The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [20]
“At least that woke you up,” Lirith said with a laugh, then lowered the bucket back into the well.
Most inexplicable of all, with the help of Ivalaine’s ladies-in-waiting, Tressa bade them sew three robes. The first was white and woven from the wool of lambs. The second was brilliant green, colored with fresh rushes. And the third was dark as smoke, dyed with ashes. What were the robes for?
Tressa smiled when Aryn asked this. “Why, she has three faces, and so she wears three robes: one for her waking, one for her fullness, and one for her waning.”
“But who is she?” Aryn asked, more perplexed than ever.
Tressa’s smile only deepened.
“All right, Lirith,” Aryn demanded that night at supper in the great hall, speaking low under her breath, for the queen sat only a few places away. “What is this High Coven really all about?”
“You will see,” Lirith said, and took a sip from her wine.
Aryn started to groan—it was a typically enigmatic answer—then her eyes narrowed. “You don’t actually know, do you?”
Lirith did not meet her gaze. “I have … an idea.”
Aryn wasn’t certain what it was: luck, instinct, or some unspoken message translated across the threads of the Weirding. All the same, she knew the word on Lirith’s mind.
“Runebreaker,” she whispered.
Now Lirith did look at her, eyes sharp, face hard. “You will not speak that word again, sister. Not unless it is spoken to you first. Do you understand me?”
Aryn had never heard Lirith speak so harshly before. She gave a jerking nod, then finished her supper in silence.
As the moon waned to a sliver, more witches arrived in Ar-tolor. Some came openly under the bright light of noon, while others drifted into the castle with the purple air of twilight. And sometimes Aryn would awake in the deep of the night, move to her window, and see dim shapes gliding across the bailey, bending heads close in silent speech. Soon the very stones of the keep seemed to echo with whispers, and the castle’s servants and guardsmen walked with the quick-footed nervousness of mice who know a cat’s afoot, looking always over their shoulders.
Finally Aryn counted the days, thinking that if the High Coven did not begin soon she would burst with questions. Some relief did come in her time with Melia and Falken. They told her stories of the great lost kingdom of Malachor, and of the city of Tarras when it was still the shining heart of a vast empire. But though interesting, the stories were only diversions. It was not the past that interested Aryn, but what was to happen in mere days.
It was the morning of the day the High Coven was to begin that she woke to find the Mournish had left Artolor. Sometime during the night they had folded up bright awnings, packed their fantastic wagons, and rolled away down the road, wandering to their next destination.
After breakfast—which Aryn could barely swallow for her excitement—she and Lirith walked down to the commons below the castle, for Tressa had said all was ready for the coven. They walked among tall trees, which swayed back and forth, murmuring a tired song. Summer was passing. Keldath, the gold month, was over. It was Revendath, and the wheat in the field fell before the blades of scythes.
It was easy to make out the yellowed places on the grass where the Mournish wagons had stood. At one of these, Lirith knelt and plucked something from the withered grass. It gleamed in the dappled light: one of the cheap bronze charms the Mournish sold to ward away sickness, to ease pain, or to bring love. This one was shaped like a spider. Aryn wondered what effect it was supposed to have.
“I wish we could have seen them again. The Mournish.”
“It is well we did not,” Lirith said flatly.
Startled, Aryn glanced at her friend. Lirith seemed to gaze into a far-off place.
“What is it, sister?” Aryn said, touching her hand.
Lirith drew a deep breath, then smiled.