Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  She spoke in precise words, leaving nothing out, in no way trying to disguise the lowness of her act or the suffering it had caused. The king listened, his visage unreadable. At last she finished, and she stood, shoulders straight, waiting for him to mete out his justice.

  “What you tell me is regrettable, my lady,” he said, moving toward the fire. “But you are a baroness. It is your right to order servants as you wish. There is no crime in what you did that I can punish.”

  Shock jolted Aryn. But there was a crime—a horrible one, and it was done by her hand. Then she felt his piercing blue eyes upon her, and she understood his meaning. There was no crime he could punish.

  “Then I will make amends for my own deeds, Your Majesty.”

  “What do you wish to do, my lady?”

  She thought about it. “Alfin and his family will be paid one thousand pieces of gold in reparations. However, the money shall come not from the Dominion’s treasury, but from my own dowry. In addition, he shall have a house, and a servant to attend him at all times. The servant shall be one of my own, and I shall always have one less than I would otherwise. In addition, he and his sister will eat in the great hall at all feasts, and on the Feast of Fallowing each year, he shall be served meat before me, that I never forget how I wronged him.”

  Alfa was beyond fear now. The young woman only stared, quite as slack-jawed as her brother.

  “It shall be as you say, my lady,” Boreas said.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Aryn turned toward the other young woman. “You may take your brother home now, Alfa. I will come to you tomorrow, to discuss arrangements for your house and the payment of your reparations.”

  Alfa was still too stunned to do more than whisper a hoarse, “Yes, my lady.”

  Aryn hesitated, then lifted a hand and touched it to Alfin’s cheek. His flesh was warm and slack beneath her touch. “Forgive me,” she said.

  The young man only stared forward, his eyes peaceful and empty.

  Aryn lowered her hand. Alfa took her brother’s arm and pulled him from the chamber. Aryn could hear Alfa whispering excitedly to him as she led him away.

  “That was well-done, my lady,” Boreas said behind her, his voice gruff. “One day you will be a good queen.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “I will try first to be a good daughter, Your Majesty.”

  Then she excused herself and returned to her own chamber. To her surprise, she found Sir Tarus waiting at her door. He wore riding clothes, and his red hair was wild from wind.

  “What is it, Tarus?” she asked once they had entered her room.

  “My lady, remember how you told me to keep my eyes open. Well, I was riding back from—”

  A sound interrupted the knight: someone clearing his throat. Tarus turned toward the sound, his hand moving to the hilt of the sword at his hip. Aryn turned as well, then gasped. They were not alone in the room. A slender figure clad all in black sat in a chair by the fire.

  “Hello,” Teravian said, a smirk on his lips.

  Tarus quickly let go of his sword and bowed.

  “Your Majesty!” Aryn said, shock renewed. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “I told him to meet us here,” said a cool voice.

  Aryn was beyond surprise now. She glanced around to see Melia glide through the door in her snowy kirtle.

  “Melia,” Aryn said, “what on Eldh is going on?”

  The lady shut the door. “I believe our good Sir Tarus has something to tell us. Something I think we all need to hear.”

  The knight scowled. “But I only just came back to the castle. How did you—?”

  Aryn touched his arm. “Tarus, what is it you have to tell us?”

  He sighed, evidently seeing the futility of resisting. “It happened a short while ago, about dusk. I was coming back to the castle after doing some work for the king, and my course took me not far from the old circle of standing stones. You know the one, near the eaves of Gloaming Wood?”

  He began to pace, shaking his head. “It was strange. I thought perhaps I was tired, that my eyes were playing tricks on me, only I knew that wasn’t the case. It looked like there was a shadow inside the circle—a patch of air darker than the twilight around it. I remembered what you had said about shadows, so I started to ride closer. Only then I saw lights.”

  “Lights?” Aryn said, puzzled.

  Tarus’s gaze went distant. “It’s hard to describe them. They were like sparks from a fire. Only brighter, and far more beautiful. They seemed to come from the forest, and they danced toward the circle of stones, surrounding it, and moved inward. And then—my lady, it seems impossible!”

  “If it only seems impossible, then it actually is possible, isn’t it?” Melia said. “Tell us, Sir Tarus.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “The sparks of light moved in toward the center of the circle, and as they did it seemed a cry rose on the air. It was so high I could hardly be sure I heard it, but around me birds that had been nesting for the night flew into the air, and my horse reared back, and I knew the beasts had heard it even as I had.”

  Melia folded her arms. “And then what happened?”

  “I’m not certain. It was over so quickly, and I was trying to calm my horse. But it seemed to me the lights streamed back into Gloaming Wood and vanished, and after that the darkness that gathered inside the circle of stones was only the same as that which settled over all the land. Still, I rode toward the circle of stones. As I suspected, it was empty. Except...” The knight shivered visibly. “All the plants that grew within the circle were dead.”

  Teravian snorted. “That’s because it’s Valdath. Everything is dead.”

  “No, that’s not true,” Aryn said, moving to the fire. It felt suddenly cold in here. “The melindis bushes that grow in the circle are evergreen.”

  Tarus drew a twig from his cloak and handed it to Aryn. It was blackened and withered. “I plucked this from one of the melindis bushes.”

  Melia reached out and took the twig from Aryn. “I’m not surprised. Death ever followed in her wake.” She threw the twig into the fireplace. It flared, then was gone.

  Startled, Aryn looked at the lady. “Who are you talking about?”

  Melia gazed at Teravian. However, the young man only stared into the fire. At last she sighed. “I know now who has been watching the castle these last days. She had been cloaking herself from me, but at dusk I felt her go. It is just as Sir Tarus described. She was attacked by the forces of Gloaming Wood, and in that moment her guard was down, and I was able to sense her presence before she fled.”

  Aryn grasped for comprehension but failed utterly. “I don’t understand, Melia. Who fled?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a thicky,” Teravian said, rolling his eyes. “She means the Necromancer, of course.”

  56.

  Aryn found herself in the chair opposite Teravian, even though she couldn’t remember sitting down. Someone pushed a cup into her hand. Sir Tarus.

  “Try this, my lady. It will calm you.”

  Aryn gulped the spiced wine, choked, and drank some more. How could it be true? How could there be a Necromancer there in Calavere?

  “I don’t understand, Melia,” she managed to croak, lowering the cup. “Dakarreth was destroyed in the fires of Krondisar. We all saw it happen. How can he be here now?”

  “He isn’t, dear.” Melia smoothed her white kirtle as she paced. “For many years now Falken and I have suspected that Dakarreth was not the only one of Berash’s Death Wizards who survived the War of the Stones. And now I finally know that to be true.”

  Tarus crossed his arms. “I’m not even going to pretend I understand what you’re talking about. But I think I’d like to know who this Necromancer person is.”

  Melia smiled, but it was a bitter expression. “She’s not a person, Sir Tarus. And she never was. The Necromancers were all gods once—thirteen gods of the south—but the Pale King seduced and corrupted them with the aid of the Old God
Mohg. The Necromancers took bodily form to walk the world and do the Pale King’s bidding. I believe Shemal is now the last of her kind. But even one Necromancer is a peril beyond imagining.”

  Tarus opened his mouth, but no words came out. Aryn knew the knight would have been even more astounded if Melia had told the other part of the story: how nine other gods of the south had forsaken their celestial dwellings to walk the face of Eldh and work against the Necromancers. And of those nine, only Melia and the golden-eyed old man Tome remained.

  “Shemal,” Aryn murmured the name. Just the sound of it gave her chills. “What does this Necromancer want, Melia? Why was she here in Calavere?”

  “That’s something I would give much to know, and would that Falken were here so I could ask his opinion. Shemal was ever among the most subtle and scheming of her kind. It might be that she was simply watching me. If so, perhaps there is no great cause for worry. But then, it might also be that she was up to something else.”

  Once again the lady’s gaze moved toward Teravian. The prince slouched in his chair, eyes on the fire.

  Something occurred to Aryn. “Teravian, how did you know there was a Necromancer here in Calavere?”

  Without taking his eyes from the fire, he waved a hand toward Melia. “She told me about it. Earlier today.”

  Both Aryn and Tarus cast questioning gazes at Melia.

  “I thought perhaps the prince might have seen or heard something,” Melia said. “Something that could help confirm my suspicions. I know he has a habit of...observing others unnoticed.”

  He looked up, a vicious grin on his face. “It’s all right. You can say lurking. I don’t mind.”

  Melia raised an eyebrow. “Very well. What I mean to say is that I know the prince has a habit of lurking about the castle like a fox all in black, just as curious and with ears every bit as large.”

  Teravian clapped his hands. “I love it when someone tells it like it really is.”

  “Is that so, my lord?” Aryn said. “Then perhaps you’ll tell us what you’ve seen in the course of all your lurking?”

  The prince gave an exaggerated yawn, as if bored by the whole topic. “Why don’t you ask your little spy? He’s right over there in the corner.”

  They all turned their heads, and a harsh string of oaths emanated from the dim corner they stared at. With a flick of his shimmering cloak, Aldeth appeared.

  Tarus drew his sword and lunged forward, holding the tip of the blade an inch from the spy’s throat. “I can kill you in an instant.”

  “And you’d be dead before you could move.”

  Aldeth’s silvery eyes flicked downward, and Tarus followed his gaze. The spy held a long needle in his gloved hand, its point resting lightly against Tarus’s thigh. A green residue stained the needle.

  “That’s enough, you two,” Melia said, her gaze bright with ire. “We’re all very impressed with how fast each of you might kill the other. But would you please put your little toys away? We have important matters to discuss.”

  Tarus snorted and took a step back, sheathing his sword. The Spider spirited the needle inside his cloak.

  “Who is he?” Tarus said, glaring at the Spider.

  Aryn rose from her chair. “A friend. From Perridon.”

  The Spider bowed low.

  “From Perridon?” Tarus’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a spy then, my lady. We must tell the king at once.”

  Aryn laid a hand on the young knight’s arm. It would be so easy to cast a spell; she could feel the hum of his life thread. All she had to do was entangle it with her own strand for a moment, and she could prevent him from telling the king.

  No. Just because she had the power didn’t make it right. That was what Alfin had paid so dearly to teach her. She would have to use words, not magic, to convince him.

  It took some time, but eventually she succeeded. She told Tarus how she had come upon the Spider, as well as why she had determined it best not to tell the king in order to avoid an incident between Perridon and Calavan. Tarus didn’t look happy, but in the end he acquiesced.

  “I won’t tell the king of his presence,” he said, glaring again at Aldeth. “For now.”

  Aryn let out a breath of relief. With that settled, she turned once more to ask Teravian whether he had seen anything or not, but the prince’s chair was empty.

  “Where is he?” Aryn gasped.

  Melia smiled. “Off lurking again. He must have left while all of us were distracted by you, Sir Tarus.”

  The knight’s cheeks went red.

  “Not bad,” Aldeth said admiringly. “Not bad at all. That boy has the making of a Spider.”

  Melia gave the spy a sharp look. “Don’t get any ideas. I believe his career has already been decided for him.”

  The next day Aryn was a jumble of nerves. She tried to brush her hair after she woke up but only succeeded in snarling it so badly it took one of her maidens an hour to undo the damage. At breakfast she spilled maddok on herself and had to change her gown. And she fidgeted in her chair, unable to concentrate, while Lord Farvel discussed various, excruciatingly detailed plans for her wedding and made her choose among them.

  “Don’t fret, my lady,” the old seneschal said. “It will be a lovely wedding.”

  Aryn forced herself to smile. Lord Farvel was a kind man, and he deserved her attention and respect. But he was wrong about the source of her apprehension. It didn’t have to do with the wedding, or even the feast that night, at which her engagement would be announced. Her gaze moved to the window. When the moon finally rose, it would be full. And it would be time to give Mirda an answer. Aryn wanted to trust the mysterious witch, but all of her instincts warned there was grave peril there.

  By afternoon she still hadn’t made a decision, and it was time to prepare for the feast. She stood for hours while her maidens whirled around her, bathing her, perfuming her with flower petals, arranging her hair into an intricate tower of curls and ringlets and helping her into an elaborate gown of sky blue. By the time she stepped into the great hall for the feast, she felt less a person than she did an oversize doll.

  “You look radiant, my lady,” a gruff voice said in her ear.

  It was the king. Aryn gratefully leaned on his strong arm— with the heavy gown and the towering coif on her head, she felt ready to topple over—and let him lead her toward the high table. Teravian stood at the foot of the dais, clad all in black as usual. However, his garb was finer than what he normally wore, and the silver brooch pinned at his throat made a striking contrast. His expression was solemn, and he looked older than he had the night before.

  Aryn curtsied to the prince, and he bowed low, but they didn’t touch. The hall quieted as King Boreas made a speech— one that was overly long, Aryn thought as she stood there, legs aching to sit—concerning the joy of the coming marriage and the great felicity of the match. All the while, Aryn was aware of Queen Ivalaine sitting at the high table, her icy eyes locked—not on Boreas or herself—but on Teravian.

  At last Boreas finished speaking, and the hall erupted in applause. Then the king led Teravian and Aryn to the high table, seating them in the center on either side of himself, and ordered the feast to begin. At once loud talk, laughter, and music filled the hall.

  Aryn was numb to it. She hardly tasted the food that was put before her, and while she knew Boreas asked her questions, and that she responded to them, she could not for the life of her recall what either of them had said. Again and again her eyes moved to the windows above the hall. She could not see it, but she knew it sailed against the night sky: the full moon. Mirda was not sitting by Ivalaine, nor was she anywhere in the hall.

  “My lady,” said a sibilant voice next to her. “This is for you.”

  A servant bent down beside her, holding out a silver tray covered with a napkin. She waved a hand without looking at him. “No, thank you. I’m far too full already.”

  “Trust me, my lady. You’ll be hungry for this.”

  S
he glanced at the servant, only he was bent over low, so she couldn’t see his face. He was clad like all the other serving-men—although his tunic seemed a bit too large for him. Then he looked up. She saw the pointed blond beard on his chin, then met his gray eyes.

  Her mouth opened in an exclamation, but he gave his head a slight shake, and she clamped her jaw shut. She was painfully aware of King Boreas on the other side of her. However, he seemed to be engaged in discussion with his son.

  “We have only a moment, my lady,” Aldeth said. “I am at dire risk of discovery here. However, I knew this could not wait.” He held the tray toward her. “Under the napkin is a parchment. Take it.”

  She did as he told her, taking the folded piece of parchment and hiding it under the table.

  “What is it?” she dared to whisper.

  “A copy of a missive written a short while ago by Queen Ivalaine. I managed to pilfer it from the courier’s bag while he readied his horse. Forgive my poor script, but I had only minutes to copy the missive before replacing it.”

  Aryn opened her mouth to ask the Spider what the missive contained, but he had already bowed and hurried away, disappearing through a side door. Boreas was still speaking to Teravian, and the earl next to Aryn was far into his cups and lolled in his chair. She angled her back to the king and dared to unfold the parchment in her lap. Quickly, her eyes scanned the hastily written words. By the time she reached the last lines, her heart was no longer racing but was still and cold in her chest. She folded the paper once more.

  “My lady, are you ill?”

  It was the king. He was looking at her, as was Teravian. She clamped her hand around the parchment, wadding it up inside her fist. She was dizzy, and she knew her cheeks were flushed. But perhaps that could work to her advantage. “I’m tired, Your Majesty, that’s all. Would it speak ill of me if I were to retire for the evening?”

  Boreas snorted. “On the contrary, my lady, it would show an amiable restraint and delicacy on your part to leave before the members of my court get any drunker.”