Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  “What is it, Lord Farvel?”

  “He’s here, my lady. And a day early, by all the Seven! Things aren’t ready, they aren’t ready at all, but somehow they’ll simply have to do.”

  Aryn shook her head, trying to grasp what Farvel was saying. “What do you mean, my lord? Who’s here?”

  “Why, your husband, of course.”

  His words struck Aryn like a blow. Her entire being went numb, and she allowed the seneschal to pull her along like she was a simple child. Her husband was there? So soon?

  They reached the entrance of the great hall. A pair of guards bowed, then pushed the gigantic oak doors open, and the breeze they generated seemed to propel Aryn through as much as the urging of Lord Farvel.

  Fresh rushes strewed the floor of the great hall, and torches had been lit against the faltering daylight. The king sat on his wooden throne on the dais. Two figures stood before the dais. Their backs were turned, and both wore heavy traveling cloaks, so that Aryn couldn’t tell if they were men or women, although both seemed slender of build.

  A third figure—this one without doubt a woman—sat in a chair that had been placed on the first step of the dais and was angled toward the king’s throne. This sight shocked Aryn. Only the most noble of guests were allowed to sit when in audience with the king. Aryn couldn’t see the woman’s face, for it was turned toward Boreas, but her hair was the color of flax, and her cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, revealing a gown as pale and green as the rushes covering the floor.

  The doors shut with a boom. Boreas looked up, and the woman in the chair turned her head, her eyes—as clear and colorless as ice—gazing upon Aryn.

  It was Queen Ivalaine.

  Aryn faltered and might have stumbled if not for the tenacious grip of Lord Farvel. She steadied herself, thrust her chin up, and kept moving toward the dais, her mind racing all the while. What was the queen doing in Calavere? Had she received the missive Aryn had sent, and journeyed to Calavere to speak of it?

  She’s come to punish you for taking so long to write to her, Aryn thought with rising panic. She’s come to pluck your thread from the Pattern. By Sia, it will be agony, won’t it?

  But that was absurd. The messenger would have reached Ar-tolor the same day Aryn arrived at Calavere. That was just three days ago. There was no way the queen could have traveled here so swiftly. She must have left her castle a week ago.

  Which meant she didn’t get your letter, Aryn. She doesn’t know about Travis, or what happened in Tarras.

  “I’m so pleased you decided to join us, Lady Aryn,” Boreas rumbled on his throne, sounding anything but pleased.

  Queen Ivalaine rose from her chair. “Lady Aryn, it’s so good to see you again.”

  Aryn hastily curtsied, averting her eyes, not so much out of deference but dread. “Your Majesty,” she said, her head still down. “I didn’t...I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Is that so?” Ivalaine said in her cool voice. “And who else did you believe would bring him to you, Lady Aryn?”

  These words jerked Aryn upright. There was a queer light in the queen’s eyes. Like sorrow, but emptier, more haunted. However, Aryn’s attention alighted on the queen for only a heartbeat, for the two figures on either side of her had turned around.

  To the queen’s left was a woman of later middle years. A single streak of white marked her jet hair, and her almond-shaped eyes shone with gentle wisdom. Sister Mirda.

  Shock flooded Aryn, followed by joy. It was Mirda whose calm presence had cooled the fever of hatred ignited by Sister Liendra, and which had ameliorated the Pattern, changing the weaving so that the Witches would not kill Runebreaker, but merely seek him out and prevent him from doing harm.

  Before Aryn could wonder more, a soft, sarcastic voice spoke.

  “Hello, cousin.”

  The voice was deeper than the last time she had heard it, but she recognized it at once.

  “Prince Teravian!” she gasped, turning toward the young man who stood to the queen’s left. After a moment she remembered herself and curtsied. When she rose, a smirk was coiled about his lips. She was not surprised; Teravian always seemed to enjoy seeing others get flustered.

  King Boreas’s son had grown since she had seen him last at Ar-tolor. He was taller than she, and his shoulders were quite broad, although he was still slender. He must be eighteen now, but even as he grew older, he would never be heavy of build like his father. He was shaped like a dancer, not a warrior. All the same, he was handsome in the same dark, scowling way as the king, a fact that clearly marked him as Boreas’s son. Then again, there was a fineness to his visage that the king lacked. It must have come from his mother, although Aryn couldn’t say for certain, as she had never seen Queen Narenya herself. King Boreas’s wife had died before Aryn came to Calavere.

  “Well, aren’t you going to greet me?” Teravian said. He looked at once both bored and amused.

  Aryn managed to draw a breath. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is good to see you, of course. But tell me, why have you returned to Calavere? Is your stay in Ar-tolor at an end?”

  Teravian stared at her like she was a complete idiot. And indeed, Boreas and Ivalaine were gazing at her as well, along with Farvel and Mirda. Although Mirda’s gaze was far more kindly than the stares of the others.

  Aryn looked from each one to the next, desperately trying to understand what was happening. Then, as if heard from down a long corridor, her conversation with Lord Farvel echoed in her mind.

  What do you mean, my lord? Who’s here?

  Why, your husband, of course.

  “You,” she said, staring at the slender young man clad all in black. “It’s you that I’m to marry.”

  “You don’t have to sound so disgusted,” the prince said, his thick eyebrows descending in a scowl. “Believe me, I’m not happy about it any more than you.” And without begging leave of either king or queen, he stamped away from the dais and vanished through a side door.

  “Well,” Sister Mirda said, gently breaking the silence, “we can simply believe the marriage will improve from here.”

  29.

  Their third day in Seawatch dawned even more gloomy than the first two. No wonder Embarrans had a reputation for somberness; this place made Seattle look like Palm Beach. If it hadn’t been for the serving maid who brought them breakfast, Grace would have had absolutely no idea the sun was up.

  “Thank you, Mirdrid,” Grace said sleepily, rising on an elbow in bed as the serving maid set down the tray.

  Grace had spoken a little with the young woman the previous day—part of her new effort to not terrify servants. Surprisingly, it had seemed to work, as the young woman curtsied and gave a shy smile. She was pretty, like a flower bud only just beginning to open. One of her brown eyes was lazy, but the other focused on Grace.

  “Let me know if you need anything else, my lady.”

  “Of course, Mirdrid. And do bring me the embroidery you’ve been working on—the piece you told me about yesterday. I’d love to see it.”

  The serving maid smiled again, then hurried from the room. Grace pushed back the bedcovers, only then realizing that Vani wasn’t there. She touched the place where the assassin had lain, but the sheets were cool. Grace climbed down from the bed using the wooden step, poured herself a cup of maddok, and sat by the fire.

  The others appeared a half hour later. First Falken and Beltan showed up at the chamber door—the bard to talk, the knight to see what he could scrounge from Grace’s breakfast tray, having evidently vanquished the contents of his and Falken’s own. Grace was still in her nightgown, but she had wrapped a blanket around herself, and she hoped it rendered her sufficiently queenly. Then Vani was there, and it was testament to her poor state of health that all of them saw the assassin enter the room.

  “Where were you last night?” Grace asked.

  “I was searching the keep.”

  None of them needed to ask what she had been searching for. After
supper last night, Grace had told them what she had seen in the gallery: the presence. Watching, but not alive.

  Falken glanced at the T’gol. “Did you find anything?”

  “No. As Lord Elwarrd said, there are few left in his keep, so it was easy to move about. And I found no trace of one such as Grace described. There was only...” A frown crossed Vani’s face.

  “There was only what?” Grace said.

  “Nothing.” Vani reached her hands out toward the fire. “I saw no trace of anything such as you described, Grace.”

  Beltan gave her a skeptical look. “What makes you so certain this person wasn’t just hiding from you?”

  Vani treated the knight to a withering glance. The message was plain: If there was something to find, the T’gol believed she would have found it. However, now that she had gotten a night’s sleep, Grace wasn’t so certain what she had sensed with the Touch last night. It had been so fleeting, and she was still running a slight fever. Maybe there hadn’t been anything there at all.

  Then why can you still feel it, Grace? Death. The feeling was so strong it almost stopped your heart.

  “You shouldn’t have been out last night,” Grace said to Vani. “You’re still not well. You need to rest.”

  “I will rest now.” The T’gol sat cross-legged by the fire.

  Beltan swabbed a porridge bowl with the last scrap of bread. “So, does what you saw change our plans?”

  Grace considered the options. The medicine was beginning to work; a quick check of all of their threads showed she and Falken were greatly improved. And Vani and Beltan were better as well, but not so much that Grace felt they were out of danger. If they left the keep and marched through this wretched weather, their condition could easily deteriorate.

  So regardless, they couldn’t leave Seawatch yet. Should she tell Lord Elwarrd what she had seen, in case there was a danger to the keep? No, she decided. If there had been any sort of mundane intruder, surely Vani would have found it. And Grace didn’t care to explain to the lord just how she had sensed what she did. They would simply have to keep their eyes open while they rested for a few more days.

  With no other options for entertainment, they spent the day in their chambers again. Falken played his lute to help pass the hours, and sometimes he would sing in a low voice, and Grace would find herself drifting through visions of ancient halls and secret towers.

  Leweth came just after midday to make sure all was well. Grace asked after Lord Elwarrd—not out of a desire to see him, but simply out of curiosity.

  “I’m afraid the earl is engaged again today,” the steward said, bowing in apology. “But if we are fortunate, he will be available for supper. In which case I know he would be most pleased if you would join him again.”

  “Of course,” Grace said.

  “It seems Lord Elwarrd is a busy fellow,” Falken said after the steward left.

  “With all his knights gone, he probably has a lot to take care of by himself,” Beltan said.

  Vani and Beltan both slept the entire afternoon, which pleased the doctor in Grace. And if their repose was aided by the powder she had slipped into their cups when they weren’t looking, well, they could be angry with her when they woke. Grace herself was beginning to feel a bit restless—a sure sign she was getting better—but she was content enough to pass the time talking with Falken. However, sometimes the light shining in his eyes when he spoke of their plan to find the shards of Fellring troubled her. Even if they did somehow find Ulther’s sword—and then somehow managed to make it whole again— it still didn’t mean Malachor was anything but a memory. And what good would that do them?

  The truth was, despite Falken’s obvious faith, Grace didn’t see how any of it was going to help them against the Old God Mohg. Or his servant, the Pale King. Or the Onyx Knights, whoever they were and whatever they wanted. In the end, she would just be one skinny woman with a rusty old sword she didn’t know how to use. But when she tried to tell Falken of her concerns, she saw the unguarded hope in his expression and the way he clenched his silver hand into an excited fist, and the words died on her tongue. Instead, Grace asked if she could examine his silver hand again. The thing fascinated her, especially since Falken said a witch had made it for him.

  Though made of metal, the hand was alive, just like Falken was; she could see the hand’s outline shimmering when she used the Touch. So that seemed like something a witch might do. But forging metal into such a fine shape, and enchanting it so that it could move in such a complex manner—from what little she knew, that seemed more like the magic of runes to her. And sure enough, when she turned it over, on the palm were three small runes—so faint she saw them barely as a glimmer—arranged in a circle. But how could Falken’s hand be a result of both witch magic and rune magic? Her examinations failed to reveal an answer.

  Outside, the sky turned from slate to pitch as the sun set. Leweth came to their door again, this time to regretfully inform them Elwarrd’s duties would not allow him to take supper with them as he had hoped, and that trays would be delivered to their rooms. Grace was just as glad; she had no desire to return to the great hall and gaze again into the shadows of the gallery. Although she did feel a momentary pang of disappointment that she would not see Elwarrd.

  Vani and Beltan had awakened by then, and both were better for the rest, although Grace was worried about the blond knight’s cough. She made him spit in a napkin, and traces of rust showed against the white cloth. Grace prepared a brew for both of them, and while they eyed their cups suspiciously, they drank the tea after she gave each of them a stern look. They ate their supper and, with little else to do, went to bed.

  The next day passed in much the same way, as did the next. The weather remained oppressive, and their host remained curiously absent, leaving them to take meals in their rooms.

  “It’s going to be impossible to beg our leave if Lord Elwarrd never shows up,” Falken said in frustration the afternoon of their fifth day in Seawatch.

  Grace was cutting shapes from a stiff piece of parchment using the knife she usually kept tucked in her boot. “I don’t know what’s keeping Elwarrd away. But couldn’t we go if we had to? Surely the lord would understand.”

  Falken gave a grim shake of his head. “To break the rules of hospitality is a crime worse than stealing. And it’s a mortal insult. If we left, Elwarrd would have every right to hunt us down and clap us in irons.”

  “Not that he has any knights to send after us,” Beltan said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Besides, didn’t you once leave Kelcior without begging permission from King Kel?”

  The bard looked every bit as indignant as a wet rooster. “That was different. Kel had already decided to put me to death, so it wasn’t as if leaving could have made things any worse.”

  Grace didn’t see how the knight could argue with the logic of that. She kept cutting with the knife.

  Vani sat at the table beside her. “What are they, Grace?”

  “I don’t know. I was bored and felt like making something, and this is what I came up with.” Grace picked up one of the shapes she had cut from the parchment. It was vaguely human-looking, only lopsided, and the proportions were wrong. Evidently she was better at putting people back together than making them from scratch. “I suppose they must be paper dolls.”

  Beltan picked up one of the shapes, turning it this way and that, clearly trying to decide which way was up. “So what are you supposed to do with it?”

  “I’m not really sure. I never had a doll.” Grace brushed the parchment figure in her hand. She found herself thinking of Tira: the mute, burnt, red-haired girl who had become a goddess before her eyes.

  Falken gave her a piercing look. “You mean you’ve never had a doll since you were a girl.”

  Grace shook her head. “They didn’t allow toys in the...” She swallowed the words. “I mean, no, I never did.”

  Vani took up the knife and a piece of parchment. “I’ll show you a bette
r way to make them. My al-Mama taught me, just as her al-Mama taught her. It was when I was a girl, before I went to the fortress of Golgoru for my training as a T’gol.”

  The men quickly lost interest in this activity, but Grace and Vani spent the rest of the day folding dolls from the stiff parchment and cutting out clothes for them. Grace made paints from some of the herbs Leweth had brought and from dried berries stolen from the supper tray, and they used bits of charcoal from the hearth as pencils. Soon they had a king, a queen, and a dozen courtiers to attend them.

  Last of all, Grace made a tiny doll—a child—with long, berry-red hair. When she was done, she stroked the child doll. She might even have whispered a song to it. Then, when no one was looking, she tossed it into the fire. Bright flames curled around the doll, and in a puff of gold it was gone. Grace pressed a hand to her stomach, and she shut her eyes to hide the tears. Like the doll, even Tira’s star was gone now.

  By the next morning they still hadn’t seen Lord Elwarrd, and Falken was determined to go in search of the lord.

  “I’ll accompany you,” Vani said, uncoiling her lean frame from a chair and stretching, as if she were simply bored and this sounded like a diversion.

  Falken nodded, and Grace gave the T’gol a grateful look. They were all beginning to feel uneasy, no doubt just a result of being ill and confined these last days. All the same, she was glad the assassin was going with the bard.

  Beltan made noise as if he wanted to go look for the earl as well, but Grace forbade it with a sharp glance. Beltan’s cough was subsiding, and the last time she checked, his phlegm had been clear. He was nearly well—and she wanted to make sure he stayed that way.

  “One more day, Beltan,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “That’s all I’m asking. Falken and Vani will find Elwarrd and get his permission, and we’ll go tomorrow.”

  Beltan sighed. “As you wish, my lady. One more day, but no more. I’m getting tired of this gloomy place. If we stay any longer, we’ll all end up talking like Durge.” Thunder crashed outside, punctuating his words.