Blood of Mystery (50 page)

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.”

She 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.”

Aryn smiled at him and stood. “I believe I’ll go then. Good night, Your Majesty.” She nodded to Teravian. “Your Highness.”

The prince’s eyes were curious—he knew she was up to something—but before he could speak she hastily made her way from the high table and departed the hall.

She turned a corner and, once she was sure she was out of sight, she began running, the copied missive still tight in her hand. The words on the paper changed everything; she knew what she had to do. Beams of moonlight spilled through narrow windows as she raced down the hall toward Ivalaine’s chamber. She knocked on the door. It opened.

“Come in, sister,” Mirda said.

Aryn glanced in either direction, then hurried into the chamber as Mirda shut the door.

“What’s going on?” Aryn said, shocked anew. A dozen wooden trunks stood neatly in a line; all of the queen’s things had been packed.

“Ivalaine has fulfilled her duty,” Mirda said. “She has returned the king’s son to him after his fostering at her court and has heard his engagement announced. She will return to Ar-tolor on the morrow.”

“And what about you, Mirda? Will you be going as well?” The witch’s gaze was as serene as ever, yet there was a questioning light in her almond-shaped eyes. “That depends upon what you have to tell me.”

Aryn struggled for words. But there was an easier way than explaining it herself. She opened her hand and unfolded the crumpled parchment.

“Read this,” she said in a hoarse voice.

Mirda took the parchment in careful hands. She read the words, her eyes at first curious, then darting rapidly across the page. Aryn saw the words again herself, as if they were burned into her brain.

My dearest T,

I commence my return to Ar-tolor at dawn tomorrow, and I am glad for it. I fear I have been too
long away already, and I grow anxious to learn what
has occurred in my absence. I wish to know most
specifically what Sister L has been doing.

That she is in league with someone unknown to us
or to our sisters, I grow more certain each day. But
who is this person L speaks to? That I would give
much to discover, and I hope you have made progress
in this regard.

I confess, I have become more fearful each day I
reside here in Calavere. What it is, I cannot say. A
darkness has seemed to oppress my mind like a cloud
ever since beginning my journey here. Although today it is suddenly far less than it was before. All the
same, I know my fears are not unfounded. How Sister
L discovered that there was not just the one
Runebreaker we know of, but a second of his kind, I
still cannot imagine. But even more disturbing is that
she seems to be using this one, controlling him, to
some end we cannot foresee.

The prophecies say there will be a Runebreaker at
the end of all things, and the prophecies cannot be
wrong. So perhaps Sister L works to a greater good,
and she believes that if she can command this second
Runebreaker, then she can be sure that things will go
as the Witches desire in the end and Eldh will not be
shattered. I will try to believe this good of her, no
matter what she has done to me.