42.
More than once, Grace thought they had lost their mysterious rescuer in the maze of alleys they traversed. Sindar moved swiftly, and often Grace caught only a flash of silver before he vanished around a corner or through an opening, leaving her and Beltan to run after or become hopelessly lost.
And they did not want to get lost. Omberfell had seemed cleaner and more orderly than any city she had seen in the Dominions, but now Grace knew that had only been on the surface. All the grime, all the poverty, all the suffering, had simply been swept out of sight—into this tangled web of back alleys where she and Beltan often couldn’t walk side by side.
Rats scuttled over their feet, racing between heaps of rotting garbage. Sewage formed rank puddles through which they splashed. Eyes peered out of windows that had never opened on sunlight or a blue sky, and dirty hands reached from doorways, plucking at Grace’s cloak as voices moaned for alms and mercy. Beltan batted the hands away and pulled Grace onward. Only after a while did she realize that many of the heaps she had taken for garbage were people. She couldn’t tell whether they were alive or dead. The rats didn’t seem to care.
At last they passed through an archway and found themselves on a clean, wide street not far from the Sign of the Silver Grail. There was no trace of Sindar.
“Come on,” Beltan said, tugging at Grace’s arm. “We need to get inside before we’re seen.”
As they approached the inn, Grace expected to see a line of figures in black robes pointing at her with accusing fingers. Instead, the street was empty. They looked both ways, then stole inside the inn and hurried up to their rooms.
Falken and Vani were already there.
“What happened?” Falken said, eyeing their clothes. “You look like you you’ve been rolling in a pigsty. And where’s the food you were going to buy? Not that it matters. Our mysterious friend was right—the docks have been shut down. No ship can enter or leave the port, by order of the duke.”
“Just as I told you.”
They looked up to see Sindar shutting the door behind him; Grace hadn’t heard it open. Nor, by the angry look on her face, had Vani. She started moving toward the slender man.
Grace held out a hand. “Vani, no—he just saved our lives.” Falken cast Grace a curious glance. She drew in a deep breath, then explained what had happened. When she finished, Vani moved to the window, gazing outside.
Sorrow shone in Falken’s faded blue eyes. “It seems things are darker than I feared. A year ago, the Raven Cult operated in secret. The Pale King must grow bold to let his cult work so openly now. No wonder the men we spoke to on the docks were so fearful when I even mentioned the idea of booking passage on a ship. I suppose just talking about breaking the duke’s order could get them executed.”
Grace took a step toward Sindar. “Where were you?”
“My question exactly,” Beltan growled. “You were certainly in a hurry back in those alleys. I almost think you were trying to lose us.”
Sindar laughed. “I promise, you of all people would have found me.” He turned toward Grace. “As for where I was just now, I was making certain you weren’t followed.”
Vani turned from the window. “Were they?”
“No, but you can’t stay here long. The duke won’t allow troublemakers to go uncaptured in his city. There will be a search.”
“They’ll know what we look like,” Beltan said, pacing.
“Lots of people saw our faces. It won’t take long before the duke’s men knock on the door of the inn. And they’ll be watching the city gate as well.”
Grace held a hand to her throbbing head. “If we can’t leave by the gate, and no ship captain will disobey the duke’s orders, how do we get out of the city?”
They all looked at Sindar. The handsome man spread his hands and smiled. “My offer still stands.”
“I don’t like it,” Beltan said, as if Sindar weren’t even there. “We don’t know anything about him. And it seems awfully convenient that he just happened to overhear our conversation, and that he just happens to have a way around the blockade. I’m sure of it when I say he’s lying about something.”
“I agree,” Vani said, glaring at Sindar.
Falken moved close to Grace. “What do you think?”
Now everyone was looking at her, and she hated the attention. “I don’t think we have any choice. Even if he’s lying to us, I’d rather deal with a swindler than the Raven Cult. And he did help Beltan and me escape that mob.” She gave Sindar a weak smile. “I suppose we’ll just have to trust you.”
In minutes they had gathered their things and were ready. Vani reported that the street outside the inn was still clear.
Falken swung his lute case over his shoulder. “It would be good if we could leave without Farrand or any of his workers seeing us.”
Grace nodded. “I can arrange that.”
Sindar opened the door and gestured to Grace. “After you, Your Majesty.”
A jolt of shock coursed through her. “How do you know about that?” She studied Sindar’s face, once again struck by the queer feeling of familiarity. “How long have you been following us really?”
“We must go,” Sindar said, and moved through the door.
It was shockingly easy to escape the inn without being seen. Grace wove the threads of the Weirding like a cloak around the five of them, concealing them from any eyes that might look their way. They walked down the stairs, into the common room, and through the front door. Neither Farrand nor any of his servants so much as glanced up from their work.
They left the inn on foot—they would have no need of the horses—and Grace maintained the illusion as they made their way through the city. At one point fear stabbed at her chest when they rounded a corner and saw a trio of men in black robes moving toward them. They froze, but the robed ones simply walked by them swiftly. Grace forced herself to concentrate, keeping her grip on the spell.
They reached the docks. There were many men about—no doubt from the crews of the dozens of ships locked in port— but they seemed to be doing little besides playing at cards or dice. Here and there, guards kept watch on the proceedings with hard eyes. Sindar moved to a narrow space behind a stack of wooden crates, and the rest of them followed.
Once they were all behind the crates, Grace released her grip on the Weirding. Never had she held on to a spell for so long. Although, now that she had released it, she didn’t feel exhausted. Rather she felt alive, even exhilarated.
Vani peered around the edge of a crate. “I wonder why the duke has ordered the port closed. Could it be they spotted the ship of the Onyx Knights? We know now that the knights are the enemies of the Pale King.”
“I believe you’re right in that,” Sindar said.
Falken raised an eyebrow. “You know about the Onyx Knights?”
“Every ship’s captain who sails these waters knows about those pirates. If you don’t pay them a third of the value of your cargo in gold, they broadside your ship and send you to sleep at the bottom of the ocean.”
Beltan ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I suppose it all makes sense. The Onyx Knights think they’re going to restore Malachor, so naturally they consider the Pale King their enemy. But the Raven Cult is in charge of Omberfell, and the cult serves the Pale King. Even the hundred knights on that ship wouldn’t be enough to take over a hostile city this size. They’d need at least double that number.”
“It might be even more than that,” Sindar said. “From what I’ve heard, the Onyx Knights despise the Cult of the Raven. I’ve seen that firsthand. Only they’ve gone out of their way to avoid conflict with them. It’s almost as if the knights are using the cult for their own purposes.”
Falken nodded. “I see it now. The knights are letting the Raven Cult sow chaos and strife in Embarr, weakening it, making it ready for invasion. And to get rid of any witches, runespeakers, or anyone else who might be able to stand against them. Then the knights will stamp out the cult once they take over the Dominion. That’s what they did in Eredane, and in Brelegond, too, I suppose.”
“You can speak more of this later,” Sindar said, glancing at the overcast sky. “The sun will be setting soon. We must be on my ship by then.”
Vani gazed out over the docks. “Which of these ships is yours?”
“None of them,” Sindar said with a laugh. He moved from the crates to the mouth of a large storm drain. It was covered with an iron grille, bolted in place. The grille looked new.
“That was not there when I last came in this way,” Sindar said, pointing at the grille. He glanced at Beltan and Vani. “Could you do the honors?”
The knight and the
T’gol
gripped the iron grille. Beltan clenched his teeth, and Vani shut her eyes. To Grace, it seemed the grille warped and rippled under Vani’s hands. With a grunt, Beltan pulled it free of its moorings.
“This way,” Sindar said, leading the way into the storm drain.
They followed after, hunching over, as the drain was no more than five feet high. Beltan came last, pulling the grille into place behind them.
The tunnel was dank and slippery and sloped gently downward. They moved for what seemed to Grace like hours, although she supposed it was only minutes. The tiled walls pressed close, making it hard to breathe. However, she supposed that was good, as otherwise she would have screamed.
After a hundred yards it should have been pitch-dark in the tunnel, but for some reason there was just enough light to make out the forms of the others before and behind her. At last, just when Grace was ready to turn and scrabble her way back out of the tunnel, she saw a gray circle ahead. They quickened their pace, and she breathed in relief as they reached the end. The five gathered on a small lip of stone. The roar of the sea thrummed on the air, and salty spray splashed against Grace’s face, moistening her cheeks like tears.
“Now what?” Beltan said, glaring at Sindar.
Grace blinked the water from her eyelashes, then understood. The tunnel ended in a cliff. To either side of them were vertical walls of rough stone. Water spilled from the tunnel, over the ledge, and into cold waves that lapped ten feet below.
“Our transport already comes for us,” Sindar said.
He pointed, and at first Grace was confused. It looked like a gigantic bird floating on the ocean, its neck curving down over its breast, its white wings tucked against its side. Only after a moment did she realize it was a ship.
Falken swore a soft oath.
“I have never seen a vessel like that before,” Vani said.
Sindar smiled. “No, you haven’t.”
The ship was coming toward them. It was not so large as the
Fate Runner
, but it was infinitely more graceful. The ship was not painted white; rather, its color came from the pale silver wood of which it was built. The vessel came closer.
“The sea is too rough,” Beltan said. “It’s going to be dashed against the cliffs.”
Only it wasn’t. The ship sailed smoothly, as if it didn’t feel the force of the waves. It drifted close to the cliff, until it was no more than a dozen feet away, then halted. Only then did Grace realize that there were neither masts nor sails nor oars. How was the ship propelled?
In the failing light, she saw figures scurrying on the deck of the ship. Some were small and twisted, and others tall and slender as willow saplings. It seemed some bore antlers upon their brows, and others flowers in their hair. Grace shivered. She had seen forms like these once before. It was the previous Midwinter’s Eve, when Trifkin Mossberry’s troupe of actors had performed their play in the great hall of Calavere.
A plank extended from the ship, reaching to the stone ledge. Grace felt strangely light, her nerves tingling. She looked at Sindar. His eyes glittered in the ghostly light.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you really?”
“I think...I think that I’m a friend.”
Sindar stepped onto the plank and moved lightly to the ship. Grace glanced at the others, searching their faces, but there was nothing for them to do but follow. One by one, they stepped over to the deck. The queer figures hurried into action, the plank was pulled back. And the graceful ship moved away from the cliff, into the open sea and the coming night.
43.
The doors of Calavere’s great hall shut with a thunderous
boom
. Aryn felt as if she had just been struck by lightning. She had finally learned the name of the man who was to be her husband, and it was none other than King Boreas’s son, Prince Teravian.
She was alone with the king. The servants had withdrawn, leading Queen Ivalaine and Sister Mirda to their chambers. Aryn wished they had remained; she had so many questions for the two witches.
Later, sister,
Mirda’s gentle voice had sounded over the threads of the Weirding as the women left the hall.
Come to our
chamber when the moon has risen and her light shines over the
castle wall. We shall speak then.
Aryn’s heart beat against her rib cage like a frightened bird. She was painfully aware of the king’s gaze. There was no way she could disobey his order; she had to marry as the king commanded. But Teravian? Couldn’t it have been anyone else? Even ancient Duke Calentry didn’t sound so horrible now.
“Tell me, my lady,” the king growled before she could gather her wits. He descended the steps of the dais, moving with the murderous grace of an animal stalking its prey. “What do you think of my choice of husband?”
Aryn knew his words were a challenge; Boreas was daring her to defy him. That was not a trap she would fall for. “I think, Your Majesty,” she said, forcing her chin up, commanding her eyes to meet his, “that once I marry the prince, you will be my father not only in my heart, but in fact as well, and this glad-dens me beyond all my abilities to express.”
The words rang with the power of truth. Because they
were
true. Whatever she thought of Prince Teravian’s character—or the lack thereof—and no matter how she feared the king, she loved Boreas as the only father she had ever known.
Boreas blinked as if she had slapped him, then a broad grin crossed his face. If this were a battle, and she a general, the tactical victory would be hers—even if there was no hope she could win the war against such a vastly stronger force.
The king lifted a hand to her cheek, and when he spoke his usually booming voice was gruff. “Do not think I’m unaware of my son’s failings, my lady. If I had forgotten them in his absence, then they were made painfully clear to me once more the moment he set foot in this hall. Yet it is not such a bad lot to marry a prince, even one so peevish. And it is my hope, with a companion of strength and temperance by his side, that he might one day even learn to be a man and a king.”
Aryn could find no words with which to reply.
“You’ll need to speak with Lord Farvel soon. You must tell him how you wish your wedding to be. Now go.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Daughter.”
He withdrew, and she curtsied low, bowing her head so that he would not see the tears she knew were welling forth in her eyes; generals did not cry. Without words, Aryn turned and hurried from the great hall.
She wandered through the castle, as there was nothing else for her to do. Mirda had told her to come at moonrise, but that was hours away. And resigned as she was to her noble duty, she was far from ready to talk to Lord Farvel about wedding plans.
You should consider yourself lucky, Aryn of Elsandry,
she chided herself as she sat on a window bench. Beyond the rippled glass, the land marched away in rows of gray-green downs.
You were afraid the king would marry you off to someone thrice your age and with a face like a turnip. Well, Teravian
certainly isn’t old. He’s your younger by two winters, and he’s
actually rather handsome. When he isn’t scowling.
She sighed.
All right, so he’s always scowling. But maybe
Boreas is right—maybe there’s hope he can change.
“What’s wrong, my lady?” said a bright tenor voice. “Did you get a bad bit of cheese in your breakfast?”
Aryn turned from the window and looked up. Sir Tarus stood above her. The knight wore leather riding garb. Mud spattered his boots, and rain darkened his red hair.
She shook her head. “Cheese?”
“Or maybe a rotten nut? You were sighing and holding your stomach. I though perhaps you had eaten something that didn’t sit well with you.”
She sighed again. “It’s not something I ate.”
The knight raised an eyebrow.
Aryn supposed there was no point in keeping it from him. “The king just told me who my husband is to be.”
Tarus let out a low whistle. “And you’re not happy about him, I take it?”
“I suspect it’s rather the other way around.”
Tarus said nothing. Aryn supposed it was hard for him to understand. An unhappy marriage was little burden to a man of noble birth; he had other activities to occupy him—politics, hunting, war—and he could always take a mistress. But for a noblewoman, a wife was all she was allowed to be.
And is that true, Aryn? Do you honestly think Teravian can
stop you from being a witch?
Besides, she supposed things were not the same for Tarus as for other men. She gazed again out the window.
“Tell me something, Sir Tarus,” she said. “Do the Warriors of Vathris...do you ever marry? Or do you just...that is, with each other...?”
He let out a chuckle, and she heard him move closer. He smelled of mist and horses. “We’re men of war, my lady. We don’t spend all of our time romping about a fire in loincloths and spanking one another. Really.”
Aryn couldn’t help a gasp of laughter. She turned around and looked at him. “But I thought all of you...I mean, that women were...”
“Tell me, do all of your sister witches spurn the favors of men in their beds?”
Aryn chewed her lip. “I know that some of them do. They say the touch of a man weakens their magic, although I can’t see how this would be. And there are some who will lie with any whom they love. But I believe most witches are like most women, and that they desire the touch of a man in bed.”
Her cheeks flushed with warmth. She had hardly ever spoken so frankly to another woman about such matters, let alone a man. Then again, she supposed she was quite secure with Sir Tarus. And, she realized, that was one reason why she liked the knight. She felt safe with him in a way she felt with no other man. Or woman, for that matter. He was strong, as men were; yet he would never harm her.
She gestured for him to sit on the bench, and he did so, although he was careful to keep his muddy clothes away from the folds of her gown. It occurred to her she had not seen Tarus in the last day or two; he must have ridden off somewhere on an errand for the king.
“The Warriors are not so different than your Witches,” he said. “I can’t tell you about our secret ways, but I can say there are certain initiations which all young men undergo when they seek to follow the Mysteries of Vathris, rituals in which they are paired with one who is older and wiser and who acts as their mentor. But it’s also true that the great majority of the men of Vathris go on to take wives and father children. Only a few of them ever hear the Call of the Bull.”
“Like you have. And Sir Beltan.”
The knight looked away, and Aryn winced. She knew Tarus had cared for Beltan, just as she knew Beltan’s heart beat for another. Perhaps she should leave the topic. However, she found it all too fascinating to let go.
“Are you and Beltan to be priests of Vathris, then?”
Tarus looked at her again, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “It’s usually those who’ve heard the Call who go to the inner circle, as it’s forbidden for a priest to marry. Maybe, when I’m older and wiser, I’ll choose to become a priest. But I don’t imagine Beltan ever will. Speaking prayers isn’t for him—he’d rather be fighting. Only I think I might get tired of it someday. Of fighting.”
Aryn considered these words. She knew Tarus was giving her a rare gift: a glimpse into the smoke-shrouded labyrinth where the Cult of Vathris Bullslayer worked its mysteries. Rarer all the more because he knew she was a witch.
“I’ve heard King Boreas has reached the innermost circle,” she said, more to herself than to Tarus.
Now the knight laughed. “The king’s wife passed away, my lady, and he elected not to marry again out of deference to her memory. So he is free to enter the innermost circle. But I think if you were to spy upon the king at night, it would be a pretty woman you’d find sharing his bed, not a handsome man. Then again, when I...”
The knight’s gaze seemed suddenly distant, as if he was remembering. “What is it?” Aryn said.
“I can’t know for certain.” Tarus shrugged. “They throw pine boughs on the fire, so the air is thick with smoke, and they give you strong wine to drink. And the one who has been chosen for you wears a mask shaped like a bull’s head.”
Aryn suddenly felt she was hearing something she shouldn’t. It was too secret; too private. “Should you be telling me this, my lord?”
“Most likely not. But...” He shook his head. “But, my lady, I like you, and I like Lady Lirith. No matter what you are. Or what I am. No matter that they say we are enemies.”
So the Warriors talked of the Witches, just as Aryn and her sisters spoke of the men of Vathris. They all knew a conflict was coming. The Final Battle, as the Warriors called it.
“Are we?” she said quietly. “Enemies, I mean.”
“What do your sisters say?”
“Much the same as your brothers, I suppose.”
They were silent for a long minute. Outside the window, a hawk sped by in pursuit of a dove.
“Let us forge a pact, my, lady,” Tarus said suddenly. “If in the future we find ourselves on opposite sides, we’ll still be friends. And we’ll be honest with one another. As honest as we can possibly be, at least, without breaking any other vows we have made.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Will you make this pact with me?”
Aryn didn’t hesitate. She stood up and took his hand in her one good one. “I accept your word, my lord, and you have mine in turn. I swear it in the name of Sia.”
“And I swear it in the name of Vathris.”
Warmth flooded Aryn, and new hope. Only at that moment did she realize how deep was the well of her despair, now that a new glimmer of light shone into it. If there were men like Tarus and Beltan among the Warriors, then why did the Witches have to be their foes?
However, Aryn knew the answer to that. Just as Liendra and her faction craved only conflict, Aryn supposed most of the followers of Vathris wanted the same. But as long as there were witches like Mirda, and Lirith, and herself, and warriors like Tarus and Beltan, maybe all was not lost.
“Well,” Tarus said, withdrawing his hand, “that’s that, then.”
Aryn nodded. “You’d better go to the king. I’m certain he’s waiting for your report.”
Tarus opened his mouth, then shook his head and walked away. Aryn smiled. Just because they were friends didn’t mean she had to give up all of her air of mystery. She had only assumed he had been on an errand for the king based on the visible evidence; and in that case, of course he would have a report to give. But let him think she had the power of the Sight. That way he’d be sure to keep their pact.
And will you, Aryn? Will you keep your promise to tell the
truth no matter what? Even if it goes against the Pattern?
Yes. Whatever it took, she would keep her vow. For she was not just a witch; she was a baroness, and soon to be a queen. She would not break her word.