The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [126]
“You’re up early,” Falken said. The bard sat in a chair, strumming a soft tune on his lute.
“As are you,” Durge said. As he often did, he marveled at the way the lute seemed a part of Falken’s body. Sometimes it was as if the bard spoke with the mellow tones of the instrument as much as with his own voice.
“I’m glad you’re up and ready,” Melia said. “I learned during the night that a meeting of the Etherion has been called. It will commence at dawn.”
Durge frowned. “My lady, surely I would have heard if a messenger came to our rooms during the night, yet I heard no such thing.”
Melia only smiled and poured herself a cup of juice. Durge knew it was best not to press for further explanation. Much as he favored reason, he knew it did not always apply where Melia was concerned. He settled for drinking his juice. It was cool and sweet, and the cup was empty before he knew it.
“More?” Melia said, and Durge nodded. It seemed he liked margra juice after all.
They reached the gate of the Second Circle just as sunlight touched the highest domes in the city, setting them ablaze.
“We’d better hurry,” Falken said, eyeing the sky. “Didn’t you say the Etherion assembled at dawn? We don’t want to be late.”
“Actually,” the lady said, “we do.” She walked at a stately pace through the archway.
Durge glanced at Aryn and Lirith, but they shrugged; neither knew what Melia was talking about. The ladies had arisen and dressed hastily, yet both looked lovely. They had coiled their hair high atop their heads, as was the fashion for women in this city. Of course, as pale as she was, Aryn would never be mistaken for anything but a woman of the northlands. However, with her dark, burnished skin, Lirith could easily have passed for a high lady of Tarras.
Falken groaned. “Please, Melia. It’s far too early in the morning to be enigmatic.”
“But it’s really very simple,” she said. “Only the priests and priestesses of the lesser temples will arrive at the Etherion precisely at dawn. To arrive late signifies that one is so confident or all-knowing that one does not fear missing anything important. And the later one arrives—”
“—then the more important one is?” Aryn said tentatively.
Melia laughed. “Well, at least the more important they believe they are, dear. And sometimes, in Tarras, that’s all that matters.”
This made no sense whatsoever to Durge. “I do not see how someone can be important merely by believing that he is. If I believe I have armor when I do not, it will hardly prevent a man from sticking a sword in my belly.”
Melia patted his cheek. “You might be surprised, dear.”
They were not alone as they passed through the airy streets of the Fourth Circle. Men and women clad in robes of myriad hues moved toward the blue dome that towered above all others.
As they went, Aryn and Lirith bowed their heads toward one another. Their lips did not move, yet all the same Durge had the feeling they were speaking. Their first evening in the city, when Lirith told them of the magic tangle she had seen, Durge had not had the faintest idea what she was talking about. However, Aryn had blanched as if a cold wind had struck her, and Melia and Falken had given knowing nods.
In the time since, Lirith had been far more subdued than usual, speaking little, and then usually with Aryn. Durge’s knowledge of witches was scant, yet logic did tell him one thing: It seemed far beyond coincidence that Lirith’s tangle should be greater here in Tarras, the city where gods were being murdered. Certainly the two had to be connected; as for how, that was leagues beyond Durge.
What concerned him more—because he might actually do something about it—was the man who had made an attempt on Lirith’s life. Why had he been spying on them at the docks? And why did he want to harm one of their number? Durge didn’t know. Yet all the same, he found himself wishing his greatsword wasn’t back at the hostel.
Be