The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [78]
Grace frowned. Where could Vayla have gone?
Probably anywhere. There's no telling who Vayla really is. Or Grisla, or whatever she calls herself. But there's certainly more to her than meets the eye. You won't see her again until she wants you to.
“I ask again, are you well, sister?” the woman said in a motherly voice, taking a step closer.
Grace nodded. “I'm fine, really. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all. I'm sorry to have bothered you.” She started toward the door.
The woman smiled. “It's no bother. I arrived at the castle early this morning, and I've simply been waiting for people to wake up.”
Grace hesitated. “What people?”
The other's smile deepened. “Why, people like you, sister.”
Grace took a step back into the room. For some reason the woman reminded her of Vayla, though the other was certainly no hag. Instead, she was beautiful and mature, a woman in the prime of life.
“Excuse me,” Grace said, “but have we met before?”
The other nodded. “In spirit, yes, if not in person.”
Grace stared, then it hit her. On the white ship, when she had struggled against the runelord Kelephon, Aryn had reached across countless leagues to help her weave a spell. But there had been another presence along with Aryn's, one that was deep, calm, and wise. It was . . .
“You!” Grace said with a gasp. “Aryn and Lirith told me all about you. Your name is Sister Mirda, and you're the witch who helped change the weaving of the Pattern at Ar-tolor. And you were the one who convinced Aryn to join the—” Grace dropped her voice to a whisper. “—to join the shadow coven.”
Mirda nodded, her expression knowing. “I see Sister Aryn has told you much.”
“No, don't worry,” Grace said, moving forward. “You see, we've joined the shadow coven, too. Lirith and I.”
Mirda pressed a hand to her chest. “I know not whether to be glad for myself, sister, or afraid for you. It is no simple thing to join a coven such as ours. The shadow covens were forbidden over a century ago, and if we are ever discovered, we shall all be cut off from the Weirding forever.”
“Aryn told us the risks,” Grace said, trying to sound confident. “But we've joined, and what's done is done.”
Mirda's smile returned, then in an action that surprised Grace, the elder witch glided forward and caught her in an embrace. Despite her shock, Grace found herself smiling as well.
“We are lucky,” Mirda said, stepping back, “to be joined by three witches such as you and your sisters. Each of you is so talented in your own way.”
Grace stiffened and tried to pull away, but Mirda held her hands tight.
“No, sister, you must not deny your gifts, not now when they are most needed. You are a great healer, and you have skill such as I have never seen before. You weave the Weirding in new and wondrous ways.”
At least Grace freed her hands. “I'm nothing compared to Lirith and Aryn.”
“I would hardly say that. But it is true that Sister Lirith is strong in the Sight, and Sister Aryn's power is deep—deeper than any other's, I think. With you three, perhaps there is hope for our impossible task after all.”
Hope. Grace touched the pocket where she had slipped the rune.
“Where have you been, Mirda?” Grace asked. “Aryn said you left just before we arrived in Calavere.”
Mirda turned toward one of the windows. “I'm afraid an urgent task called me away. But it is done, and I've returned, and I'll not be leaving again.” She turned back. “Unlike yourself, sister.”
Grace sank into one of the chairs. “I have to go north, to Gravenfist Keep. I'm supposed to stop the Pale King from riding forth when the Rune Gate opens. But I don't know how I'm possibly going to do that. All I have is an old sword and five hundred men. And this.” She drew out the rune.
Mirda studied the rune but did not touch it. “It seems you have much to me. Remember that you do not need to defeat the Pale King. Your part in this shadow coven is to hold him back until the Runebreaker can fulfill his destiny.”
A shiver coursed through Grace.