by Mark Anthony
Emotion welled up in Aryn’s heart. “Sister Mirda, what you did that night—when we were weaving the Pattern—it was...” She shook her head, at a loss for words to describe what she felt. So she spoke over the Weirding instead, for that way her feelings could come across as clearly as her thoughts.
It was wonderful. More than wonderful. It was like a candle shining in the middle of the darkest night. If it hadn’t been for you, Sister Liendra would have—
Mirda gripped her hands. Let us not speak of what is done. I only did what I must. And so shall you.
“But you have been too long from your studies with Sister Lirith,” Mirda said aloud. “That’s why the queen asked me to accompany her when she brought her ward to Calavere. We know what happened in Tarras—King Boreas told the queen at supper. It is a dark tale, to be sure, and we can only pray to Sia for our Sister Lirith’s safe return. However, in the meantime, I will be your teacher. You are to be a queen by marriage, but you are a witch by birth, and that is something you must never forget.”
Aryn nodded, but something in Mirda’s words didn’t quite add up, only she couldn’t grasp what it was.
“Did you bring a cloak?” Mirda asked.
Aryn shook her head. It was perfectly warm in here. What on Eldh would she need a cloak for?
“Some things are best learned by moonlight,” Mirda said in answer to Aryn’s unspoken question. “But don’t fear, you won’t freeze. I have an extra you may borrow.”
She opened a wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes within. Once again Aryn found herself wondering how old Mirda was. Fine lines accentuated her eyes and mouth, and a single lock of white made a striking contrast with her jet hair. Yet surely Mirda couldn’t be any older than five-and-thirty winters. Then again, there was a depth to her gaze, a wisdom, that reminded Aryn of Melia. And Melia had been born over two thousand years ago.
Before Aryn could wonder more, Mirda pulled a woolen cloak from the wardrobe and helped Aryn wrap it around her shoulders. Then she took up her own cloak. As she donned the garment, a low sound emanated from one of the chamber’s side doors. Not the door behind which the maidservants slept, but another.
Aryn cast a startled look at Mirda. “What was that?”
Again came the sound, clearer this time. It was a woman’s voice, moaning as if in pain. Understanding pierced Aryn’s brain.
“It’s the queen!” She started toward the door.
Mirda’s touch was as light as a hummingbird on Aryn’s arm, but it stopped her all the same. “The queen is weary, that is all. Her sleep has been troubled of late, for there is much that weighs upon her mind. But she prepared a draught for herself this evening, and so her slumber must not be interrupted.”
The sound did not come again; Ivalaine must have settled into sleep again.
“Is she ill?” Aryn said.
“No, sister. Not in any way you might think.”
What could it be then? A dark thought occurred to Aryn. “Is it safe for her to have left Ar-tolor?”
“Come,” Mirda said, moving to the door. “The moon has risen. It is time for your studies to begin.”
Mirda walked swiftly through the castle, her cloak fluttering like blue wings, and Aryn had to half run just to keep up; there was no chance for further questions. Still, Aryn couldn’t help thinking she had struck a nerve.
Boreas had summoned Teravian back to court, and protocol required that the one who had fostered the prince these last years present him upon his return. Calavan was Toloria’s oldest ally; for Ivalaine to deny tradition would have been a grave insult. So the queen had been forced to leave Ar-tolor. But whom had she left behind? Certainly Tressa, her advisor, for the red-haired witch had not come to Calavere. Was there anyone else? Most of the witches at the High Coven had returned to their homelands immediately after the weaving of the Pattern. But not all. And Aryn had a feeling that if any had stayed behind, Sister Liendra would be among them. After all, Brelegond had fallen to the dark knights, so she couldn’t have returned home.
What is she up to, Aryn? What is Liendra doing in Ar-tolor while the queen is away? She can’t possibly be up to good. Is that why Ivalaine is so worried?
There was something important here, something to do with what she had been thinking about earlier. What was it Mirda had said? Before Aryn could remember, Mirda opened a door into the upper bailey. She led the way to the arched entrance of the castle’s garden. Despite the lateness of the year, the scent of green, living things rose on the air.
Aryn followed Mirda down a stone path. Calavere’s garden was a dense tangle: a place not so much planted as left to its own devices. There was a wildness to the garden that made her think of Gloaming Wood, the forest to the north of the castle, which most folk in Calavan avoided as a place of shadow and rumor. The garden was neither so deep nor so ancient, of course. All the same, she had a feeling that Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors would be at home in it.
They were nearly to the entrance of the hedge maze when Mirda came to a halt. The two women stood in a grotto surrounded by slender valsindar trees. The bark of the trees shone white in the moonlight, as did the statue in the center of the grotto. Aryn had seen the statue many times before, but never—she realized as she gazed upon it now—in the light of an almost-full moon. In the eerie glow the statue seemed almost alive.
It was made up of two figures. One was a fierce and beautiful man. Muscles seemed to ripple beneath stone skin; his hair and beard flowed back in intricate curls, as if he faced a roaring wind. The other figure was a bull, a beast as strong as the man that fought it. One of his hands gripped its horns, pulling its head back as the beast opened its mouth in a silent bellow. In his other hand was a sword that pierced the bull’s throat. From the wound poured a stream of dark fluid: not blood, but water.
Aryn glanced at Mirda. Why had the witch led her there, of all places—to a statue of Vathris Bullslayer, god of the mystery cult of the Warriors?
“What do you think when you look upon him?” Mirda said.
Aryn gathered the cloak about herself and studied the statue. Somehow she knew Mirda did not want a glib answer, but the truth.
“I think he’s beautiful. And perilous. Beautiful, because I believe there is no one, neither woman nor man, who could deny him anything were he to ask for it. Not their loyalty, not their body, and not their blood. And he is perilous, because he would take it, take it with joy, even if what was offered were a life.”
Mirda moved closer. “Yes, he is dangerous that way. See how he smiles as he slays the bull, a living creature.”
“But the stories say he saved a dying kingdom with its sacrifice.” A wisp of cloud scudded before the moon, casting shadows, and Aryn could almost imagine the statue moved in the ghostly light. “They say the bull’s blood became a great river that returned life to a parched land.”
“Yes, so the stories tell us.” Mirda circled slowly around the statue, as if wary. “But do they say why the land became a desert in the first place? Was it not because of the wars he waged that his kingdom became a wasteland?”
Aryn shook her head. “I don’t know. But even if that were so, slaying the bull still brought back life.”
“Really?” Mirda came to a halt, her eyes catching the starlight. “Do you truly believe death can bring life?”
It was so cold. Aryn’s head ached with the chill; it was hard to think. “I’m not sure. No. Maybe. Certainly death doesn’t bring life to that which dies. That was the lie the Raven Cult told its followers—that death is a release, a reward, and somehow better than life itself. But that’s perverse. Life is everything. It is blessed. But it is also true that some things must die that others might live. The roe consumes the grass, and the wolf consumes the roe. So it has always been.”
“But roe and wolves are animals,” Mirda said. “They have no choice but to live by their natures. Is it not the gift of Sia that a woman may choose her own nature? There are many witches who eat not the
flesh of animals, only plants.”
Aryn shook her head. “Plants are alive. I can feel it, even now as winter draws near. The trees sleep, but life flows inside them, like water under the ice of a frozen river. I think no matter what we do, we can’t escape it. Death is a part of life, the other side of the coin.” She paced now, feeling warmer and strangely excited. “Yes, of course. A tree dies. It rots, and mushrooms grow from it for a time. Then they perish as well, and enrich the soil with their bodies. And then a new tree grows, nourished by the loam where others died before it. It’s a circle, just like the moon. Light to dark to light once more. It never ends. As long as there’s a seed in the soil, a hope, then life will always come again.”
Aryn stopped, suddenly conscious that Mirda was gazing at her. She felt her cheeks flush. Who on Eldh was she to prattle on like this, as if she knew anything at all? She was not the teacher here; Mirda was. “Forgive me, sister. I did not mean to presume so much. Please, would you tell me what is to be my lesson this night?”
“That was your lesson, sister,” Mirda said, her voice soft. “And you have learned it well.” She drew closer, cloak rustling. Somewhere in the night above bats winged past. “And now I think you are ready to know.”
Aryn could only stare. “Ready to know what?”
“A truth few of your sisters know. It is a truth few of them are ready to know, as you are, or even capable of understanding, as you can.”
Somehow Aryn knew what she was about to hear would change her forever.
“You know the prophecies,” Mirda went on, “the ones spoken at the High Coven. The prophecies tell how the Warriors of Vathris will fight the Final Battle, and how they will lose that battle. Because of their actions, the one called Runebreaker will succeed in shattering Eldh.”
Aryn could only nod.
“The prophecies are true. They were spoken long ago by the wisest and most powerful of those witches who possessed the Sight, and they will come to pass. However, there are other prophecies they made, prophecies that were silenced even as the wise ones uttered them, and in the centuries since only a scant few have ever heard them.”
Aryn found her voice. “But why? Why would their prophecies be ignored, even concealed?”
“Because the Witches did not care for them. And people have a powerful ability to deny or ignore that which does not fit their existing views. But these second prophecies are every bit as true as the first. And they tell us that the Runebreaker will save Eldh.”
Aryn felt dizzy; the stars seemed to spin overhead. How could this be? This went against everything she had learned since her initiation into the Witches. Runebreaker was going to shatter Eldh. Mirda herself said the prophecies were true.
“I don’t understand,” Aryn said, choking out the words. “How can the Runebreaker destroy Eldh and save it at the same time? How can both prophecies be true?”
Mirda spread her hands. “Those of us who know of both prophecies would give much to understand the answer to that question. We only know that each of these things is true. Runebreaker will be the end of Eldh. And he is its only hope.”
“But that’s impossible!”
“Is it?” Mirda glanced at the statue of Vathris. “And what did you tell me just moments ago, sister?”
And in a beam of understanding as clear and brilliant as the moonlight, Aryn understood. She reached out, touching the frigid water that poured out of the bull’s neck like blood.
“From death comes life,” she whispered.
45.
Aryn woke with the crimson fires of dawn and knew that everything in her world was different.
Her teeth chattered as she dressed quickly in a woolen gown; the servants had not yet come in to stir up the fire. Normally she would have stayed in bed until they did, but she couldn’t sleep any longer, not that day, not knowing what she did.
Runebreaker will be the end of Eldh. And he is its only hope....
Mirda’s words seemed impossible; they defied everything Aryn had learned in the last year. All the same, Aryn could feel the truth of it in her heart. Travis Wilder was the Runebreaker foretold by prophecy, and three times she had seen him do everything in his power to save Eldh. She would not believe, could not believe, that he would harm the world.
But he will destroy Eldh, Aryn. You don’t possess the Sight, not like Lirith, but the prophecies can’t be wrong. And even the dragon said it would come to pass.
Last night, lying in her bed and far too excited to sleep, she had gone back over all of their journeys in her mind. And it was only then she realized she had heard words similar to Mirda’s once before.
Go. Runebreaker! Go destroy the world by saving it!
The ancient dragon Sfithrisir had spoken those words to Travis in the forgotten valley in the Dawning Fells. The dragon’s words made it sound like Travis might try to save Eldh only to destroy it despite good intent. However, according to Falken, while dragons always told the truth, that truth was carefully honed to cut like a knife.
So what was the real truth in the dragon’s words? Aryn knew it had to be there, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Despite her talk with Mirda the night before, it was all so hard to comprehend. How could shattering the world save it?
She didn’t know, not yet. But she was going to find out. And when she saw Travis Wilder again, if she saw him again, she was going to tell him everything.
But won’t that go against the Pattern?
She had addressed the question to Mirda as they walked from the garden, back into the castle.
On the surface it might seem so. The threads that aligned themselves with the call to destroy Runebreaker were many, and they were woven tightly together. But remember, the Pattern was changed at the last moment, and you were part of what changed it. Your thread, your voice, is part of what now binds the Witches. Look deep inside yourself, sister, and you’ll find the answer to your question there.
Aryn wasn’t certain it was so easy. She had tried looking inside herself, and she hadn’t seen anything at all, except maybe what she had had for supper and a whole bucketful of worries and questions wriggling like eels. All the same, considering the idea of talking to Travis didn’t fill her with the same nausea that avoiding writing the missive to Ivalaine had caused.
Aryn dashed out the door of her chamber just as a startled serving maid was opening the door. The woman dropped the bundle of sticks she had brought to build up the fire.
“Sorry!” Aryn called back over her shoulder. “But I won’t be needing a fire this morning anyway.”
Before the serving maid could so much as sputter, “Yes, my lady!” Aryn was racing down the corridor. It was still early. However, she couldn’t wait any longer. There was so much she wanted to ask Mirda; she had to hope the elder witch was already awake.
She was nearly to Queen Ivalaine’s chamber when she heard a voice echoing from up ahead. The sound drifted through an open archway that led to a small antechamber. Something about the voice brought Aryn up short. It belonged to a woman, and it sounded as if she was having an argument. Yet whoever it was she was arguing with must have been speaking in a hushed whisper, for Aryn could only hear the woman herself. Aryn knew she should keep moving; it was wrong to eavesdrop. All the same, she found herself drawn toward the archway.
“You have no choice. No matter how cruel that truth may be, you must bear it. You must. Are you not a queen above all? Your duty is to your Dominion first and all other things second.”
Shock and fear melded together in a cold amalgam in Aryn’s chest. She froze just outside the archway, one wide, blue eye spying the figure who paced in the antechamber beyond.
It was Ivalaine. She wore only a loose nightgown, and she was barefoot despite the cold stone floor. Her hair was snarled, and her skin was pale and shadowed, so that Aryn couldn’t help wondering again if the queen was sick. Then the previous day’s conversation with Mirda came back to her.
Is she ill?
No, sister. Not in
any way you might think.
She caught a fleeting glimpse of the queen’s eyes; they were bright, as if with a fever.
“The Pattern does not bind you in matters of state.” She twisted a lock of her hair with quick motions of her fingers. “It can’t; it never could. And even so, what you did was right. He had to know, man of the Bull or no.” Laughter tumbled from her lips, cracked and bitter. “And is that the only reason? Or is it more? Perhaps you are neither queen nor witch. For is not your first duty as a mother? Would you truly sacrifice him so easily for the needs of your Dominion, and for the desires of your sisters? Would you?”
She was no longer twisting her hair. She was pulling at it, tearing it. Gold strands came away in her fingers, and she stared at them, as if not understanding what they were or where they had come from. Aryn clamped a hand to her mouth; this couldn’t be happening. She backed away from the arch, then turned around.
Sister Mirda stood before her.
“Go,” the witch said, her voice gentle but commanding. “Wait for me in your chamber.”
Aryn swallowed a gasp and nodded. Picking up the hem of her gown, she ran down the hallway, not looking back.
A minute later she burst through the door of her chamber and shut it behind her. She leaned against the door, heart pounding, then pushed herself forward and slumped in a chair by the fire. The serving maid had stirred up the coals, and now it was too hot in the room, but Aryn didn’t care. Her mind raced; what had just happened?
She still had no answer a half hour later when a soft knock came at her door. It was Sister Mirda. Her dark hair was drawn into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck and held in place with crossed wooden skewers. The witch gestured for Aryn to sit, then took the chair next to her.
They were silent for a long moment, until Aryn could bear it no longer. “Is the queen mad?” she said, gazing at the fire.
“No, she is not mad,” Mirda said. “If she were, I think it would be easier to bear. But she is quite sane, and that is why it is so burdensome. I believe she paced there much of the night, thinking. I suppose she left our chamber so as not to disturb me or her attendants. Even in her distress, she thinks of others.”