The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [36]
A moan escaped her lips, and Lirith began to sway back and forth. The seething of the knot quickened, as if excited by her movements. A gray thread spun out, reaching for her.
“My lady?”
The far corner of the hall was empty; the tangle was gone. Before Lirith stood a serving maid—barely more than a girl—a fearful look on her dirt-smudged face.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you ill? Should I send for the queen’s men?”
Lirith found her voice. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The serving maid ducked her head, then scurried from the hall.
Lirith glanced once more at the corner, but she knew that even if she used the Touch she would not see it again.
But it’s still there, I can feel it. And it’s growing.
Yet what did it mean?
A thought struck her. There was one who might know—one who was older and wiser than any witch in this castle. Lirith picked up the hem of her gown and ran from the hall.
13.
Melia was not in her chamber.
“I’m sorry, Lirith,” Falken said, looking up from his lute. “I’m afraid she was in one of her moods today. When she left, I didn’t ask where she was going.”
Melia couldn’t have gone far in an hour; at least so Lirith assumed. However, Melia had powers she couldn’t hope to understand. And that was precisely why Lirith needed to find her.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said breathlessly.
Falken opened his mouth to reply, but before the bard could speak Lirith turned and dashed back down the passageway.
In no particular order, she tried the great hall, the baths, the library—even the privy—all with no luck. After that, she ventured outside. However, there was no sign of Lady Melia in the bailey, the orchard, or the stables. At last Lirith was forced to halt, leaning against a stone wall near Ar-tolor’s north tower. She had run out of both castle and breath, all with no sign of the amber-eyed lady. She would simply have to talk to Melia later.
And how much larger will it grow in the meantime?
She considered going to Ivalaine, to tell her what she had seen, but something held her back. Certainly if any other witches had glimpsed the tangle, Lirith would have heard whispers. That meant she was likely the only one who had seen it. In which case Ivalaine might simply declare her mad or ill and remove her from the coven. That Lirith could not allow.
It would just have to wait until she saw Melia again. Then, if the lady could not help her, Lirith would go to Ivalaine. Drawing a breath into her lungs, Lirith started back toward the main keep of the castle. But as she heard the faint sound of singing, she realized there was one place she had not looked.
The shrine was small and shadowed; it was little more than a wooden shack, really, leaning against the outside wall of the castle. But then, the mysteries of Mandu the Everdying had never been terribly popular in the Dominions, and certainly not in Toloria. Most of the mystery cults offered its followers salvation and the promise of joy after death. However, the cult of the Everdying God promised nothing to those who followed its mysteries—no final peace nor golden land of promise. Instead it offered only the story of its godhead: Mandu, who was born, who grew, and who was slain by treachery again and again, as inexorably as day was stolen by night.
But while the cult of Mandu might not have been popular in Toloria, Lirith knew that would not matter to her. They were her brothers and sisters, were they not? Lirith stepped forward, into the shadow of the little shrine.
Inside, Melia was dancing.
Lirith froze. The singing was clearer now; it was Melia whom she had heard outside. The lady’s voice was rich and bright as burnished copper, rising and falling in a wordless melody that reminded Lirith, in a way, of the undulating music of the Mournish.
As she sang, Melia moved in a slow circle, holding her arms in elegant curves. Her head was tilted back so that her onyx hair spilled down the back of her white kirtle, and her eyes were closed in rapture. On the stone altar stood