The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [129]
The women hurried to the window. Aryn heard Lirith's gasp, then she saw the banner that flew above the small host that rode toward the castle, and dread surged through her.
“She's here,” Teravian murmured behind them.
He lay in his bed. There was no way he could have seen out the window, no way he could have glimpsed the yellow-and-green banner that flew above the riders.
It's the banner of Toloria, Aryn. But who rides beneath it? The queen is already here.
For a hopeful moment she believed it was Lady Tressa, the queen's loyal advisor, come to minister to Ivalaine, to soothe her madness. Then Lirith clutched Aryn's arm.
“Liendra,” she whispered. “It's Sister Liendra.”
Sareth gazed at her. “What does that mean, beshala?”
“It means we're in grave danger,” Aryn said.
Minutes later, Aryn stood with Lirith in the keep's entry hall. Sareth had remained in Teravian's chamber to keep watch over the prince. It was cold in the cavernous hall, and Aryn couldn't stop shivering.
What has she come here for? Aryn spun the words over the Weirding.
Lirith shook her head. You know as well as I. But I can only believe her arrival bodes ill for all of us. I can only wonder why the king granted her entry to the castle.
Aryn wondered the same. There had been no opportunity to speak to Boreas, but she had encountered Lord Farvel.
“The king has nothing to fear from a band of hags and hedgewives,” the old seneschal said. “There are but twoscore of them. What harm can they cause?”
Plenty, Aryn knew. She and Lirith had both counted the riders. Their number was not twoscore, but one less than that. Thirty-nine. Thrice thirteen. Liendra had brought three covens with her. But for what purpose?
A pair of guards opened the doors of the keep, and a gust of frigid air blew in, along with three figures clad in green cloaks. They pushed back their hoods. Two of them were young and pretty, their hair carefully braided, their eyes bright and haughty. The third was a decade older, a woman in full bloom. Her hair was fiery gold, and she would have been beautiful were it not for the look of cunning on her face.
The guards directed the women to walk past the artifact of Malachor, and they did so slowly, with great elegance. Once they were finished, they approached Aryn and Lirith.
“Greetings, sisters,” Liendra said, bowing her golden head. “I had hoped I would find you here.”
“May Sia bless you,” Lirith said in answer.
Liendra gave a flick of her hand. “It is not Sia's blessing we seek any longer.”
“And whose blessing do you seek?” Aryn said despite her fear, but Liendra only smiled.
Lirith took a step forward. “Why have you come, sister?”
“Surely you must know,” Liendra crooned. “Dark times come to the Dominions, and I must speak with the one who would plunge these lands into war. For is it not the way of all witches to seek an end to violence?”
“Forgive me, sister,” Aryn said, choosing her words with great care. “Is that not Queen Ivalaine's duty as Matron of the Witches?”
The two younger witches pressed their hands to their mouths but failed to stifle their cruel laughter.
A smile touched Liendra's coral pink lips. “Ivalaine is no longer Matron. She rescinded that role of her own free will. I am Matron of the Witches now, and these are my Maidens.”
Lirith affected a puzzled look. “Your Maidens? Help me, sister, for I am confused. What need have you of two Maidens? And where is your Crone, so that your circle can be completed?”
“We don't need a Crone,” one of the younger witches said, her voice as prideful as her gaze. “We don't need any horrible old hags to work against the Warriors.”
Liendra made a hissing sound to silence the young woman. Lirith let out a soft laugh. “Youth offers power and beauty, but it is age that brings wisdom, as your Maiden here has so kindly demonstrated for us.”
Both young woman cast pretty glares at Lirith.
“You speak of Ivalaine,” Liendra said, her words sharp. “Where is she?”
“Surely you must know, sister,” Lirith said, casting the golden-haired witch's own mocking