The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [108]
Yet while those incidents had left her curious and unsettled, none had filled her with the cold fear she felt now. The planks of the dock seemed to yaw beneath her, as if she still stood on the deck of the ship. Nor had she ever seen the glimmer of gold before.
“Lirith?”
The crowd knotted before her, then thinned again, and the figure in the black robe was gone.
“Lirith, are you well?” It was Falken, his faded eyes concerned.
“It’s nothing,” she said, licking her lips. “A moment of dizziness, that’s all. It has passed.”
Falken nodded, then returned to Melia.
That is not all it was, Lirith.
She looked up as the voice spoke in her mind. Aryn’s brilliant blue eyes were locked on her.
You saw something, didn’t you? Just now. What was it?
There was no point in telling anything but the truth; lies were impossible to speak across the Weirding. I don’t know, Aryn. Maybe I saw something. I can’t be sure. But it’s not—
Before Lirith could say more, Melia spoke. It was obvious the lady was feeling well again; her amber eyes shone as brilliantly as the gold domes of the city. But then, Melia had just come home.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said. “We need to go to the Second Circle. I would speak with Orsith at once.”
There was no time to ask who Orsith was or why they might want to talk to him. Melia started off along the dock, weaving smoothly among the tangles of people, and the others had to hurry in order to keep up with her.
36.
Aryn marveled as they ascended through the outer circles of Tarras, craning her head in an attempt to see everything at once. Only a year ago she had greeted the idea of stepping outside the walls of the castle with no small amount of trepidation. But since then she had learned there was a whole world out there she had never imagined, and while it was sometimes terrifying, it was wondrous as well.
She had savored every moment of their journey south, and not only for the sight of new lands. For she had been exploring in a different way. As they rode through Toloria, she had used her time to practice reaching out and weaving the threads of the Weirding. Often she spoke with Lirith about the Touch, but she was not afraid to experiment on her own. After all, she had learned to speak across the Weirding without help. And Lirith seemed impressed with her rapid progress.
It is as if you have suddenly found a key to your talent, sister, Lirith said over the Weirding as they sat by the fire one evening, making a lesson of sensing and identifying every living thing within twenty paces.
Except it was more like the key had been there all along, gripped in her twisted right hand, only Aryn had never let herself open her fingers to see it.
Always the balance seeks something in return when a great gift is given, the old Mournish woman had told her.
Belira and the others had jeered at her because of her arm, but they were silly girls, unaware that there was so much more to being a witch than what appeared on the surface. Aryn no longer feared them. Nor was she angry. Rather, she felt sorry for them, and she hoped one day they might learn what she had—that the key to power was not wanting something you didn’t have. Instead, it was daring to see what was already yours.
One day, excited, she had tried to explain these things to Lirith over the Weirding. Except an image had formed in her mind: a proud woman in blue, holding a sword as she rode from a castle with seven towers, a crumpled form in the grass beneath her.
You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you.…
Hastily, Aryn had broken the thread that spanned between her and Lirith. The dark-haired witch had given her a puzzled look as the thread was severed, but Aryn had mumbled a hasty excuse about being weary and had gone to bed.
But who had the old Mournish woman been talking about? Surely she was not so cruel as the old woman had said.
Or was she? A fragment