Blood of Mystery (23 page)

Liendra’s desires had been softened in the final weaving of the Pattern. Yet they were still there, and the threads that bound all the Witches called for them to keep watch on the Warriors, and to prevent them from fighting their Final Battle. And Aryn was part of the Pattern as surely as Liendra was. She couldn’t go against it. Could she?

That question could wait for later. She cracked a great yawn, and Boreas instructed her to return to her chamber and rest. She kissed his bearded cheek, then stepped through the chamber door, leaving the king to his fire, his dogs, and his thoughts of war.

27.

The next few days were curiously pleasant for Aryn.

True, there was much to worry about. She thought often of Grace, as well as Beltan, Vani, and Falken. Where were they now? Had they found someone to carry them across the Winter Sea yet? Perhaps at that very moment, in an ancient keep in Toringarth, Grace was opening the dusty old chest that contained the shards of the magic sword Fellring. Aryn thrilled at the thought, although she couldn’t say exactly why. She only knew that she wished to see Grace discover all the secrets of her heritage. Surely, after what she had endured, she deserved that much.

I wish I could be there with you, Grace. At least in spirit, if
not in person.

However, Grace was far beyond her reach now, and all Aryn sensed when she reached out with the Touch were the myriad lives in the castle: human, canine, feline, and rodent. If she tried to extend the Touch much beyond the castle walls, she felt an uncomfortable tugging sensation, as if the thread of her life was being pulled too taut. She could reach so far for no more than a few seconds before she was forced to let go, gasping as she felt her life thread snap back into place.

The quartet who journeyed to Toringarth were not the only travelers who weighed on Aryn’s mind. She thought often of the four who had vanished from the Etherion. In some ways it was for the better that Travis Wilder was no longer on Eldh. But she missed Lirith achingly, and she feared for her.

At least, wherever Lirith was, Sareth was likely with her. Aryn had begun to sense there was something between those two. However, something seemed to be holding each of them back. Only what was it? Aryn didn’t know. There had been no time to ask, and now she wondered if she would ever see Lirith again, or Sareth. Or Durge.

And why was it so important she see Durge again? What was it she would tell him, and why did it matter?

Don’t think that way, Aryn. You will see Lirith again, and
Durge, and you can worry about it all then. Grace and Falken
will find them at the Black Tower this Midwinter. That has to be
what Sky’s message meant.

Besides, she had more immediate concerns: namely, her impending wedding. Her new husband was to arrive at the castle soon, and Lord Farvel was busy with preparations for a feast to celebrate the occasion. Aryn asked if she might help, but the elderly man looked as confused as if she had just suggested they have a picnic in the garden despite the sleet angling down outside the windows.

“My lady, you’re to be one of the guests of honor. I’d sooner ask the king to scrub tables in the scullery.”

Aryn would have liked to have seen
that
. However, she didn’t want to give Lord Farvel cause for another collapse, so she left him to his work.

As the days passed, she occupied herself with wandering through the castle, visiting all of her favorite spots: the window seat where, as a girl, she had curled up to watch the comings and goings of people in the bailey below, and the gallery above the great hall where the minstrels played during supper, and the cooling room outside the kitchens, where fragrant loaves of bread were placed on stone tables after being pulled from the ovens, awaiting their journey to the king’s table.

She did her best to enjoy these places. After all, once she was married, she would be moving back to Castle Elsandry. She would see Calavere again, of course, but only when special occasions warranted travel there. She would have her own house to keep.

Although Calavere’s halls were familiar and comforting, they were lonelier than she remembered. The few young women of the court with whom she had spent time in the past were gone now, married to knights and earls. And while she knew many of the servants, they hardly made suitable company for a woman of her rank.

Sometimes she thought of Sir Tarus, but she saw little of the red-haired knight after their arrival at Calavere. He spent much of his time in Boreas’s chamber, and it was clear Tarus had risen high in the Order of Malachor. Aryn got the impression he had become one of Boreas’s chief advisors in this time of conflict. Of course, in his work for the Order, Tarus had spent much time traveling. He probably knew more about the troubles stirring in the Dominions than anybody else.

The person Aryn saw by far the most was Melia. Much to her surprise, her friendship with the former goddess continued to grow. They often sat in Aryn’s chamber, working on pieces of embroidery, and talking as the chill drizzle fell outside the windows. Sometimes Melia told stories of her time in Falengarth, helping Falken keep watch in secret over the line of Malachor. It was thrilling to hear the lengths they had gone to in order to avoid discovery, and over the centuries it seemed they had dwelled almost everywhere in the Dominions: in a remote mountain valley of Galt, in a windswept castle in Embarr, in a cottage on the rocky shore of Perridon, and a small manor on the banks of the Kelduorn, the River Goldwine.

So engrossed did Aryn become in Melia’s stories, that once, after Melia finished, she glanced down to see that she had pricked her finger with a needle and had not even noticed it.

“Oh, dear,” she said, sighing, “I’ve gotten blood all over this scarf. And I had nearly finished it.”

“You must wrap the embroidery in parchment and put it away,” Melia said. “Then you must give it to your husband after you are married.”

Aryn looked at the lady, startled. “Why do you say that?”

“There is great power in blood. You’ve made a sacrifice to the embroidery—a sacrifice of yourself. Now the cloth contains a bit of your power. It will bring your husband luck in battle.”

Aryn brushed the embroidery. The bleeding in her finger had stopped, but there was a vivid red stain on the cloth. Was there truly power in her blood? Perhaps there was. Perhaps it had been there all along, just waiting for her to discover it.

“Battle,” she murmured, then met Melia’s eyes. “You think it’s coming, just like he does.”

A tiny black puffball leaped into Melia’s lap to bat at a ball of string. “Just like who, dear?”

“King Boreas,” Aryn said. “And all the Warriors of Vathris.” The kitten gave up playing, then yawned and cuddled into the crook of Melia’s arm. “Tell me more,” the lady said.

And Aryn did. She told Melia everything Boreas had said in their conversation—his belief that a war was inevitable, and that an evil that had been dormant was stirring again, stronger than ever.

When she finished, Melia pressed her cheek to the kitten. It opened eyes as brilliant and golden as the lady’s. “So the king sees it, too.” Melia sighed. “But I suppose it’s plain enough. Once Tarus told us of the shadows on the rise, Falken and I knew there could be only one answer.”

Aryn moistened her lips. “It’s the Pale King, isn’t it? He’s trying to free himself again.”

Melia nodded. “Travis bound the Rune Gate a year ago, imprisoning the Pale King in Imbrifale. But he replaced only one of the runes on the Gate—one, where before there had been three. We could not expect it to hold forever, although we might have hoped it would hold for longer.”

Aryn shivered, remembering that terrible night last Midwinter’s Eve, when forces of the Pale King had harrowed the castle.

Her shivering didn’t go unnoticed. Melia released the kitten to scamper on the floor, then rose to pour two cups of wine. She handed one to Aryn. “This will warm you, dear. And try not to worry. The Pale King is still not free yet, and if we are fortunate, he may never be.”

Aryn sipped her wine, although she hardly tasted it. “But Travis isn’t on Eldh anymore. How could he bind the gate again?” And would the Witches even give him the chance? But she didn’t speak those words. “And it’s not just the Pale King, is it? His master, the Old God Mohg, is trying to get back to Eldh. He wants the world for himself. Isn’t that what Grace learned?”

Melia nodded. “It’s true. Mohg does seek a way back to Eldh. But that doesn’t mean he’ll ever find one. After all, the Pale King’s servants sought out the Scirathi in the belief the sorcerers could find a way to open a gate and allow Mohg to return to Eldh. But Xemeth betrayed them, and the demon consumed them before Travis destroyed it.”

Aryn chewed her lip. Yes, Travis had destroyed the demon. Just as he had wrested the Stone of Fire from the Necromancer Dakarreth. And just as he had sealed the Pale King behind the Rune Gate. There was no denying Travis’s power. He had to be the Runebreaker; the prophecies couldn’t be wrong in that. Yet everything she had seen him do had been to help Eldh, not to harm it. It was Mohg who wanted to break the world, not Travis. It didn’t make any sense.

Her confusion must have been evident on her face. Melia raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking, dear?”

“I don’t know.” That was truthful enough. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

“We must live our lives,” Melia said firmly. “What is the point of fighting darkness if we forget to stand in the light and feel its warmth? We must prepare for your wedding and celebrate the occasion.”

Aryn brushed the bloodstained embroidery on her lap. “And what of war? Should we prepare ourselves for that as well?”

Melia pressed her lips into a thin line. “Don’t forget,” she said. “Save that cloth for your husband.” Then she bent her head over her own embroidery and began to sew.

Aryn did the same, and they worked that way in silence until the light failed outside the window.

The next morning, she wandered through the castle alone, wondering if she had told Melia too much. Had she betrayed the king’s confidence? But Aryn didn’t see how it harmed things that Melia knew Boreas’s thoughts. After all, the king had been glad to learn the truth of Grace’s heritage, and it was Melia, along with Falken, who had guarded the line of Malachor in secret all these years.

Aryn turned her thoughts to another, more troubling question: Travis Wilder. He was the Runebreaker the prophecies foretold, but she couldn’t believe he was evil—not after everything she had seen. Should she send another missive to Ivalaine, one telling the Witch Queen what she thought? Or would the Witches cast her out for having such doubts? The idea sent a shudder through her.

So engrossed was Aryn in her thoughts that she didn’t see the servingman as she rounded a corner, and she ran full into him. He stumbled back, dropping the bundle of kindling he had been carrying. The pale sticks clattered to the floor; for some odd reason, they looked like a pile of bones to Aryn.

She steadied herself. “Are you all right?”

The man simply stood there, his brown eyes as dull as his brown tunic and hose. He didn’t look particularly old—his face was smooth except for a few pox scars—but he carried himself in a hunched position, like an old man. He made no motion to pick up the fallen kindling.

Aryn frowned. “Excuse me, are you well?”

Still the man didn’t move. She started to reach a hand for him, but at that moment a young woman in the dove gray dress of a serving maid rushed toward them.

“Alfin. Alfin, there you are.” She came to a breathless halt, clutching the man’s arm. “My lady, do forgive him. Please. Don’t let him be beaten again. My brother didn’t mean it. I beg you, my lady.” Her eyes shone with tears.

These words took Aryn aback. “What on Eldh are you talking about? Of course I won’t have him beaten. This was my fault. But there seems to be something wrong with him.”

The young woman picked up the scattered kindling. “It’s all right. You just have to know how to talk to him now, that’s all.” She pushed the bundle of kindling against his chest, and his arms closed automatically around it. She took his face in both her hands and spoke in a slow voice. “The kitchens, Alfin. Take the wood to the kitchens.” She gave him a gentle nudge, and he started shuffling down the corridor.

As he passed her, Aryn saw it: the dent in the back of his head, made visible because of the scar where no hair grew. But that wasn’t the only thing that troubled her; something about the young man seemed familiar.

She cast a shocked look at the young woman. “What happened to him?”

The serving maid wrung her hands. “Please, my lady. It was an accident. The guard was giving him his beating as commanded, and he wasn’t being too harsh with the rod, really. But Alfin slipped on the stones, and the last blow caught him on the head. It weren’t the guard’s fault. We aren’t angry.”

Aryn tried to comprehend these words. It seemed like she should know what they meant. “His mind,” she said. “It was addled by the blow.”

“He’s all right, my lady. Truly. I’ll see it that he makes it to the kitchens.” She curtsied low, then hurried down the passage after her brother.

Aryn took a hesitant step after her. Something was wrong. There was something she was supposed to remember, she was sure of it. She took another step.

And heard the high, chiming music of bells.

28.

Aryn turned on a heel. The sound of bells had come from behind her. But from where exactly? And why did the sound cause her heart to flutter up into her throat?

Even as she thought this, she heard it again. The sound seemed to float through a nearby archway. For some reason she found herself thinking of Trifkin Mossberry and his queer troupe of actors who had come to the castle the winter before. Before Aryn even considered what she was doing, she stepped through the archway.

Three more times she heard the bells, always just ahead and around a bend. Aryn followed, and soon she found herself in a cold and dusty part of the castle. Just ahead, she saw a flicker of orange light playing on the wall. It spilled through an opening that led to an old guardroom. Someone had lit a fire there. But who would be in this deserted part of the castle?

There was only one way to find out. Picking up the hem of her gown, Aryn moved as quietly as she could and peered through the opening. Except for the fire burning on the grate, the small chamber was empty.

Or was it? Once again, as on her first night in the castle, she glimpsed something just beyond the edge of vision. Quickly, she reached out with the Touch.

A cry escaped her. The brilliant threads of the Weirding wove around him, making his form as evident as if she had thrown a silver mesh over a glass sculpture. The man stood no more than three paces away.

She opened her eyes and took a step back. “I know you’re there. Show yourself.”

The man pushed back the hood of his gray cloak and tossed the garment over his shoulders, revealing himself as suddenly as if he had stepped out of thin air. The cloak looked just like the one that belonged to Travis Wilder, although it was in far better condition. It shimmered with a faint iridescence as the man moved, like a skim of oil on water.

“It seems I’m caught,” the man said in a mocking tenor. He was not tall, and he was slender of build, with wavy yellow hair. A closely trimmed beard adorned his pointed chin, and beneath his cloak he wore tight-fitting black garb.

Recognition flashed in Aryn’s mind. “I know you. You’re that spy we met in Perridon. Your name is Aldeth, and you’re one of Queen Inara’s Spiders.”

The man let out a pained sigh. “You know, I’m bound by my oath as a Spider to kill those who discover me.” He gave his hand a swift flick, and a slim dagger appeared in it. “But I suppose it might cause something of a political incident if I murdered the king’s ward and a baroness. So you’re fortunate in that, Lady Aryn.”

So he remembered her as well. “And what makes you think it’s not you who’s the fortunate one?” she said, feeling indignation at his words. She lifted her withered arm and spun the swift threads of a spell. Aldeth’s right hand gave a jerk, and the knife fell clattering to the floor.

He raised a single eyebrow. “How did you do that, my lady?”

Her lips curved in a smile. “If I told you...”

“Yes, yes, I know—then you’d have to kill me.” He scowled, but the effect was more comical than alarming. “I thought that was my line.”

Aryn answered with what she knew was a noxiously sweet smile. She’d forgotten that she rather liked the Spider. “What are you doing in the castle?”

He retrieved his knife and tucked it away somewhere beneath his cloak. “I could ask the same question of you, my lady. Here I go to all this trouble to pick an out-of-the-way place to get a little rest, and then you insist on barging in here completely uninvited.”

Aryn shrugged. “If you wanted to avoid discovery, you might have considered not building a fire. Nothing says,
Look,
I’m over here
, quite like a cheery blaze.”

Aldeth’s blue-gray eyes narrowed. “Now you’re simply being cruel, my lady. I was cold. And I hardly thought there would be eyes about to see the fire. You know perfectly well you have no right to be wandering this part of the castle. By Jorus, I think even the rats have forgotten about this particular wing. What are you doing here?”

“Ruining the days of spies, evidently.”

Aldeth gave a grunt of assent.

“So why are you in Calavere, really?” Aryn said, feeling bold enough to take two steps farther in, nearer the fire.

The young man spread his hands and grinned, displaying rotten teeth. “I’m a spy, my lady. What do you think I’m doing? I’m watching the king, of course.”

“But why? Aren’t Perridon and Calavan allies?”

“And now you’ve just told me you don’t know the first thing about politics, my lady. Spying on your enemies is useful. But spying on your friends is absolutely essential. Queen Inara knows there are dark times ahead, and she wants to learn what Boreas intends to do about it.”

“Then why doesn’t she just ask him herself?”

“Because she wants to know what he’s really going to do, not what he wants her to think he’s going to do. And very rarely are those two the same thing, my lady.”

Aryn frowned. “That really doesn’t sound like how friends should act.”

“Nonsense, my lady. All the best friendships are built upon a solid foundation of lying and deceit. It’s the friends who are utterly truthful who end up killing one another.”

“Now you’re being preposterous.”

“Really?” Aldeth smoothed his beard. “And what would you tell one of your lady friends if she was wearing the most hideous-looking gown you had ever seen?”

Aryn thought about it. “I’d find a way to spill a glass of wine on her and make it look like an accident. Then she’d have to change gowns, and she’d never have to know how awful the first was, and—oh!”

Aldeth grinned again and bowed. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat, my lady.”

Aryn let out an exasperated breath. “So now what do we do?”

“Don’t toy with me, my lady. You know perfectly well this is the point at which you extort some unspeakable favor out of me in exchange for not revealing my presence to the king.”

Aryn mused over these words. “Well, I hadn’t thought of that. But I must admit, it’s a good idea. So let’s do that. The extortion thing.”

Aldeth glared at her. “I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little. Is that wrong?”

“Just tell me what it is,” he said. “What favor do you want in exchange for keeping our little meeting a secret?”

She tapped her cheek with a finger. “I’m not certain yet. But I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

“And what makes you think you’ll find me again?”

Aryn thought of the sound of bells that had led her here. Melia and Boreas believed the Pale King stirred again, just like a year ago. But he wasn’t the only ancient power that had appeared again last Midwinter. She had a feeling someone— something—had wanted her to find Aldeth. Perhaps it would help her again.

“I’m certain I’ll find a way,” she said with what she hoped was a mysterious smile. She moved to leave, but as she stepped through the archway she glanced over her shoulder. “We were all glad, Aldeth. When we learned you had recovered from your injury. I’m sure you’re a credit to your queen.”

He nodded. “Only the gods know how I try, my lady.”

Aryn left the Spider to his fire, then traversed the corridors back to more populated regions of the castle. She wondered if it had been the right thing to promise Aldeth she would not reveal him to the king. However, this way the Spider was beholden to her, and it gave her a way to keep an eye on him. Surely that was better than ousting him from the castle—an act that would no doubt cause an incident between Perridon and Calavan—something the two allies couldn’t afford right now. Besides, Aryn had a feeling Aldeth’s favor would come in handy at some point, although she still didn’t know what she would ask him to do. Satisfied she had done the best thing for her Dominion, she turned down the corridor that led to her chamber.

And found Lord Farvel standing outside the door.

“My lady!” the seneschal said, a light of relief in his rheumy eyes. “There you are. The king’s guards have been scouring the castle for you.”

“Not very thoroughly then,” Aryn said. “As you can see, my lord, I’m right here.”

“You must come with me at once.”

Without asking her permission, he took her arm and started leading her down the corridor. Aryn was too surprised to resist.

“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.