The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [48]
It was Lirith. Aryn gathered her will and tried to answer. Last night, before the coven, she had finally discovered how to speak across the Weirding at will. Like so many things, it was easier than she had thought. It was as if the ability had been there all along, only concealed. Just like her arm. However, there was so much yet to learn, and she was still clumsy at the skill. She could not glimpse Lirith’s thread; it was too far away.
I’m coming! she called, even though she knew Lirith could not hear her. Aryn dashed from the room. What could have caused terror to sharpen Lirith’s usually calm voice? Perhaps Melia had fallen ill again; Lirith had mentioned that the lady had been acting in a peculiar manner of late.
Aryn was nearly to Melia and Falken’s room when a spindly form sprang from an alcove, landing before her in a twisted knot. She let out a muffled cry. The thing untangled long, bony limbs, stretching upward into the shape of a man. Bells chimed like the sound of laughter.
“Master Tharkis,” Aryn breathed, only half-relieved. This was not a distraction she needed. “What do you want?”
“What?” the fool said. “Have you forgotten, sweet. We yet have our contest of poems to complete.”
She lifted her left hand to her chest. “What do you mean?”
He prowled toward her on pointed boots; dust and cobwebs clung to his motley. Where had he been lurking to get so filthy? “A rhyme you spoke, for my name. Now for your own I’ll do the same.”
There was something odd about his voice. It was quieter than usual, more sibilant. A sly light glinted in his crossed eyes. Aryn could only watch as he spread his arms and spoke in a low, singsong voice:
“Sweet Lady Aryn
Must marry a baron,
But none shall take her as wife.
Blessed with one arm,
And power to harm—
The price of her love is a life.
“Her beautiful sisters
All have dismissed her,
But one day they’ll sorrow the deed.
With a sword in her hand,
She’ll ride ’cross the land—
And trample them all ’neath her steed.”
Aryn’s blood turned to ice. Had the fool seen what she had done to Belira and the others? But the last part of his rhyme was even more troubling; it reminded her of the card she had drawn from the old Mournish woman’s deck. But there was no way the fool could possibly have known about that … was there?
Tharkis grinned, displaying pointed, yellow teeth. “I can see I have won by the look in your eyes. And now, my sweet, you must grant me a prize.”
The fool sidled close to her, and a sour scent filled her nostrils. His grin spread, stretching his face into a grotesque mask of lumps and furrows. Bells jangled, then were muffled by blue cloth as he pressed himself against her.
Anger rose inside Aryn: pure, white, and hot.
“Get away from me, dog,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own. As if of its own volition, her right arm rose from the sling.
Tharkis sprang back. The fool’s grin was gone, and his expression was one of terror. His eyes were no longer crossed and seemed to gaze right through her.
“Don’t speak like that, sweet,” he said, his words hoarse and trembling. “All hard and cold your voice is. It sounds like hers, it does. And your eyes, so sharp. They pierce me just like hers do.”
Aryn forgot her anger. Tharkis cowered now, hugging himself, and made small whimpering sounds.
“Whom do you speak of?” she said.
“The shadow in the trees!” All traces of rhyme had vanished from his voice. “The one with many eyes. She sees everything. I cannot hide … even when I sleep she finds me. But she is not the only one who sees.” Laughter fell from his mouth like pieces of broken glass. “I have seen things as well.”
Aryn hesitated, then reached out her left hand. “It’s all right, Master Tharkis. It’s just—”
She halted as his wild eyes locked on hers. “She will come for you, too. You cannot escape. She spins a web for the spinners … and in it she will catch them all.”
A shiver crept up Aryn’s back. “Who are you talking about? Who is she trying to catch?”
“She will …