The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [9]
The Embarran gave a stiff nod, then started to turn away.
“My lord,” Lirith said, halting him with a touch. “Thank you for accompanying us today.”
He nodded, then disengaged his arm and walked down the corridor, his sooty form melding with the gloom.
Inwardly, Aryn groaned. Why hadn’t she thought to thank Durge? After all, she was the one who had dragged him to see the Mournish against his advice. Now, if they got into trouble, it was likely the blame would fall on him. How could she be so cruel and forgetful?
But perhaps it was not so unusual after all.
You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you.…
It was true, there were those who had suffered for her sake, but Aryn had not forgotten them. She would never forget dear Garf, who had died trying to protect her from a mad bear. Or the brave and broken Sir Meridar, who had sacrificed himself to save Tira and Daynen, and to prove himself worthy in Aryn’s eyes. And certainly she would never forget Leothan.
A chill stole through her, as it always did when she thought of last Midwinter’s Eve, when the handsome nobleman she had fancied had drawn her into a side chamber and kissed her. For a moment it had seemed all her dreams had come true. Until he had forced himself against her, revealing himself as an ironheart. Then had come the fury, and along with it a power she had never known she had, flowing from her and turning Leothan’s brain to jelly. She had always believed evil was something that dwelled in the hearts of others; never until that moment had she known it resided within her own as well.
No, she would never forget that night—could never forget it. More likely the old Mournish woman was simply daft.
Then what of the card, Aryn? It was just the same as the vision you saw when Ivalaine bade you look into the water that day in Calavere. How could the old woman have known about that?
Before she could think of an answer, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Come sister,” Lirith said. “The queen is expecting us.”
As servants lit torches, filling the passages with warm light, the two women hastened through the castle.
High, bubbling laughter rang out.
Aryn and Lirith skidded to a halt as a gangly form clad in yellow and green sprang from an alcove, turned a flip in midair, and landed before them with a chiming of silver bells.
“Master Tharkis!” Aryn gasped.
The scrawny man flashed rotten teeth in a grin, spread his arms, and bowed so low his pointed chin touched the floor. “Two evening birds, one brown and one blue, fly to their lady’s nest.” He straightened, and a sly light crept into his permanently crossed blue eyes. “But will they flap or will they sing when they must take her test?”
Lirith recovered quickly, drawing herself erect. “Fool, we have no time for this. The queen awaits us.”
The man laughed, dancing a caper in place, the bells on his parti-colored cap bobbing.
“Awaits us, our fates us—
Berates us, for late’s us.”
Color touched Lirith’s dusky cheeks, and she opened her mouth for a reply. However, Aryn spoke first, affecting an exaggerated frown.
“Is that the best rhyme you can forge, Master Tharkis? I’m afraid it’s not much of a poem.”
The fool scuttled forward. His bony knees protruded from faded green hose, and his pointed shoes were scuffed and muddied. He tangled thin fingers, his wayward eyes bright. “And does my sweet spinstress, in so short a time, fancy she’d weave a cleverer rhyme?”
Aryn drew herself up. “I believe I could. In fact, I wager I can make a better poem out of your name than you can of mine.”
Lirith scowled at her, but Aryn ignored the look. Tharkis clapped his hands and grinned again.
“A game! A game!” He turned another flip in place. “How a fool loves a game. Pray, my lady, make a verse of my name.”
Aryn drew in a breath. Ar-tolor’s court fool had a tendency to interpose himself in one’s way at the most inopportune times, and playing his game seemed like the swiftest way past him. Only now she wasn’t so certain it had been a good idea. She frowned in concentration.