The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [205]
“Vani,” Grace said, “didn’t you tell us your people are called the Morindai?”
“That is what we call ourselves. But in Falengarth we are called the Mournish. Or the Vagabond Folk. Or, often, less complimentary names.”
Falken scratched his chin. “Morindai. Now why is that name familiar?”
Vani cast a glance at Sareth, and he gave a small shrug.
“It means People of Morindu,” Vani said.
The bard’s faded eyes went wide. “Morindu? You mean Morindu the Dark, the lost city of sorcerers?” He gave Melia a stunned look.
The lady’s amber eyes gleamed. “I confess, I had often wondered if it might be so. But I was never certain.”
Before the bard and lady could speak more, a shrill voice drifted from the open door of the dragon-shaped wagon.
“Sareth, where are they? Bring them to me at once. I could perish at any moment.”
Sareth grinned. “Nonsense, al-Mama,” he called back. “You know exactly when you’re going to begin the Great Journey. You told me yourself you saw it in the cards.”
“Vile young man!” the shrill voice came back. “I’ll put a va’ksha on you as my dying act, do you hear me? Now come!”
“What’s a va’ksha?” Grace asked.
“A curse,” Vani said with a sharp smile.
Beltan clutched a small clay cup. “I would go if I were you.” He took a sip from the cup, grimaced, then managed to swallow.
Aryn’s nose wrinkled. “Beltan, that healing tea she made you smells dreadful. How can you possibly drink it?”
“She said I had to finish it all or she’d put a va’ksha on me that would make my—” His cheeks turned pink, and he hastily lifted the cup for another sip.
Vani started toward the wagon.
“My al-Mama will see your fate now,” Sareth said to Grace. “She has already seen the others.”
“But what about Lirith?” Grace said.
Lirith turned away, her arms crossed over her gown. “I will stay. I already know my fate.”
Sareth gazed at Lirith’s back, but Grace could not fathom the expression in his eyes.
“This way,” he said to Grace, and she followed him and Vani toward the wagon.
It took Grace’s vision a long moment to adjust to the dimness of the cramped interior. Then motion caught her eye, and she made out a thin, birdlike figure swaddled in blankets.
The woman lying on the bench was ancient. An accurate estimate of age would take closer examination, but Grace was certain she was over a hundred. Her arms were withered sticks, and her nose a vulture’s beak, but her eyes were bright and clear as harvest moons.
“Leave us, Sareth,” the old woman rasped.
Grace heard his wooden leg beat hollowly against the steps outside, then he was gone. She opened her mouth, not sure what she should say, yet certain she should say something.
“Shut your mouth, girl, and let me look at you,” the old woman said in her harsh voice.
Grace snapped her mouth closed.
“Humph.” The old woman bit a finger with what seemed to be her sole remaining tooth. “Well, you are skinnier than I would have thought, for one who has so much to do. Yet looks can deceive, can they not?” She cackled, touching her all-but-hairless skull. “Now, give me your hand.”
Grace hesitated, but a bony arm shot out and thin fingers grasped her wrist with a surprising strength, pulling her forward. The old woman turned Grace’s hand over, palm up, and pored over it. She cackled again.
“Yes, yes, I can see it in you. You are strong, girl—perhaps, in the end, the strongest of all. So many of them will break before all is done, but not you, girl. In the end, it is you who will break others. That is your fate.”
Grace fought for breath. No, the old woman was wrong. She was not strong. She was broken, a thing used, damaged, and thrown aside. Even now she could see it: the shadow pulsing on the edge of vision, as hungry as the bodiless beings she had glimpsed in the void between worlds. She snatched her hand back.
The old woman grunted. “Do not think I do not see it, girl. A darkness lies upon you, heavier than upon any of the others, memories of what once was. Those who say the past cannot harm you