The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [47]
“Sister Mirda,” Aryn whispered.
Lirith nodded, and she knew why the woman’s serene voice sounded so familiar.
“It was you,” she murmured. “You were the one who reminded us that the Witches must do no harm. And it was your thread that changed the Pattern.”
The hint of a smile touched Mirda’s lips. “May Sia guide you both on your journey,” she said. Then she turned and moved through the garden, green robe fluttering, and was gone.
Aryn frowned, her expression puzzled. “What was that supposed to mean? What journey was she talking about?”
Lirith thought of the young prince Teravian and the look of sorrow on his face.
You’ll be going soon.…
“Come on,” she said, taking Aryn’s arm. “I think I need a strong cup of maddok.”
16.
“Do you require anything else, my lady?”
Aryn did not turn from the polished silver mirror as she adjusted her gown.
“No, Elthre. Thank you.”
In the mirror’s reflection she saw the serving maid curtsy, then slip from the room. Aryn smiled—Elthre was a sweet girl, if timid—then concentrated, using practiced motions of her left hand to fasten the buckles and tie the straps of the gown. It was just after dawn, but she had awakened over an hour ago, her body still light and tingling with the magic of the Pattern. She had talked to Lirith until well after midnight, but since waking Aryn had thought of a hundred other questions she wanted to ask the dark-eyed witch.
In her mind, Aryn saw again the weaving of the Pattern, and how the last remaining threads—hers and Lirith’s among them—bonded with the strand that spoke in calm, immutable words. There was no doubt that the strand had been Sister Mirda’s. But who was this wise, serene witch? And where had she come from? No one Aryn asked seemed to know, nor did Lirith. Yet it was Mirda who had prevented all the witches from flocking to Liendra’s thread.
Except most did, Aryn. Even Ivalaine joined with the heart of the Pattern in the end.
But certainly Ivalaine had had no choice, not if she wished to remain Matron. And this way, perhaps Ivalaine could have some influence over Liendra’s faction. At least that was what Aryn hoped. However, she had seen neither Tressa nor the queen since the coven.
Nor had she seen Senrael. It was wrong how the old ones had been dismissed. Their voices were rough, but they carried such wisdom. Beauty had little to do with true power. But the crones had been shunted to the fringes of the Pattern, and if Mirda had not spoken the Witches might have vowed to do anything—even shed blood—to destroy Runebreaker. As it was, Aryn was glad Travis Wilder was a world away. And while she would liked to have seen him, she hoped he would never leave his home again. For his sake. And perhaps for Eldh’s.
Aryn decided to forgo breakfast and head right for Lirith’s chamber. She could only hope Lirith was awake. But at that moment, Aryn couldn’t imagine sleeping.
Besides there’s always maddok. If you bring a pot to her room, Lirith won’t be able to resist getting out of bed to drink it. She’s a bee to honey for the stuff.
She finished adjusting her gown, then started to draw an extra fold of cloth over her right arm. It was a completely instinctual motion, one she had made every day for as long as she could remember.
All at once, she hesitated. Slowly, Aryn pushed the fold of cloth back over her shoulder, leaving her right arm exposed in its linen sling.
She stared at her reflection. In her mind she had never pictured herself with her withered arm; always she imagined it concealed. But now that she gazed at the pale, twisted shape, she could not envision it any other way. It was strange, yes, but it was her.
A warmth filled her, almost like giddiness. Always before she had dreaded people seeing her arm, but now she almost looked forward to it. Let them stare, let them mock her as Belira had. It would only make her stronger. Smiling, she adjusted her arm in its sling, then moved to the door.
Sister, can you hear me?
The voice sounded faintly but clearly in Aryn’s mind.
Aryn, if you can hear me, you must come at once