44.
The day passed slowly, and with no sign of Prince Teravian. Aryn was thankful for that, although this reaction made her feel guilty. She supposed she should apologize to him for her words in the great hall. No matter that he was the one who had stamped off; if they were going to be married, they had at least better learn to act civil.
However, the prince was nowhere to be seen. Although once she glimpsed Lord Farvel at a distance, speaking to a manservant, and she distinctly heard the sound of her own name echo down the corridor. The servant turned and pointed, but before the old seneschal could start moving in her direction, Aryn scampered away.
There was no avoiding supper in the great hall that night. Aryn found herself seated at the opposite side of the high table from Ivalaine and Mirda. The queen sat to the king’s left and Teravian to his right, next to Lord Farvel. Fortunately, there were two visiting earls between Aryn and the seneschal, and the few times Farvel tried to speak across the noblemen to ask her something about her upcoming wedding, she feigned deafness and merely smiled, raising her goblet to his health.
Boreas seemed unusually subdued, and Aryn wondered what Sir Tarus had told him. The red-haired knight was not at table, although there was an empty space for him at the far end, next to where Melia sat, looking elegantly bored. Boreas leaned often toward Ivalaine to speak something in a voice too low to overhear. However, Ivalaine never responded to the king. She simply gazed over the hall, her eyes glittering like the opals woven into her flaxen hair. Only once did Aryn risk a glance at Teravian, but the prince didn’t meet her gaze. He was scowling at no one in particular, his eyebrows drawn into a single brooding line.
Aryn slipped away from supper at the earliest possible moment and was out of the great hall before Lord Farvel could rise from his chair. She considered going to look for the Spider, Aldeth. However, she didn’t know exactly what she would say to the spy. And she couldn’t go to her chamber; that was the first place Farvel would look for her. Without really thinking about it, she found herself at the door to Melia’s room.
“Come in,” said a clear voice from beyond before Aryn lifted a hand to knock.
She entered to find Melia just sitting down to her embroidery. The black kitten played on the rug before the fire, pouncing and batting at a ball of string.
Aryn cleared her throat. “I was wondering...”
“Of course dear,” Melia said. “I’m certain no one will find you here.”
Aryn was too grateful to ask just how the lady could be so sure of that. She sat in a chair near the fire, then promptly regretted it as she began to sweat.
“Are you happy, dear?” Melia said, eyes on her embroidery.
Aryn nearly jumped from the chair. What did Melia mean by that? Of course—she was referring to the news of Aryn’s husband-to-be.
“I’m lucky the king considers me worthy to wed his son,” Aryn said.
Melia looked up from her work. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Aryn rose from the chair and moved to the window. “Do you mind? It’s a bit warm in here.”
“Of course, dear.”
Aryn pushed back the curtain and opened the window a crack. The cool autumn air felt good against her face, but she was more interested in being able to see past the curtain.
They passed the time in silence. Melia continued to work on her embroidery, and Aryn wound thread on to spools in an attempt to be useful, although the kitten quickly undid most of her work. At last the fire burned low, and the kitten collapsed in a heap of fur and tangled thread, nose to tail, fast asleep.
“Isn’t it about time for you to be going, dear?” Melia said. “You don’t want to be late.”
Aryn started at the sound of the lady’s voice. She must have been dozing. Quickly, she glanced out the window. A sliver of pale silver was just edging over the castle’s eastern rampart.
Aryn turned to see the lady’s amber eyes upon her. So Melia had known all along why Aryn had really opened the window.
“Be careful, dear,” Melia said. “There is great joy in wielding magic. But there is danger as well. As I’m certain Queen Ivalaine knows well.”
What did she mean? Aryn was too startled to ask, so instead she merely murmured good night and hastily departed. She hurried down empty corridors and found herself at the door of Ivalaine’s chamber. She knocked softly, and a young maidservant in a green dress, barely more than a girl, opened the door. The maidservant led Aryn to a comfortable room draped with tapestries.
“You may go now, Adeline,” Mirda said to the maidservant. “I shall call if the queen has further need of you or your sisters this evening.”
The girl curtsied, then departed through a side door. For a moment, through the open doorway, Aryn caught a glimpse of a half dozen curious faces peering out. The queen’s attendants. No doubt the young women had entered Ivalaine’s service hoping they might get the chance to learn something about magic. If so, their hopes were dashed for that night. The door shut, leaving Mirda and Aryn alone.
“Where is the queen?” Aryn said, glancing around.
“And am I not a fine enough teacher for you, sister?”
Aryn winced. That wasn’t what she had meant. Then she saw the smile on Mirda’s lips, and the warm light shining in her almond-shaped eyes, and she knew the elder witch was not angry.
Emotion welled up in Aryn’s heart. “Sister Mirda, what you did that night—when we were weaving the Pattern—it was...” She shook her head, at a loss for words to describe what she felt. So she spoke over the Weirding instead, for that way her feelings could come across as clearly as her thoughts.
It was wonderful. More than wonderful. It was like a candle
shining in the middle of the darkest night. If it hadn’t been for
you, Sister Liendra would have—
Mirda gripped her hands.
Let us not speak of what is done. I
only did what I must. And so shall you.
“But you have been too long from your studies with Sister Lirith,” Mirda said aloud. “That’s why the queen asked me to accompany her when she brought her ward to Calavere. We know what happened in Tarras—King Boreas told the queen at supper. It is a dark tale, to be sure, and we can only pray to Sia for our Sister Lirith’s safe return. However, in the meantime, I will be your teacher. You are to be a queen by marriage, but you are a witch by birth, and that is something you must never forget.”
Aryn nodded, but something in Mirda’s words didn’t quite add up, only she couldn’t grasp what it was.
“Did you bring a cloak?” Mirda asked.
Aryn shook her head. It was perfectly warm in here. What on Eldh would she need a cloak for?
“Some things are best learned by moonlight,” Mirda said in answer to Aryn’s unspoken question. “But don’t fear, you won’t freeze. I have an extra you may borrow.”
She opened a wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes within. Once again Aryn found herself wondering how old Mirda was. Fine lines accentuated her eyes and mouth, and a single lock of white made a striking contrast with her jet hair. Yet surely Mirda couldn’t be any older than five-and-thirty winters. Then again, there was a depth to her gaze, a wisdom, that reminded Aryn of Melia. And Melia had been born over two thousand years ago.
Before Aryn could wonder more, Mirda pulled a woolen cloak from the wardrobe and helped Aryn wrap it around her shoulders. Then she took up her own cloak. As she donned the garment, a low sound emanated from one of the chamber’s side doors. Not the door behind which the maidservants slept, but another.
Aryn cast a startled look at Mirda. “What was that?”
Again came the sound, clearer this time. It was a woman’s voice, moaning as if in pain. Understanding pierced Aryn’s brain.
“It’s the queen!” She started toward the door.
Mirda’s touch was as light as a hummingbird on Aryn’s arm, but it stopped her all the same. “The queen is weary, that is all. Her sleep has been troubled of late, for there is much that weighs upon her mind. But she prepared a draught for herself this evening, and so her slumber must not be interrupted.”
The sound did not come again; Ivalaine must have settled into sleep again.
“Is she ill?” Aryn said.
“No, sister. Not in any way you might think.”
What could it be then? A dark thought occurred to Aryn. “Is it safe for her to have left Ar-tolor?”
“Come,” Mirda said, moving to the door. “The moon has risen. It is time for your studies to begin.”
Mirda walked swiftly through the castle, her cloak fluttering like blue wings, and Aryn had to half run just to keep up; there was no chance for further questions. Still, Aryn couldn’t help thinking she had struck a nerve.
Boreas had summoned Teravian back to court, and protocol required that the one who had fostered the prince these last years present him upon his return. Calavan was Toloria’s oldest ally; for Ivalaine to deny tradition would have been a grave insult. So the queen had been forced to leave Ar-tolor. But whom had she left behind? Certainly Tressa, her advisor, for the red-haired witch had not come to Calavere. Was there anyone else? Most of the witches at the High Coven had returned to their homelands immediately after the weaving of the Pattern. But not all. And Aryn had a feeling that if any had stayed behind, Sister Liendra would be among them. After all, Brelegond had fallen to the dark knights, so she couldn’t have returned home.
What is she up to, Aryn? What is Liendra doing in Ar-tolor
while the queen is away? She can’t possibly be up to good. Is
that why Ivalaine is so worried?
There was something important here, something to do with what she had been thinking about earlier. What was it Mirda had said? Before Aryn could remember, Mirda opened a door into the upper bailey. She led the way to the arched entrance of the castle’s garden. Despite the lateness of the year, the scent of green, living things rose on the air.
Aryn followed Mirda down a stone path. Calavere’s garden was a dense tangle: a place not so much planted as left to its own devices. There was a wildness to the garden that made her think of Gloaming Wood, the forest to the north of the castle, which most folk in Calavan avoided as a place of shadow and rumor. The garden was neither so deep nor so ancient, of course. All the same, she had a feeling that Trifkin Mossberry and his troupe of actors would be at home in it.
They were nearly to the entrance of the hedge maze when Mirda came to a halt. The two women stood in a grotto surrounded by slender
valsindar
trees. The bark of the trees shone white in the moonlight, as did the statue in the center of the grotto. Aryn had seen the statue many times before, but never—she realized as she gazed upon it now—in the light of an almost-f moon. In the eerie glow the statue seemed almost alive.
It was made up of two figures. One was a fierce and beautiful man. Muscles seemed to ripple beneath stone skin; his hair and beard flowed back in intricate curls, as if he faced a roaring wind. The other figure was a bull, a beast as strong as the man that fought it. One of his hands gripped its horns, pulling its head back as the beast opened its mouth in a silent bellow. In his other hand was a sword that pierced the bull’s throat. From the wound poured a stream of dark fluid: not blood, but water.
Aryn glanced at Mirda. Why had the witch led her there, of all places—to a statue of Vathris Bullslayer, god of the mystery cult of the Warriors?
“What do you think when you look upon him?” Mirda said.
Aryn gathered the cloak about herself and studied the statue. Somehow she knew Mirda did not want a glib answer, but the truth.
“I think he’s beautiful. And perilous. Beautiful, because I believe there is no one, neither woman nor man, who could deny him anything were he to ask for it. Not their loyalty, not their body, and not their blood. And he is perilous, because he would take it, take it with joy, even if what was offered were a life.”
Mirda moved closer. “Yes, he is dangerous that way. See how he smiles as he slays the bull, a living creature.”
“But the stories say he saved a dying kingdom with its sacrifice.” A wisp of cloud scudded before the moon, casting shadows, and Aryn could almost imagine the statue moved in the ghostly light. “They say the bull’s blood became a great river that returned life to a parched land.”
“Yes, so the stories tell us.” Mirda circled slowly around the statue, as if wary. “But do they say why the land became a desert in the first place? Was it not because of the wars he waged that his kingdom became a wasteland?”
Aryn shook her head. “I don’t know. But even if that were so, slaying the bull still brought back life.”
“Really?” Mirda came to a halt, her eyes catching the starlight. “Do you truly believe death can bring life?”
It was so cold. Aryn’s head ached with the chill; it was hard to think. “I’m not sure. No. Maybe. Certainly death doesn’t bring life to that which dies. That was the lie the Raven Cult told its followers—that death is a release, a reward, and somehow better than life itself. But that’s perverse. Life is everything. It is blessed. But it is also true that some things must die that others might live. The roe consumes the grass, and the wolf consumes the roe. So it has always been.”
“But roe and wolves are animals,” Mirda said. “They have no choice but to live by their natures. Is it not the gift of Sia that a woman may choose her own nature? There are many witches who eat not the flesh of animals, only plants.”
Aryn shook her head. “Plants are alive. I can feel it, even now as winter draws near. The trees sleep, but life flows inside them, like water under the ice of a frozen river. I think no matter what we do, we can’t escape it. Death is a part of life, the other side of the coin.” She paced now, feeling warmer and strangely excited. “Yes, of course. A tree dies. It rots, and mushrooms grow from it for a time. Then they perish as well, and enrich the soil with their bodies. And then a new tree grows, nourished by the loam where others died before it. It’s a circle, just like the moon. Light to dark to light once more. It never ends. As long as there’s a seed in the soil, a hope, then life will always come again.”