions she could not answer, but she resolved to ask the others. That was, if there was time. For last night, by the dying light of the fire, they had forged what seemed to Lirith a desperate plan.

  I think I’m supposed to go beneath the city, Travis had said. I think that’s why the fairy used its blood to fill the gate artifact again. It wants me to go through, take Sinfathisar, and stop the demon before it gets loose.

  We’ll need to distract the Scirathi, Sareth had said. They will be keeping watch on the cavern where the demon is imprisoned. Your magic Stone will do you no good if you never manage to get near the demon. We need to keep the sorcerers as far away from you as possible.

  I believe Emperor Ephesian will help us in that regard, Melia had said, her eyes gleaming. Whether he wishes to or not.

  It was Grace who had finally spoken the question on all their minds. How, Travis? How can you use Sinfathisar to stop the demon?

  I don’t have that one entirely figured out, Grace, he had said with a wry smile. But the fairy seems to think the Stone can do it. And I did use Sinfathisar to seal the Rune Gate. I’ll have to believe it can do this as well.

  They had gone to bed then, Sareth and Vani showing them to different wagons where they could sleep. However, Lirith had had one more conversation before she let sleep come, speaking in the dark with Aryn as they lay in the wagon. They had spoken without words—nor had they included Grace in their conversation, for she had fallen at once into the profound sleep of exhaustion. Besides, Lirith did not know how they were going to tell Grace that the Pattern required her to betray her friend.

  Except Grace wasn’t at the High Coven, sister, Aryn had spoken in her mind. She isn’t part of the Pattern.

  That was true, only Lirith didn’t understand what it meant, not fully. She would have to consider it later. Right now there other matters at hand.

  We must send word of Travis Wilder’s arrival to Ivalaine at the first opportunity. That much the Pattern requires.

  Lirith had sensed the hesitation on the other end of the thread. She felt it herself.

  I know, sister. You are not the only one who was joyous to see Travis—then despaired at the sight of him. I still find it hard to believe he would seek to harm Eldh. In everything I have seen him do, he is a kind and gentle man. But he has power, great power. That much neither of us can deny.

  But what do we do, Lirith?

  Just what I have said. The Pattern requires only that we send word back to Ivalaine and that we watch him. No matter how he might threaten Eldh in the future, right now Travis is the only one who has a chance of preventing the demon’s escape, and we must not hinder him in this.

  But what if he makes a mistake, sister? What if he accidentally allows the demon to escape, and that’s how Eldh is destroyed?

  Lirith had not considered that. However, she knew the perils of interpreting prophecy. Sometimes, in trying to avoid what was foretold, one could cause it to happen.

  No, Aryn, we will take no action other than what we were commanded. We will send a missive to Ivalaine as soon as we can, and we will watch Travis. That is all.

  And how will we tell Grace?

  Good night, sister, Lirith had said. You will need your sleep.

  But she had slept little, and when she did she dreamed of pushing Travis Wilder into the tangle in the Weirding while a man and a woman cried out in dismay. The man was Beltan, of course; he loved Travis. At first she thought the woman to be Grace, but then she saw that the other had eyes of gold. Before she could look closer, the threads tangled around Travis, drawing him into the dark center of the tangle, and in an instant he was gone. Except the tangle kept growing until it devoured everything, including Lirith herself.

  Now, somewhere behind her, she heard the sounds of voices. The Mournish were beginning to stir. The others would be up soon. Lirith turned.

  “Hello, beshala,” Sareth said, his brown-gold eyes soft in the morning light.r />
  Lirith lifted a hand to clutch the spider charm at her throat, but any words she might have spoken were stolen away by the wind. Above, gulls cried.

  She must have walked right past him. He leaned against the trunk of an ithaya tree, wearing his billowing pants and open vest. The morning light shone off the bronzed skin of his chest, and the wind tousled his black hair. In his hand he held a card. A T’hot card. She could not see its face.

  Last night, in the darkness, she had been able to forget how handsome he was. Not now. She felt weak at the sight of him. Then her eyes drifted down to the leg that ended not in flesh but wood. His lips twisted in a grimace. He dragged his wooden leg back.

  Lirith looked up in horror. She didn’t mean to make him hide his leg. It was part of him, like his fine hands, or the sparse, pointed beard on his chin. She would change none of it. Again she tried to speak but could not.

  This is foolishness, sister. Tell him. Tell him what you are feeling!

  “It brings good luck, the old women say,” he said in his deep, thrumming voice.

  She tilted her head, confused. He pointed to the spider charm, which she still gripped.

  Lirith let her hand fall from the charm. “Do they? I’m not sure that it has.”

  Last night, Vani had told how the Scirathi used magical spiders of gold to poison those they wished to kill. That was how they had murdered Orsith. And she had seen them in her dreams.…

  It seemed he sensed her thoughts. “No, do not let the work of the Scirathi decide what you believe. It is as a mockery that the sorcerers of Scirath use spiders to work their evil. For in Morindu, spiders were held to be sacred. And so my people still consider them. In our legends, they are the weavers that bind the world together.”

  Lirith sighed. “We had thought it was Sif who was behind the murders, because we found one of the spiders where the priest Orsith was slain. But that was just coincidence, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe not entirely. I imagine the Scirathi saw in the arachnid god an opportunity to mislead and confuse any who sought to discover the source of the murders.”

  Lirith nodded, but it was not of spiders that she wished to speak.

  “I have heard …” Her voice faltered, and she moistened her lips. “I have heard it said that outsiders are never allowed to marry into the clans of the Mournish.”

  Sareth stared past her, motionless. “What you have heard is true.”

  The words were a dagger, but one she had known was coming. She turned away to hide the wound that surely had appeared in her breast. “I see.”

  But maybe it didn’t matter. Who was she to think a man would marry her? She recalled the dream, how Sareth had turned to stone in her arms. For her, was not the dream already true? A man would find no warmth within her, no life. No children.

  A rustling behind her. She smelled clean sweat and spices, and her throat went dry. A warmth touched the back of her neck: the breath of a man.

  “Beshala …” he whispered.

  She closed her eyes. “You keep saying that word, but I don’t know it. What does it mean?”

  “In the tongue of my people, it means beloved.”

  A gasp escaped Lirith; it was a sound of pain. She turned, searching his face for answers. “No, it can’t be. Beshala. I remember—that was what you called me in Ar-tolor, the first moment you saw me.”

  His eyes were solemn. “So I did.”

  “But …”

  “What man of the Mournish does not know his fate when he sees it? Beshala.”

  They stood like the trees, swaying in the wind as the gulls called out above them. Then slowly, against the wind, they bent toward one another.

  “Lirith, there you are!”

  She stumbled back, looked up. Grace walked between the sunleaf trees toward them, Travis at her side. Lirith felt her cheeks glowing hotly, and Sareth moved hastily away. However, if either Travis or Grace had noticed anything, they did not say.

  And nor was there anything to notice, sister. You heard his words. Whatever his fate, he can never marry an outsider. And you know what fate holds for you. The Raven …

  “Melia is up,” Travis said. “She wants everyone to get together. Now.”

  Grace gave an apologetic shrug. “I tried to tell her that no one is saving any world before maddok, but you know how she gets.”

  “Indeed,” Lirith said in a voice she hoped sounded light and casual. Again she wondered how she was going to tell Grace what the Witches had decided about Travis Wilder.

  “Lirith?” Travis cocked his head, gazing at her.

  “Yes?”

  “You were staring at me. What? Is my hair a mess? Oh, wait.” He rubbed his bald head and grinned.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m not … I’m not quite awake yet.”

  Travis only nodded in agreement, but Grace studied her with questioning eyes. Fortunately, before Lirith felt compelled to start babbling about everything the Witches had decided, Travis spoke again.

  “Good morning, Sareth. What have you got there?” Travis gestured to the card in Sareth’s hand.

  “Perhaps you can tell me. When I rose this morning, I drew a card from my al-Mama’s deck to see what the day holds.”

  He turned the card over. Lirith clapped a hand to her mouth. The card showed a man pierced in the back with three swords.

  Travis winced. “I have to say, that doesn’t seem like a very good sign.”

  “No,” Sareth said. “It does not. This card signifies treachery. I would say there is betrayal ahead of us this day.”

  “But by whom?” Grace said.

  Lirith crossed her arms and turned away. “We had better not keep Lady Melia waiting.”

  73.

  It was midmorning, and the white sun was bright on white walls as they moved along the main avenue that led up through the five circles of Tarras.

  “All right,” Travis muttered, “am I the only one who feels just a little bit less than inconspicuous?”

  He adjusted his new garb: knee-length trousers, loose white shirt, and a red vest embroidered with yellow thread. A scarf covered his bald head, and his silver earrings only added to the effect. Were it not for his pale, still-new skin, he would have passed perfectly as a Mournish man.

  Back at the caravan, Sareth and Vani had given all of them new clothes to wear.

  It is simply a precaution, Sareth had said. We are less likely to draw undue attention from the Scirathi if we appear to be only a simple band of Mournish come to the city to tell fates and sell trinkets.

  Grace’s attire was not so different from Travis’s. She was taller than everyone in their group save Beltan and Travis, and none of the clothes of the Mournish women had fit her. Her ash-blond hair was drawn up beneath a floppy, brimless hat. Vani had even given her a short sword to wear at her hip. The others all wore brilliant colors and gleaming jewelry. Even Durge, who had submitted to trimming his mustaches short and keeping the whiskers on his chin in the Mournish style—albeit not without some grumbling. However, when Aryn mentioned that he looked ten winters younger, his grumbling had ceased.

  “At least it’s working,” Grace said in answer to Travis’s complaint. “Look. Nobody is even coming near us.”

  “Well, can you blame them? Marji would have arrested us in a second for high crimes against fashion.”

  Grace sighed, then touched her embroidered vest. “No, I think she might have liked it.”

  The more she thought about it, the more Grace realized how good Sareth’s decision to disguise them was. The Scirathi hated the Mournish, but they also held the Vagabond Folk in contempt. They would care little about a ragtag band who came to the city to scrounge a few coins. Instead, the sorcerers would be watching for Melia and Falken as well as Lirith, Durge, and Aryn. And there was no way the sorcerers could know Travis, Grace, and Vani were in the city.

  Except, as they went, Grace began to think it wasn’t simply their disguise that let them pass without notice. Lirith was rig
ht. The people of Tarras seemed dazed and distracted. Many of them wore looks of open confusion, standing in the middle of the street, holding a bucket or a child or a basket of goods, as if they had absolutely no idea what they were supposed to be doing next. Then there were the people slumped against walls, flies crawling over their purple-stained lips, empty cups in their hands. Yet it didn’t make sense—Lirith had said there was nothing magic in this so-called Elixir of the Past.

  It’s the demon, Grace. That thing is the source of everything that’s changing in this city. But how is it entangling Melia and the gods in the past, along with the people close to them?

  Grace didn’t know. And while she had been a world away from Melia and the other gods, every day the remains of the past seemed more real to her, and the present more like a parade of ghosts.

  They reached the Second Circle of the city. From what Grace had gleaned, this was the holy district. She had never believed in gods on Earth, and even here on Eldh, where the gods were real and present, she was still not certain what she thought of them. They were at once weaker and more dangerous than she would have imagined. All the same, there was a grandeur to the temples of white stone she could not deny. Above them rose a great blue dome. That must be the Etherion that Melia had mentioned.

  When they reached the gate to the First Circle, they found its gilded doors tightly shut. It seemed the emperor had not had a change of heart.

  Melia adjusted the veil that concealed her face, then glided toward a smaller red door set into the wall near the gate. She knocked on the red door once, twice, then a third time. She started to thrust both hands before her, and Grace had the feeling she was about to blast the door to pieces when the top half of it swung open to reveal a thick-necked soldier in a bronze breastplate.

  “Please inform the Minister of Gates that I require his presence,” Melia said pleasantly.

  “The Minister is seeing no one without an appointment today.”

  “Forgive me.” Melia laid her hand on the soldier’s arm. “I can see you’re quite stupid, so let me put it in simple words. I will speak with the Minister.”