The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [24]
“Sister?”
“I’m fine—really. Thank you.” However, as Aryn spoke, her eyes flickered toward Cirynn’s group.
Her glance was not lost on the other. The witch nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “You must not heed them, sister. They doubt their own beauty and so must belittle that of others. When they grow older, they will learn that beauty is found rather than given. As shall you.” She paused. “But then, you are old beyond your years, are you not?”
The witch lifted a hand and pressed it to Aryn’s cheek. Aryn closed her eyes; it was, strangely, a comforting gesture.
“Sia bless you,” a voice murmured in her ear.
The warmth against her cheek vanished. Aryn opened her eyes to see the witch already moving away.
“But what’s your name?” she said, more to herself than the other, for she dared not shout. All the same, an answer came back, whispering in her mind.
You may call me Sister Mirda.
Then the other was lost in the crowd. Before Aryn could wonder more, motion caught her eye. From the shadows, three figures stepped onto the rostrum: one clad in white, one clad in jade green, and the other in gray.
“I am Her dawn,” said the young woman in white. It was Cirynn. Only she seemed graver now, more poised and less proud. Perhaps Aryn had misjudged her.
“I am Her day,” said the woman in green, and Aryn gasped, for only as the witch spoke did she realize it was Queen Ivalaine, regal beyond all others.
“And I,” croaked a rough voice, “am Her twilight.”
The hag in gray whom Aryn had spoken to earlier hobbled into place next to Ivalaine and Cirynn. Aryn wondered what her name was.
She is called Senrael, said a soundless voice in Aryn’s mind. She is to be Crone at this High Coven, just as Ivalaine is Matron and Cirynn is Maiden.
Aryn glanced around, searching, then saw Lirith standing not far to her left. She wanted to send words back to Lirith, but she had no idea how to do it. However, Lirith seemed to anticipate her question.
She has three faces, and so three women stand for Her. It is how it has ever been.
Aryn wanted to know more, but on the rostrum Ivalaine spoke again, her graceful arms spread wide.
“In Her name, let the circle be closed, and let this coven be called.”
At these words, a tingling coursed through Aryn. By the intake of breath around her, others felt it as well. There was power in the air.
“In whose name do you mean, Matron?” a voice called out.
All turned their heads, searching for the speaker. Then Aryn saw her, standing near the center of the gathering, close to the rostrum. It was hard to make her out, for her back was mostly to Aryn, but she was tall and carried herself proudly. Her hair was flax touched with hints of fire, coiled high upon her head, and she wore many fine bands of gold about her wrists and throat—the only jewelry Aryn had seen upon any of the witches that night.
“What do you mean, Sister Liendra?” Ivalaine said, as if this interruption were all part of the ceremony.
The witch who had spoken stepped forward. Her voice was clear and sharp, like glass. “You say you call the witches to this coven in Her name. Do you mean the name Yrsaia? Or the name Sia?” With this last word, her voice edged into a sneer.
On the rostrum, Senrael’s wizened visage wrinkled in a frown, while Cirynn shifted from foot to foot and chewed her lower lip. Whispers ran through the crowd.
“And does it matter which name it is?” Ivalaine said, her features tranquil as a deep ocean.
Aryn couldn’t see Liendra’s face, but somehow she knew the witch was smiling.
“I believe it does matter. To many of us, at least. We would know what our Matron believes before the circle of this coven is bound.”
More whispers rose from the witches, along with some nods. Above it all, Ivalaine stood without motion. Only when silence fell again did she speak.
“Then this is your answer,