The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [109]
At last the hour grew late. The women bid Sareth farewell, then walked together back to their own chambers. However, Aryn found it odd that Lirith didn't stay behind.
Her thoughts must have been louder than she intended.
“There is no reason for me to stay with him,” Lirith said softly.
Aryn glanced at her, shocked. “I don't understand. Don't you love him as he loves you?”
“I do, but . . .” Lirith hesitated, then took Aryn's hand in her own. There is no hope for us, sister. I cannot give him a child as a woman should. And ever since the demon took his leg, he cannot do what a man would do with a woman in his bed.
Anguish squeezed Aryn's heart. But is there no spell that can help you?
I have tried with all my skill, but if there is a magic that can help either of us, it is beyond me.
It doesn't matter, Lirith. You love each other, and surely love is more than lying down together, or making children between you. It has to be.
Lirith pulled her hand from Aryn's and let out a bitter laugh. “Love doesn't matter to his people. Their laws forbid him to wed outside his clan. One day he will return to them. And on that day he will leave me. Good night, sister.”
Lirith stepped into her chamber and shut the door. There was nothing for Aryn to do but continue to her own room.
She chided herself as she walked. You are small and selfish, Aryn of Elsandry. Your problems are nothing to what Lirith and Sareth are suffering. So what if you are to marry Prince Teravian? He's sullen, yes, but you could do far worse. Besides, it's not as if there's another whom you love.
Except for some reason that last thought left her feeling strange and weak, and her hand shook as she fumbled with the latch on her door. It was the maddok, of course. She shouldn't have drunk so much; she would never be able to fall asleep.
Her room was dark—the fire had burned low—but a sliver of moonlight fell through a crack in the curtains. She stumbled her way to the window and pulled back the curtains to let more of the silvery light into the room.
Aryn froze. Below, a slim figure clad all in black stalked across the courtyard of the upper bailey. The figure stepped into a pool of shadow and vanished, but Aryn had seen enough to know who it was.
“Where are you going, Teravian?” she whispered. There was no way to find out without following him, but by the time Aryn got all the way down to the bailey, he would be long gone.
Maybe there's a swifter way, sister.
Aryn didn't give herself a moment to think about it, afraid she would change her mind. She moved to the sideboard and picked up the glove Teravian had dropped earlier that day, then she sat in a chair.
This was foolish and dangerous. Once, when performing a spell like this, Grace had nearly lost her spirit forever. If Ivalaine had not intervened, Grace would have died. Aryn knew she should go fetch Lirith.
No, there isn't time. They always keep saying how strong your talent is, Aryn. Well, now's the time to prove it. If they're right, you can do this.
She gripped the glove with both hands, then she reached out with the Touch, spinning a thread along the Weirding and weaving it around the glove.
An instant later she was flying. Aryn glanced over her shoulder and saw herself through the window of her chamber, sitting in a pool of moonlight, eyes open and staring. A silver strand stretched back to her body. She knew if the thread was severed, she would die. Forcing away the thought, she faced forward and let the magic draw her on.
The spell led her down into the upper bailey. She passed through the shadow of the keep, then feathery shapes rose before her, frosted by the light of the moon. Aryn felt a tug as the spell pulled her through a wrought-iron archway and into the castle's garden.
A dizziness came over her as she flew along twisting paths, and she was terribly cold. Was she dying? She glanced back, but the thread still stretched behind her. The spell led her onward, deeper into the garden.
“I knew