The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [30]
Durge nodded in approval. “I like that story.”
“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? But these romances”—Falken waved his hand at an entire shelf of books with ornate gold writing on their spines—“as far as I can tell, they contain nothing of any importance.”
“And what would you know about what is or isn’t important to a woman, dear?” Melia said pleasantly, her eyes still on the book. “The last time I counted, it had been a century since you had good fortune with a lady. Or has it been two?”
Falken clenched his hands into fists, sputtered something completely unintelligible, then turned and stamped back to the window.
Melia sighed, shut the book, and clasped it to her chest. “Now this,” she said, “is how a man should behave.”
“My lady …” Durge began. It was time to quit discussing modern literature and find out why Melia and Falken had called him there.
“Of course, dear,” Melia said, handing him the book. “You may borrow it. But don’t get any blood or food on it. And pay particular attention to page seventy-four. Only use more flower petals.”
Durge accepted the book in fumbling hands. He flipped through the stiff parchment pages, but the few words and pictures he glimpsed were far more strange and mysterious than anything he had ever read in one of his tomes concerning the alchemical arts. The knight hastily set the book on a stack of others the moment Melia turned her back.
“Oh, quit sulking, Falken,” she said.
He didn’t turn away from the window. “It hasn’t been that long since I got lucky.”
“Of course, dear. I forgot to count the one-eyed fishwife in Gendarra.”
Falken turned, thrust his shoulders back, and snapped his gray tunic straight. “And thank you very much.”
Durge’s eyes bulged, but he stifled any urge to ask for further explanation.
“Now, to answer your question, Falken,” Melia said, folding her arms across the bodice of her silver-white kirtle. “I suppose I have as much of an idea of what they’re up to as you. For years they have whispered of his coming. And last Midwinter he was revealed.”
Falken rubbed his chin with his black-gloved hand. “Who would have thought they’d actually turn out to be right?”
“No, Falken,” Melia said, her tone stern. “Do not dismiss the power of the Witches simply because you do not comprehend it. Their magic is different than that of your runes, but it is every bit as old. The name Sia has been spoken in the lands of Falengarth as long as that of Olrig Lore Thief.”
“And both have been spoken longer than any of the names of the New Gods of Tarras, in case you had forgotten.”
Melia’s eyes flashed molten gold, and Durge took a step back, even though he was not the focus of her ire.
“I have hardly forgotten, Falken. The magic of Sia is ancient, and it is alien to me—although in some ways it does not disturb me as does the magic of runes, and often I wonder why that might be. All the same, I’ve heard it said there are some in the Witches who no longer speak the name Sia, but that of my sister, Yrsaia the Huntress—who is, if it had slipped your mind in your heathen ways, one of the New Gods.”
Falken laughed. “Just because I haven’t discarded the Old Gods for every new mystery cult that comes along doesn’t mean I’m a heathen.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Melia ran small fingers over the spines of a shelf of books. “But sometimes it seems you have difficulty accepting anything that is new, Falken. Yet the world grows newer every day.”
The bard grunted, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “I will not argue the point with you. But there is one thing you must concede. Any power the Witches have comes not from Yrsaia, no matter what name they speak.”
Melia hesitated, then nodded. “It is true. My sister tells me that she has not heard any prayers from these Witches.”
“That’s because it’s a front. Sia makes people think of toothless hags casting curses, so they pick a fresh, pretty, and popular goddess as their mascot. But deep down they’re still the same old Witches. Some things don’t change, Melia.”
There was a silence, and at last Durge cleared his throat.