The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [108]
“Your Majesty, please!” Aryn gasped.
Ivalaine hesitated, then turned to look at her. The queen's eyes were feverish, and they darted about, not focusing on anything for more than a moment.
“Do not approach me again,” Ivalaine said, her voice flat and cold. Her hands twitched against her gown; her fingernails were dirty, worried down to the quick. “I have nothing to say to any of you. I come here for one and for one only.”
Aryn felt Lirith go stiff beside her. “But, sister, we ask only that—”
“Do not call me that ever again,” Ivalaine hissed. “I am no one's sister anymore. Nor am I Matron. Though perhaps, if it is not too late, if I have not ruined everything with my folly, I may still be a mother.”
With that the queen strode into the great hall. The doors shut with a boom like thunder, leaving the three women to stare in astonishment.
That night, Aryn hoped to get another chance to speak with Ivalaine at supper. However, the seat at the high table to King Boreas's left remained empty; there was no sign of the queen anywhere in the great hall. Or of Prince Teravian, not that his absence was a surprise. He rarely took the seat to Boreas's right these days, though it was always reserved for him.
The king sat in the center of the high table, glowering at no one in particular. Despite the many warriors who streamed into the rapidly growing camp below the castle, Boreas had been in a bleak mood ever since the day of Lady Grace's departure. And it wasn't just Grace's absence that troubled him, for it was later that same day that Beltan had disappeared, along with Vani. No doubt Boreas missed having his nephew for a commander.
“They've gone to find Runebreaker,” Mirda had said. “They're going to bring him back to Eldh.”
The gate artifact had gone missing with Vani and Beltan. Somehow they had found a way to activate it, and they had left without telling anyone, though where they had gone was not in question. Both loved Travis Wilder. Surely they had gone to him as Mirda said.
Aryn sighed, and such was her own bleak mood that she had little appetite. Lirith and Sareth had opted for a quiet supper alone, and Aryn wished she had followed suit. When the servants brought out the subtleties—usually her favorite dessert—she stared at them without relish. The sugary confections were molded into various shapes. Aryn had gotten a dragon.
Remembered words hissed again in her mind. And here are two daughters of Sia, both doomed to betray their sisters and their mistress. . . .
Did Ivalaine know of their betrayal of the Pattern? Was that why she had spurned them? Aryn smashed the dragon with a spoon, then excused herself from the table.
She walked the castle corridors for a time, then found herself before the door to Sareth's chamber.
You shouldn't bother them, Aryn.
However, even as she thought this, the door opened, and she found herself facing Lirith.
“What is it, sister?” the witch said. “Is something amiss?”
“No, nothing.” Aryn grimaced. “Except that Grace has ridden off to the Final Battle, Beltan and Vani have gone to bring Travis Runebreaker back to Eldh, and Queen Ivalaine won't even talk to us. Oh, and I'm going to be married to a prince who abhors me. Other than that, things are just fine.”
Sareth—who sat next to the fire—let out a bell-like laugh. “Well, you might as well come in and have a cup of maddok. It doesn't sound like you're going to be getting any sleep tonight.”
Aryn imagined not. She gazed around as she stepped into the room. “I'm not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”
“Only my departure for the evening,” Lirith said briskly. “But you know me—I can always be persuaded to take another cup of maddok.”
It turned out to be two cups, not one, and Aryn was glad of the company. Sareth relinquished the chair by the fire, and Aryn sat in it, sipping the hot, spicy liquid. The last things Aryn wished to speak about were current events, so instead Sareth told stories of ancient Amún and the fabled city of his ancestors, Morindu the Dark. Aryn tried to imagine what it would be like