The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [17]
Falken grinned as Lirith drew near. “I hope you’ll indulge an old bard,” he said, enfolding her in lean arms. “It’s not every century I get to hug a beautiful countess.”
Lirith laughed and returned the embrace with equal force. The dark stubble of his beard scratched against her cheek, but she didn’t care; he smelled like a forest. He was a strange being, this immortal bard, but he was good as well. Lirith knew that without doubt—no matter what the tales told. She would not believe an entire kingdom had been doomed by his hand alone.
“You look well, dear,” Melia said, gliding forward.
Lirith did not pretend for a moment that Melia would embrace her as Falken had. Not that Melia didn’t care for her. But there was a distance to the onetime goddess that made her as cool, as radiant, and as unreachable as her namesake. Only Falken seemed able to bridge that gulf—and perhaps Sir Beltan and Goodman Travis to a lesser extent. Lirith gave the woman a rigid nod.
At this, Melia halted, then moved back a half step and nodded in return, her amber eyes filled with an expression that seemed almost … sad. A pang of regret filled Lirith’s chest.
She concealed the awkwardness of the moment with a question. “Where is the queen?”
“I fear you are too late, my lady,” Durge said.
Aryn frowned at the knight. “Ivalaine hasn’t passed away, Durge. She’s only at breakfast.”
“We were about to find some breakfast ourselves,” Falken said, slinging the battered wooden case that held his lute over his shoulder. “Will you join us, Lirith?”
She nodded, then took his arm when he proffered it.
“Falken,” Aryn said as they moved toward a side door, “you still haven’t told us why you’ve come to Ar-tolor. I thought you were going to travel for a while with Tome.”
The bard shrugged. “Tome decided he’d rather rest. But then, he is over two thousand years old, so we didn’t argue the point. Besides, when we heard a High Coven was being called, we decided to come here instead.”
Lirith froze. “But Queen Ivalaine has only just called for the coven.”
“Yes, dear,” Melia said. “We know.”
Once again Lirith studied the amber-eyed woman. While no longer truly a goddess, Melia’s powers were still mysterious and vast. The Witches had always respected her … but they were wary of her as well. Melia was of the new religions of Tarras, not the ancient worship of Sia.
Then again, it seems that those who shun the name Sia rise most quickly among the Witches these days, is that not so Sister Lirith?
The furrows in Durge’s brow deepened. “I have not heard of this High Coven. What is it?”
Lirith opened her mouth, wondering what she should tell the knight, but before she could speak, another voice—cracked and high-pitched—answered for her.
“My good, glum knight, don’t you know?
It’s where sewers spin and spinners sew.
Weaving secrets to and fro—
So let’s to the High Coven go.”
By the time Lirith caught a flash of green and yellow, he was already scrambling down a tapestry like a great, gangly spider. He must have been hiding up among the beams of the hall, listening to everything they said.
“Begone with you,” Durge rumbled, his hand moving to the knife at his hip as the fool scuttled toward them.
Falken laid a hand on Durge’s arm. “No, he was king in this hall once. Let him stay.”
Tharkis spread bony arms and bowed, the bells of his cap jangling dissonantly. “No wish to bother, no wish to harm. A poem I would speak, our great guests to charm.”
Durge did not look like he was in the mood for poems. “Speak it, knave, and then away with you.”
Tharkis bowed so low his pointed boots touched his brow. However, the moment Durge glanced away, the fool performed a caper, miming with uncanny verisimilitude the act of drawing a sword and falling upon it. Lirith swallowed a giggle, and Aryn clamped a hand to her mouth.
Durge snapped back around. “Whatever your history may be, Fool, your antics are not appreciated here.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Melia said, moving past the glowering