Blood of Mystery (49 page)

Aryn gaped. “She
slapped
him?”

“Right across the face. His cheek turned crimson, and not just from the blow, mind you. He was shaking, and he looked ready to throttle her right there and then. She spoke several things I couldn’t catch. But then she said one thing that echoed clearly in the chamber. After that, she turned and left.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘I won’t let you sacrifice him like one of your bloody bulls.’ ”

Aryn paced, thinking. Had the queen still been speaking of Teravian, or someone else? “Didn’t you say there was something else you found out?”

The spy nodded. “The queen has been writing daily missives to Ar-tolor. I think they’re for her advisor, Lady Tressa.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why she doesn’t just speak to Tressa over the—” Aryn clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late.

“So you witches can speak to each other with a spell, even when you’re leagues away.”

Aryn sighed. “Not all of us.” Despite trying again several times over the last two days, she still hadn’t been able to reach any farther along the Weirding than the castle garden. The threads always tricked her into going in circles.

Except they can’t be deceiving you, Aryn. Mirda said the
magic of the Weirding can’t lie.

Which meant the deception lay within herself.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Aryn recognized the uneven cadence of Lord Farvel.

“Until next time, my lady,” Aldeth said, and before she could say anything the Spider coiled his shimmering cloak around himself and was gone.

Once she extricated herself from Farvel’s questions—this time he wondered about her preference for swans or doves, and she didn’t know if he meant as decoration or as something to eat, so she said she liked both—she headed for Mirda’s and Ivalaine’s chamber. It was time for another lesson.

On the way she caught a glimpse of Teravian, but only at a distance, and he was quickly gone. He seemed to be avoiding her since their last conversation. No doubt he was enjoying his last few days of freedom. The next day, on the night of the full moon—the same night Aryn was to tell Sister Mirda her decision—a feast was to be held at which the prince and Aryn’s engagement would be presented to the entire court.

Aryn still wondered how Teravian had known to follow her the other day. Could the prince really possess the Sight? If Ivalaine believed so, it might explain why she had been arguing with Boreas. Perhaps the two had differing plans for the prince. But if so, what were they?

Aryn didn’t know. However, she imagined those missives Ivalaine was writing to Tressa would tell her. There could be only one reason the queen was committing her words to paper: She feared they would be overheard if she used the Weirding. Which meant Liendra was indeed still in Ar-tolor.

Maybe the missives contain something about the shadow
coven,
Aryn thought with growing excitement. Except what did any of that have to do with Teravian? Nothing Aryn could imagine. But she still wished she could see one of those missives; it might help her with the decision that lay before her— whether or not to join the shadow coven herself.

There was no sign of Ivalaine when Aryn reached the queen’s chamber, but Mirda was waiting for her. However, once again the lesson ended in frustration, as Aryn tried to reach far across the Weirding but only ended up getting lost somewhere in the sheep pen in the lower bailey.

“I don’t understand, Mirda. What’s wrong with me? I know you’re right, that the Weirding can’t possibly lie. But how is it that I’m deceiving myself into going astray?”

“No one has more power to deceive us than ourselves,” the elder witch said, pouring a cup of rose hip tea. “How often do we tell ourselves it is fine for us to do something when deep down we know it is not? Listening to the truth of the Weirding means listening to the truth inside yourself. I’m afraid that’s something it seems you’re not yet willing to do.”

Aryn shook her head, frustrated. “But I
am
willing. I know I’m far from perfect, Mirda. I know others stare at my arm, and that they think it’s horrible, but I don’t care anymore. It’s part of who I am, and I accept that. That’s why I don’t hide it anymore. Isn’t that being honest?”

“It is. And I’m proud of you for it.” Mirda sipped her tea. “But there must be something else, something you’re hiding even from yourself. Something you have forgotten.”

Outside the window, the sun dipped below the horizon, and a shadow stole into the room. The darkness brought words to Aryn—words first spoken to her in the cramped space of one of the Mournish wagons below Ar-tolor.

See how the woman rides so proudly? All love her beauty
even as they fear her sword. Yet there is always a price to
wielding power. For see? She does not notice the poor man in
the grass who is trampled beneath the hooves of her horse.

Yes, Aryn remembered the card: a proud queen in blue, a sword in her arm, riding from a castle with seven towers. It had been like the vision she had once seen in the ewer, revealed by Queen Ivalaine. Except for the man lying in the grass, eyes shut.

Again the old Mournish woman’s voice rasped in her ear. You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you....

All at once, in a terrible flood, it came gushing back to Aryn. The sweltering day the previous summer, stealing away from Calavere to ride eastward after Grace, convincing Lirith to go along with the plan. But their absence would be quickly discovered. They needed to find a way to throw the king’s knights off their trail. With her growing power, it had been so simple. Talk to a young servingman and sow in his mind a small seed, so that when he was questioned later he would say he had seen the Lady Aryn riding away from the castle. Riding westward.

A sickness gripped her, one so strong she feared she would vomit. That was why he had looked so familiar to her, despite the vacant stare in his eyes, despite the dent in his skull.

Please. Don’t let him be beaten again. My brother didn’t
mean it. I beg you, my lady...

And in that moment Aryn knew what she had been hiding from herself, from the world. It wasn’t the ugliness of her arm. It was the ugliness inside herself.

She sank to her knees, chest aching, and a sob ripped itself out of her. “Oh, Mirda, what have I done?”

The witch’s eyes were filled with sorrow, but her touch on Aryn’s brow was warm and gentle.

“You’ve just told yourself the truth, sister.”

55.

Aryn sat beside the window as darkness settled over the world outside.

“I thought they were the cruel ones, Mirda. Those young witches—Belira and her friends, the ones who mocked me at High Coven. When I stood up to them, I felt like I was so much better than they were. But I’m not, am I? They only used words to harm. But I used my magic to hurt them when they were laughing at me. Just as I used it to hurt the servingman.”

“You don’t have the Sight as your sister Lirith does,” Mirda said, standing by the fire, her face serene as always. “You couldn’t have known he would come to such harm. Did not his sister say the blow to his head was an accident?”

Aryn clenched her left hand into a fist. “No—that doesn’t make it any better. If I’d thought it through, I would have known he would get a beating for misleading the king’s men. But all I cared about was running after Grace.”

“And did not your following eastward after your sister Grace result in much good? Did you not aid the Runebreaker in ending the plague of fire by your actions?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened after doesn’t change what I did at the time. I did this thing, and I won’t deny it. Because that would be crueler still.”

Mirda nodded, and while her expression was serious, there was a faint smile on her lips. At last Aryn realized what Mirda had been doing. With each of her questions, the elder witch had offered her a way out of her predicament, a way to explain away her actions. But Aryn hadn’t taken the lure, as tempting as it was. She wanted more than anything to dull the pain in her chest. But that pain was nothing compared to what she had caused others. If Mirda’s actions had been some sort of test, Aryn supposed she had passed it, but that didn’t matter now.

“You have found the deception in yourself, sister.” Mirda rested a hand on Aryn’s shoulder. “And now it can no longer deceive you. You should try once more to reach out across the Weirding. Nothing can hold back your power now.”

Aryn trembled at these words. No, there was nothing to hold back her power. But shouldn’t there be? She had known since Midwinter’s Eve that she had the power to harm; with a thought she had murdered Lord Leothan. Yet he had been an ironheart, and he had attacked her, provoking her. Just like Belira and her cronies had done with their taunting. But what had the servingman—Alfin, he had a name—what had Alfin ever done to her to deserve her cruelty? And what good was power if all she ever used it for was to hurt others? Maybe Belira and the rest were right. They weren’t the monsters; she was.

“No, do not think such thoughts.” Mirda moved in front of Aryn’s chair, her face stern. “You have many choices before you. But one thing you cannot choose is to deny the talent within you. You are strong, sister—stronger than any witch in a century.”

Aryn looked out the window, into the night. “But I didn’t ask for this power. And I don’t want it.”

“And you can no more change it than you can the shape of your right arm. Power is in your blood. And the more you try to deny it, the less control you will have over it, and the more control it will have over you.”

“But what’s the point of it?” Aryn caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window: pale and lost as a ghost. “What good is all this power anyway?”

“That,” Mirda said, her voice crisp, “is up to you.”

In that moment, Aryn knew Mirda was right. Power was neither good nor evil in and of itself. It was only what the wielder chose to do with it that made it one or the other. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, only it was a good feeling. It was like something breaking, like some small piece of her falling away. Aryn knew what it was; it was her pride in believing that she was better than others, that she was kinder and more virtuous than they were. However, from that moment on, she would use her power as wisely as she could. And not just her power as a witch, but her power as a baroness—and soon as a queen— as well.

Aryn rose from her chair and met Mirda’s steady gaze. “I must talk to the king at once.”

Mirda only nodded.

A quarter hour later, Aryn stepped into Boreas’s chamber. She was not nervous, as she had been every other time she had set foot in this room; she knew what she had to do. The king sat at the table, poring over sheaves of parchment; at last he looked up, squinting at her with tired eyes.

“I’m busy, my lady.”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Majesty. I have something I must tell you. Something that can’t wait.”

The king cocked his head and set down the parchments. “What is it, my lady?”

“Your Majesty, there are others who must hear this as well. May they enter?”

The king was clearly puzzled by her words, but he nodded, and she moved to the door, gesturing for the two waiting outside to come in. They did so, one tentatively, her eyes wide as she gazed around, the other with shuffling footsteps.

The serving maid gasped when she saw the king and hastily dropped into a curtsy.

“Alfin!” she whispered, tugging on the young man’s sleeve. “Alfin, you must bow to the king!”

She tugged again, and he slowly bent forward.

“Rise,” the king rumbled.

The young woman leaped up and tugged again at her brother’s tunic, causing him to straighten. He gazed forward, expression placid. The dent in the side of his head was plain to see.

Boreas frowned, although not unkindly. “What is all this about, Aryn?”

She drew in a breath, expecting it would be difficult to form the words, only it wasn’t. “I have done a grave wrong to this man. And to his family.”

The young woman—her name was Alfa, Aryn had learned when she went to find the pair working in the kitchens— clasped a hand to her cheek. “My lady, nay, it—”

The king raised a finger, silencing her. He looked at Aryn. “Explain yourself, my lady.”

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.”