The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [267]
Grace didn't know what Kel was talking about. Or did she? She held a hand out toward the hag. “Vayla?”
Grisla was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “It's time for me to go,” she said softly. “I suppose there's no harm in it now.” She hobbled toward Grace, and as she did she changed. In the place of Grisla stood another old woman, still gnarled and withered, but she wore a brown robe rather than motley rags.
“Greetings, my queen,” Vayla said, bowing. She turned toward Aryn. “And to you as well, child.”
As she spoke these last words, Vayla was gone, and in her place was a striking woman of middle years clad in a rainbow-hued gown, her jet hair marked by a single streak of white, her almond-shaped eyes accented by fine, wise lines.
Aryn's eyes went wide. “Sister Mirda!”
“Yes, sister,” the beautiful witch said. “It is I.”
“But how?” Aryn gasped.
Mirda smiled. “Does she not have many faces to wear? Crones. Mothers. And Maidens.”
With this last word, her form shimmered again, and in her place was a radiant young woman Grace had never seen before. Her hair was like flax, her lips as red as berries.
Falken staggered, clutching his silver hand to his chest. “You!” the bard said, his voice hoarse. “For so many centuries I've searched for you.”
She laughed, a sound like water over stones. “And you found me, only you didn't know it. Yet I would always know you, Falken of Malachor.” She reached out, taking his silver hand. “Tell me, has it suited you?”
He gazed at her, amazement on his weathered face. “It has. Thank you. It's served me better than my own hand did.”
“I am glad,” the young witch said. “For I know what it is like to lose a hand.”
Now the flaxen-haired woman was gone, and in her place stood a tall man, his face stern and imposing, but softened by kindness and wisdom. His left hand was missing at the wrist. He held up his right hand, and a silvery symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines.
“The rune of runes,” Travis murmured. “So that's who you are. You're Olrig Lorethief. You're an Old God.”
“More than that,” Master Larad said, limping closer. “You're the one who made this world. You're the Worldsmith.”
“I was the Worldsmith,” the one-handed man said. He turned his ancient gaze on Travis. “You are the Worldsmith now, Runebreaker.”
Travis shook his head. “I chose the world that was. This is still the world as you made it.”
The man's eyes were thoughtful. “So it is,” he said. “So it is.”
Master Larad held out his right hand. The rune of runes shone faintly on his palm. “The rune of sky has been broken. I don't need this anymore, and somehow it seems I'm not going to die after all. You must take it back.”
The bearded man shook his head. “I cannot. Once a thing is made, it cannot be unmade without breaking it.”
Larad lowered his hand. “Like Sky, you mean. You made him, didn't you? He was your servant.”
“I gave him the form you knew, that he might do my work upon the world, yet I did not make him or any of the other runes. I spoke them at the beginning of the world—this world—and I bound them so they would not fade. But the runes were first wrought by an even older Worldsmith than I.”
Larad closed his right hand into a fist and lowered it by his side.
Aryn hesitated, then stepped forward. “You're not just the Worldsmith, are you? You're Sia as well.”
The man smiled, and in his place stood a woman, though what she was—maiden, mother, or withered crone—it was impossible to say. The features of a thousand different women flickered across her face. “Sia and the Worldsmith are just two names for the same thing, daughter. Why people insist on believing otherwise, I cannot say.”
Aryn smiled, and Grace did as well. She wished Master Graedin was present. What would he think to learn that his mad idea, that the runespeakers and the witches were not so very different, was in fact the truth? Olrig. Sia. They were one. Magic was magic—it all sprang from the same source.
It was almost full dark now. Grace couldn't stop shivering. They could talk more tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun rose