The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [132]
Lirith moved past the seller of mysteries. Perhaps she was wrong; perhaps they were not here. Perhaps the New Gods had driven Her away from this place.
But you know that’s not true, sister. Sia is everywhere, even in this city where the New Gods hold court.
She moved on. Faces of a dozen different hues passed by, some as dark as her own, some darker yet. It had been some time since Lirith had seen others of similar complexion to herself. There had been a few in Corantha, fewer yet in the Dominions. Was she kin to any of these people?
But she would never know. Nor would she ever be able to ask her parents about her heritage. All she knew was that Toloria had not always been their home, that they had traveled there from somewhere else before Lirith was born. And that was all she would ever know.
She came to a grimy plaza where rag-clad children ran from red-faced vendors and women filled clay vessels from a murky fountain. On one side of the plaza, a number of men and women sat on the cobblestones, leaning against a wall. At first Lirith thought they were laborers taking a midday break. Then she drew closer and knew that was not so.
Their eyes were neither open nor closed; instead they were dull, unseeing. Their limbs were sticks inside filthy clothes, and flies crawled across their sun-darkened faces. Each of them smiled with purple-stained lips, as if gazing upon some blissful scene. In their limp hands rested crude wooden cups.
Strangely compelled, Lirith reached out to the Weirding, searching for the threads of these people. She snatched her mind back as nausea flooded her. She had seen the threads of the men and women; they were dark and shriveled.
“Care for a cup, mistress?” a hoarse voice said.
A man stood before her. He might have been comely once, but rot had taken his teeth, and the flesh of his face seemed oddly slack, as if it barely hung on to his skull. A sweet scent rose from him. Decay. His lips were stained a dark purple, like those of the others.
“What?” she choked.
“It is a new potion, mistress, like nothing you have tried before.” He held a small wooden cup toward her. “Some call it the Elixir of the Past. Imbibe it, and all your fondest memories will appear before you as if they had never faded. You can live the past again and again.”
Sickness rose in Lirith. Live the past over and over? “No,” she said, gagging.
She pushed aside the man. However, he seemed not to notice her as he turned to offer his cup to another passerby. This man surrendered a coin and took the cup. Swallowing bile, Lirith fled the plaza, leaving the shriveled, empty people to their visions of the past.
At last the sickness in her subsided, and she tried another street. The afternoon was drawing on; she had been searching the city all day. No doubt the others would wonder where she was, for she had told Aryn she was merely going for a walk.
Where would you go in this city, sister? That is where you should seek them.
Even as she thought this, she saw a narrow arch in a stone wall. Beyond was a dim, green-gold space. As if drawn, she moved to the arch.
There was an iron gate, and through the bars she saw a garden. It was cool and shaded, a grotto of emerald flecked with copper. She pushed on the gate, but it did not move. It must have been locked.
She glanced down. It was locked, but not by wood or metal. Instead, living vines coiled around the bars, holding the gate shut. Yet that made little sense. The gate would have to remain shut for days for the vines to grow over it so extensively, but the garden beyond looked carefully tended.
Then she understood. The gate was indeed locked, but only to those who did not possess the right key. Lirith slipped her fingers through the gate and brushed the vines. It was a simple spell; she didn’t even need to shut her eyes. In her mind she touched the threads that belonged to the plants and unwove them.
The vines fell away from the bars.
Lirith pushed, and the gate swung inward. She stepped into the grotto beyond. There was a rustling behind