Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  Her cheeks grew warm. “Is that so, my lord? No doubt you’d laugh even harder if I was so lucky as to crack my head open and bleed. Well, when you are my husband, you may order me about as you wish. I can perform a pratfall for you anytime you like. Perhaps the prince would prefer it if I wore not a gown at our wedding but a jester’s motleys.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Gods, I was only joking, Aryn. Don’t you have any sense of humor at all? You witches really are a grotty boring lot, aren’t you? I don’t know how Lirith can be one of you. She knew how to laugh once in a while.”

  Aryn felt her anger cool. Maybe Teravian was right. It wouldn’t harm her to laugh a bit more. “Maybe it would help if you made better jokes.”

  He snorted at that but said nothing.

  Now that Aryn had caught her breath, the prince’s first words registered on her. A needle of fear pierced her heart. “What do you know about a spy?”

  “Don’t try to act all coy. I saw you talking to him. The spy from Perridon.”

  “How—?”

  “It was easy. I knew you were going to come to this part of the castle. So I just waited in an alcove until you passed by. It was simple to sneak after you without being noticed. You made more than enough noise for both of us, so the spy never knew I was there.”

  Aryn felt rising indignation. “I am not loud,” she said, then winced as her voice echoed all around.

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a smirk.

  Aryn turned away, her mind racing. This was very bad. The prince enjoyed nothing more than to make trouble for her. What if he told Boreas about her meeting with Aldeth? How would she explain to the king that she had discovered a spy in his castle but had not seen fit to tell him about it? Even worse, what if he told Ivalaine about Aryn’s request to have Aldeth spy on the queen? Ivalaine had fostered Teravian for years. And while Aryn wasn’t certain the two were close, surely he felt some degree of loyalty to her.

  She could feel Teravian’s gaze on her. Aryn turned around, searching for something, anything to say that would convince him not to give her away.

  It was too late. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Aryn swung her gaze around, searching for a place to hide, but before she could move, her worst fears were realized, and Lord Farvel ambled around a corner.

  “Lady Aryn, there you are!” the old seneschal said. “And Prince Teravian, you’re here as well. This is a glad sight. It’s good to see the two of you getting along.”

  Teravian grimaced. “Oh, we’re getting along all right. Just like a weasel and a—”

  Aryn quickly moved forward before the prince could complete his analogy. “Good day, Lord Farvel. Is there something I can aid you with?”

  “My lady, it’s quite the other way around.” The seneschal clasped his hands together. “I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with you since the happy occasion of Prince Teravian’s arrival. Now that he’s here in Calavere, I’m certain you’re anxious to start planning your wedding. The Feast of Quickening will come sooner than you think, and I’d like to begin making preparations. I was wondering if there is anything you’ve decided upon that you’d like to tell me.”

  Teravian stepped away from the wall, a sharp smile on his face. “Oh, I have something I’d like to tell you. You see, Lady Aryn has definitely been scheming something of late, and I think everyone in the castle will want to hear it.”

  Farvel tilted his head, directing his good ear toward the prince. Panic surged through Aryn. She fought for breath, grasping for something to say, but she was too slow. Teravian spoke first.

  “It seems Lady Aryn wishes to—” The young man hesitated, then cast a furtive glance at Aryn. “It seems Lady Aryn wishes for orange to be the primary color for her wedding. Is that clear, my lord? Everything is to be in orange.”

  The seneschal bobbed his head, white hair fluttering. “Yes, Your Highness. If Her Highness desires it, orange it shall be. I shall get the dyers working at once. We shall have yards and yards of orange. Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Seemingly greatly relieved to have something to do at last, Farvel bowed stiffly to each of them in turn, then hobbled down the corridor and out of sight.

  Aryn stared after the steward, hardly believing what had just happened.

  “Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”

  She forced her gaze to focus on the prince. “Why?” she managed to say.

  He glared at her. “Isn’t it customary to thank the person who just did you a favor? Or are witches conveniently exempt from courtesies like that?”

  “No, Your Highness. I mean, yes. Of course, I thank you, from the depths of my heart. What you did, it...” She drew in a breath, forcing herself to stop babbling. “It’s just that I don’t understand why you did it. I didn’t know that you could do something—”

  “That I could do something nice?” He turned away, gazing out a window. “I’m not evil, you know. I don’t know why everyone thinks I am.”

  “Maybe you should try wearing something other than black on occasion.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “That’s exactly what she said.”

  “Who?”

  “Lirith.” He crossed his arms. “We spoke that last night you were in Ar-tolor. Talking to her was fun, the most fun I’d had in ages. She’s the only one I’ve ever met who didn’t treat me like an object or some kind of monster. She said she’d talk to me again. Only I knew she wouldn’t. I knew she would be leaving, and she did.”

  His words stunned Aryn for two reasons. First, a warm light shone in Teravian’s eyes as he spoke, and a tenderness she had never heard before stole into his voice. His countenance relaxed as he spoke, and a faint smile touched his lips, not mocking, but longing.

  By Sia, he has a crush on her. On Lirith. You’ve never heard him talk about another person like that. That’s why he keeps bringing her up.

  It might have been sweet and amusing. After all, Lirith was beautiful in body and spirit; that a young man might fall madly in love with her was hardly a surprise. And that Teravian could feel such feelings for anyone was reassuring. Aryn had feared he was incapable of caring for another. However, something else about his words had struck a dissonant chord in her.

  I knew she would be leaving...

  It was impossible. A boy might have some shard of the talent, but not a man. And while he was just now eighteen, by the shadow on his chin and the deepness of his voice, Teravian had left boyhood behind. She had to be mistaken. All the same, she found herself speaking.

  “How did you know, my lord? You said you knew you’d find me in this part of the castle. Only I told no one where I was going, and I don’t believe anyone saw me come this direction. So how did you know I was here?”

  His eyebrows drew down in a scowl. “I don’t know. I just did. Why are you all always asking me things like that? Ivalaine. Tressa. Even Lirith. Well, I’m tired of it, all right? I’m not some insect you can pin to a board to examine as you please.”

  Aryn found this response telling. First, it meant others, including the queen, had noticed similar instances. So this was not the first time Teravian had known something he shouldn’t have. And second, by his defensive tone, it was clear he knew they were onto something, and it frightened him.

  And why shouldn’t it, Aryn? If it’s true, if he really does have some shard of the Sight, then he is unlike almost all other men. And who wishes to be di ferent from everyone else? Even you hid your right arm most of your life.

  Perhaps she could find a way to bring it up with Mirda; the elder witch might be willing to discuss it with her.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. “It was not my place to pry. Again, I thank you for what you’ve done for me today. I won’t ...I won’t forget it when we’re married.”

  He crossed his arms. “When we’re married. It sounds so ridiculous. I’d think it a bad joke. Gods know that’s the only kind my father knows how to make. But it’s real, isn’t it?”
<
br />   Once again, Aryn decided to let the insult pass. After the way she had reacted to seeing him in the great hall the previous day, she deserved a jab or two. “We should probably get going,” she said. “Supper will be on the board soon, and you know your father hates it when members of his court are late.”

  She held out her left arm. He stared, uncomprehending, but after she gave him a pointed look, he clumsily took her arm in his, leading her down the corridor.

  “By the way,” she said as they walked, “I positively hate orange.”

  His smirk returned. “I know. That’s why I suggested it to Lord Farvel.”

  47.

  They sailed across a black ocean under the light of cold northern stars.

  Beltan knew he should be freezing. Chunks of ice drifted past the hull of the ship; his breath fogged on the air, and frost clung to his mustaches. All the same, he was warm inside his woolen cloak; his skin tingled as if he had rolled in a snow-bank after spending hours in the smoky heat of a sweat lodge. It was the same tingling he had first felt in the prison in Travis’s world, after his captors had done their experiments on him, had infused his veins with strange blood. The sensation grew a little stronger each time one of the shadowy figures passed nearby.

  It was difficult to get a good look at the ship’s crew in the starry light. They never seemed to stand still, and their motions were fluid and unpredictable, like shadows that caught the corner of his eye only to vanish by the time he turned his head to gaze at them full on.

  “What are they?” Vani said beside him, her black leathers merging with the dark.

  As usual, he hadn’t seen the assassin approach. Couldn’t she just walk up to him like a normal person?

  Of course not. Popping out of thin air is far more mysterious, and she just can’t help showing off.

  Except, much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it wasn’t the case. She moved the way she did because it had been ingrained in her by decades of training. Just as for the rest of his life he would always walk like there was the weight of a sword at his hip, whether a blade was buckled there or not.

  He swallowed the angry words he had been going to say. “They’re Little People. At least, I think that’s what they are. A troupe of them came to Calavere last Midwinter and helped us uncover a conspiracy in the castle.”

  Vani crossed her arms. “Little People? You mean like the fairy we saw in Tarras?”

  “Sort of.” Beltan scratched his scruffy chin. “I’m pretty sure fairies are a kind of Little People. From what I know, there are different types—fairies, dwarfs, greenmen, and the like. Of course, I always thought they were all just stories for children until they showed up in the castle last year. But you should be asking Falken about this, not me. I’m no expert on fairies.”

  “Truly?” Vani said, raising an eyebrow.

  Again Beltan felt the tingling sensation coursing up his arms and down his back. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see what they’re saying to Sindar.”

  Grace and Falken stood near the stern of the ship, speaking with the silver-haired man. He seemed to be answering a question the bard had asked.

  “...only that it’s impossible for me to say where I found them. You see, it was they who found me.”

  Even in the dim light, Falken’s shocked expression was clear. “What do you mean they found you?”

  Sindar passed a hand before his eyes. “I don’t remember much. I was stranded on a rocky shore, alone and lost—that’s all I know. What events led me there, I can’t say. I think I had been traveling to someplace important. Or rather, to something important. I believe I had been injured, and also that I had been healed, but that I was still far weaker than I once had been. I know I was weary, that somehow I had exerted myself beyond all limits, and that I didn’t have the strength to do anything save sit there on the beach and stare at the sea until the waves washed me away like the foam.”

  These words didn’t quite make sense to Beltan. It sounded almost like Sindar had been in some sort of shipwreck, just like they had. Had he been injured in the wreck and lost his memory?

  “I’m not certain how long I was there,” Sindar said. “Only that it was twilight when I saw the white ship come. Impossible as it seems, I knew it had come for me, that the ship was going to take me where I had been going, and that I had something I was supposed to do there, something important. So I splashed out into the sea as far as I could go, and a rope was cast out from the ship. I took it, and they pulled me in.”

  Grace gazed at the shadows that flitted around them. “Did they tell you what it was you were supposed to do?”

  “In a way. They didn’t speak to me. Not with words, at least. All the same, I knew we were going to Omberfell, that there was someone there I was supposed to meet, someone who needed to come with us. Then, when I overheard your story, I knew it had to be you.”

  “But how did you know to find us at the Silver Grail?” Falken said, frowning.

  Sindar laughed. “I didn’t. I simply asked people in the city where I was most likely to find important travelers, and they directed me to the inn.”

  “And what about the story you told us?” Falken said, arms crossed. “I thought you were a ship’s captain who cared only for gold. Why did you lie to us?”

  Sindar gestured to the ship around them. “Would you have believed me if I had told you the truth? When I first reached Omberfell, I spent some time at the docks, listening to the sailors there. That was how I learned about the duke’s edict, and the dark men whom you call the Onyx Knights. I decided to pose as one of those captains, thinking it would make it easier for you to believe and follow me. And it worked, didn’t it?”

  Falken said nothing, but he appeared unsatisfied by this answer. Beltan couldn’t blame him. Sindar’s story begged more questions than it answered. A shipwreck might explain how he was stranded on a beach with no memory. But why had this mysterious ship come to him? Beltan could imagine the Little People had decided to help Grace get to Toringarth, just like they had helped in Calavere the previous Midwinter’s Eve. But what was Sindar’s part in all this? Beltan shivered and was startled to realize Sindar was gazing at him.

  “I have to admit,” the silver-haired man said, “even if I hadn’t overheard your tale at the inn, I think I would have known it was you I was searching for. You look familiar to me somehow.” He nodded at Beltan, then glanced at Grace. “And especially you. But I suppose that’s impossible. Even if I did know you before I lost my memories, it seems you don’t know me.”

  Grace lifted a hand to her chest. Beltan remembered she had said the very same thing about Sindar.

  “Do you know who Trifkin Mossberry is?” Grace asked softly.

  “No. But that name...it sounds like someone they would know.” Sindar gestured to a pair of dim forms that scurried by, one with an antlered brow, the other trailing hair tangled with leaves.

  A thought occurred to Beltan. “Speaking of names, how is it you know your own? I thought you lost your memories.”

  “I have. And I don’t know my name. Not my real name, at least.” His eyes followed after the shadows. “Sindar is simply what they called me.”

  “Of course,” Falken said. “Sindar means silver in the tongue of creation.”

  After that, they asked no more questions of Sindar. Not because they didn’t have questions, but rather because the silver-haired man seemed to wish to be alone with his thoughts. He moved to the prow of the ship and gazed into the night, as if he could see where they were headed in the gloom.

  Despite searching the length of the deck, neither Beltan nor Vani could find any way belowdecks, so the four of them simply sat near the center of the ship. With a spell, Grace conjured a small globe of witchlight to give them illumination, if not warmth. Not that that they needed the latter; despite the frosty air, none of them felt cold.

  Beltan stared at the ball of green light dancing in the center of their circle. It reminded him of the magics his mother us
ed to work late at night when she thought he wasn’t awake. Only he was. He would sit at the edge of the loft where he slept, quiet as a mouse, watching as she worked by the fey light, grinding herbs and making simples with deft hands.

  They didn’t sleep that night. Nor did it seem they remained entirely awake. Speaking became too great an effort, so they sat in silence as the stars wheeled overhead. Only gradually did Beltan realize that it was dawn, and that a thick mist had risen off the water, cloaking the ship as if in a silver cloud. By the goose bumps on his arms, he knew the sun had risen.

  The others blinked, and frost fell from their eyelids like white dust. More frost powdered their faces, their hair, their clothes. However, as they stood it turned to beads of dew, then was gone. Beltan was a little stiff, but that was all.

  It was no easier to get a glimpse of the ship’s crew by day than it had been by night. The fog clung to them, muting their twisted forms. All the same, from time to time, Beltan caught the glimmer of jewel-like eyes watching him.

  “Where’s Sindar?” Grace said.

  The mist swirled, and they saw the silver-haired man standing at the prow of the ship, staring into the fog.

  “It looks like someone left us a present,” Falken said.

  A small table had appeared on the deck of the ship where none had been before. On it was a clay jug and five wooden cups. Falken filled the cups and handed one to each, leaving the last for Sindar.

  Beltan eyed the cup in his hand. “Isn’t it dangerous to swallow fairy drink?”

  “Almost certainly,” Falken said with a grin, then took a long drink from his cup.

  Grace gave a hesitant smile and took a sip, and Vani took a long draught, staring at Beltan as she did. He felt a prickling that he knew had nothing to do with magic and raised his own cup to his lips.

  At first he thought it was water. Then he decided it was a kind of clear wine. By the time he finished his cup, he knew it had been neither. But whatever the nature of the liquid was, he felt suddenly alive and awake. Before, his stomach had been growling. Now his hunger was gone, although he felt light rather than full.