The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [201]
The knight stroked his mustaches. “You mean besides indoor plumbing and gods being slain?”
Lirith forced herself not to groan. “Yes, Durge, besides those things.”
Aryn shrugged, but after a moment Durge nodded.
“Now that you mention it, my lady, there was a boy I saw. It was in the Fourth Circle. He was crying in the street.”
“That’s not strange, Durge,” Aryn said. “Children often cry.”
The knight sighed. “Especially, I find, when I am near. But there was something odd about this child. He was wearing the robe of a priest. A robe clearly intended for a grown man.”
A chill crept up Lirith’s spine despite the balmy air. What did Durge’s story mean? She wasn’t certain, not yet, but there was one thing she did know. It wasn’t only the gods in this city who were getting tangled in the threads of time. It was their followers—the people of Tarras—as well.
And you yourself, sister.
Again she thought of Corantha, and memories welled up, thick and dark. Lirith pushed them aside. She would not become a slave to the past, not like the people who leaned against the wall.
“Come on,” she said. “We’d better not make Melia wait for us.”
They had just reached the bard and the amber-eyed lady when Aryn spoke—in Lirith’s mind rather than with words.
We are being followed, sister.
Lirith spun a quick thread out to the Weirding. Yes, there it was … like a shadow trailing after them.
Aryn’s voice came again. Do you think it’s the one who tried to harm you?
Lirith probed. The presence of the man in the black robe had filled her with foreboding, but this shadow was like that other she had glimpsed from time to time on their journey south to Tarras. Its presence did not fill her with fear but rather curiosity.
She thought about it a moment. Then she brushed her hand against Durge’s and used the connection to bring her thread close to his.
Durge.
She felt surprise and dread. Of course, the last time she had touched him like this she had stolen his memories away from him. But all she wanted to do was give him a message, and to do it without speech that could be observed or overheard. She pressed her hand harder to his.
Please, Durge. Don’t pull away. We’re being followed. Behind us and to the left. There, in the shadow behind that stack of clay jugs. Do you see it?
Lirith used the Weirding to form the image for him, then felt understanding. She released the thread and heard a sigh beside her. However, when she glanced at Durge, his face was already resolute. He had strapped his greatsword to his back today, and his fingers twitched as if eager to draw it.
Ahead, Melia and Falken turned down another street. Lirith, Aryn, and Durge followed. As soon as they rounded the corner, the Embarran moved into action. He drew his massive blade and pressed himself to the wall.
Help me, sister, came Aryn’s voice.
At once Lirith understood what the young woman was trying to do. Aryn had the power but not the skill. Lirith reached out invisible hands, guiding the young woman’s. Together, they wove the threads of the Weirding into a shimmering curtain before them. In a heartbeat it was done. Anyone gazing at them would see only a blank wall.
They waited. Then a figure clad in a black robe came into view, moving with stealth. When the figure was even with them, Durge stepped through the spell of illusion.
Their shadow tried to move, but the knight was too fast. His greatsword flashed, and the point came to a rest an inch from the other’s heart. Their stalker froze. Aryn and Lirith stepped forward as the last of the illusion unraveled.
“Show yourself,” Durge rumbled.
The figure hesitated, then lifted two brown hands and pushed back the hood of the robe. Lirith gazed into eyes the color of old copper coins, and her heart ceased beating.
“Greetings, beshala,” the man said in his deep, chiming voice, a bemused expression on his sharply handsome face.
Aryn gasped, and Durge let out a grunt.
“I recognize you,” he said, lowering his greatsword. “You’re that Mournish fellow, the one who took