The Dark Remains (33 page)

Yet while those incidents had left her curious and unsettled, none had filled her with the cold fear she felt now. The planks of the dock seemed to yaw beneath her, as if she still stood on the deck of the ship. Nor had she ever seen the glimmer of gold before.

“Lirith?”

The crowd knotted before her, then thinned again, and the figure in the black robe was gone.

“Lirith, are you well?” It was Falken, his faded eyes concerned.

“It’s nothing,” she said, licking her lips. “A moment of dizziness, that’s all. It has passed.”

Falken nodded, then returned to Melia.

That is not all it was, Lirith
.

She looked up as the voice spoke in her mind. Aryn’s brilliant blue eyes were locked on her.

You saw something, didn’t you? Just now. What was it?

There was no point in telling anything but the truth; lies were impossible to speak across the Weirding.
I don’t know, Aryn. Maybe I saw something. I can’t be sure. But it’s not
—

Before Lirith could say more, Melia spoke. It was obvious the lady was feeling well again; her amber eyes shone as brilliantly as the gold domes of the city. But then, Melia had just come home.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said. “We need to go to the Second Circle. I would speak with Orsith at once.”

There was no time to ask who Orsith was or why they might want to talk to him. Melia started off along the dock, weaving smoothly among the tangles of people, and the others had to hurry in order to keep up with her.

Aryn marveled as they ascended through the outer circles of Tarras, craning her head in an attempt to see everything at once. Only a year ago she had greeted the idea of stepping outside the walls of the castle with no small amount of trepidation. But since then she had learned there was a whole world out there she had never imagined, and while it was sometimes terrifying, it was wondrous as well.

She had savored every moment of their journey south, and not only for the sight of new lands. For she had been exploring in a different way. As they rode through Toloria, she had used her time to practice reaching out and weaving the threads of the Weirding. Often she spoke with Lirith about the Touch, but she was not afraid to experiment on her own. After all, she had learned to speak across the Weirding without help. And Lirith seemed impressed with her rapid progress.

It is as if you have suddenly found a key to your talent, sister
, Lirith said over the Weirding as they sat by the fire one evening, making a lesson of sensing and identifying every living thing within twenty paces.

Except it was more like the key had been there all along, gripped in her twisted right hand, only Aryn had never let herself open her fingers to see it.

Always the balance seeks something in return when a great gift is given
, the old Mournish woman had told her.

Belira and the others had jeered at her because of her arm, but they were silly girls, unaware that there was so much more to being a witch than what appeared on the surface. Aryn no longer feared them. Nor was she angry. Rather, she felt sorry for them, and she hoped one day they might learn what she had—that the key to power was not wanting something you didn’t have. Instead, it was daring to see what was already yours.

One day, excited, she had tried to explain these things to Lirith over the Weirding. Except an image had formed in her mind: a proud woman in blue, holding a sword as she rode from a castle with seven towers, a crumpled form in the grass beneath her.

You have forgotten about one who bore pain for you
.…

Hastily, Aryn had broken the thread that spanned between her and Lirith. The dark-haired witch had given her a puzzled look as the thread was severed, but Aryn had mumbled a hasty excuse about being weary and had gone to bed.

But who had the old Mournish woman been talking about? Surely she was not so cruel as the old woman had said.

Or was she? A fragment of a singsong rhyme echoed in her mind.

In a way the fool’s poem reminded her of the dragon’s words. Sfithrisir had said she and Lirith were both doomed to betray the Witches. Was that what the fool Tharkis had been trying to tell her as well?

But Aryn would never harm any of her sisters. Not even Belira. The fool and the dragon were wrong. Certainly one had been mad and the other wicked. All the same, these thoughts had hung over her all the way south, the one dark cloud marring the otherwise brilliant journey.

Now, as they walked through the ancient, thronging streets of Tarras, Aryn pushed such troubles from her mind. There was too much to see to dwell on riddles told by fortune-tellers, fools, and dragons.

From the docks, they walked through a triumphal arch of white stone that was no less than thrice the size of the main gates of Calavere, into the Fifth Circle of the city. It was the largest of the city’s five circles, and—according to Falken—the place where the laborers and common folk dwelled. While the main avenue they walked was wide, spotlessly clean, and lined by columnlike
ithaya
trees, to either side she could see the mouths of dusty lanes too narrow for the sun to reach. Filthy faces stared out from the shadowed openings. Aryn was glad when they passed through another arch and into the Fourth Circle.

The main avenue was steeper there, climbing rapidly past larger, well-kept homes and businesses. Honeysuckle climbed up iron gates, filling the air with a sweet scent, and everywhere the sound of fountains chimed on the air. The Fourth Circle was the home to the city’s merchants and craft guilds. Clearly the merchants had good standing in this city, given the beauty of their dwellings. But, Falken explained, the tiers of Tarras were arranged so that those farthest in and highest up belonged to the classes with the greatest power.

Soon they passed into the Third Circle, which belonged to the Tarrasian military. They passed blank walls with infrequent doors, each portal guarded by a pair of soldiers. The Tarrasian soldiers were dressed in peculiar fashion compared to the knights of the Dominions. Their chests were covered by leather jerkins and breastplates of beaten bronze, and bronze helmets adorned their heads, but they wore only short kilts, leaving their legs bare, and sandals on their feet. Still, by the hard expressions on their faces, Aryn did not doubt that these were skilled men of battle. For all its decline from greatness, it seemed Tarras had not entirely forgotten how to make war.

Aryn was glad when they passed through another archway into the Second Circle.

“This is as far as we’re going to go for now,” Falken said. “Unless any of you besides Melia happens to be close personal friends with the emperor and simply forgot to mention it. Only his guests, his servants, and members of his court are allowed into the First Circle.”

“We shall concern ourselves with Emperor Ephesian later,” Melia said. “At the moment, this is precisely where we need to be. The Holy Circle of Tarras.”

Aryn gazed around and saw white-stone shrines and domed temples in all directions. Men and women moved along the quiet streets, wearing flowing robes of myriad hues, and Aryn knew at once they were priests and priestesses of the temples.

Some wore crimson, their heads shaved. Others had carefully curled their hair in oiled ringlets and wore sashes of gold over emerald robes. Yellow, azure, flame orange—all colors were represented. If the priests and priestesses of Tarras were so varied a group, Aryn could only imagine what the gods themselves were like. She knew there were more mystery cults in Tarras than the seven known in the Dominions, but just how many she had never imagined until now.

Durge cleared his throat in a nervous rumble. “Melia, may I ask exactly how many gods there are in this city?”

“Don’t worry, Durge,” Falken said, faded eyes twinkling. “The Second Circle is also home to the Tarrasian university, where the greatest scholars, mathematicians, and engineers in the world are said to be gathered.”

Durge raised his eyebrows at this. “I believe I should like to see this
university
, as you call it.”

“Oh, you will,” Falken said with a wink. “But first—”

“My brothers, my sisters,” said a soft voice, “is this truly to be our home? It is so much more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.”

Melia swayed back and forth, her arms folded about herself, a beatific smile upon her lips.

Aryn saw Falken and Lirith exchange looks. It was like the incident Lirith had described, when she found Melia dancing in the shrine of Mandu. Melia had not had another such spell on their journey, although there had been peculiar moments. Melia seemed to speak of the past a great deal, and her visage would grow dreamy when she did. However, Aryn had simply assumed it was because they were traveling to Melia’s home. Now, it seemed as if Melia was not even there.

No, that’s not it, Aryn. It’s as if we’re the ones who aren’t here, as if Melia really is seeing Tarras as it was long ago, when she first came to this place
.

Gently, Falken touched Melia’s shoulder.

“Dear one,” he whispered.

For a heartbeat Melia went stiff, then she turned and glared at the others. “Well, don’t just stand there and gawk. We’re going this way.”

With that, Melia led the way down a side lane paved with white stone. There was nothing for the others to do save follow.

As they went, Aryn noticed one dome that rose above all others in the Second Circle, and which rivaled the dome of the emperor’s palace that loomed above them in the First. This dome was not gold, like so many in the city, but was rather painted blue so that it seemed to merge with the sky. Aryn wondered which god was honored by this temple, which was so much grander than the others. However, it was not toward this dome that they walked.

When they stopped, it was before a temple that, while lovely, was far smaller and plainer than those around it. Its columns and cornices were unadorned, and it was without windows. A narrow door was the only opening.

Melia regarded the others, her amber eyes now sharp and clear. “It is best that you empty your minds of petty thoughts and wants before you enter here. There is no room for fear, anger, or desire in the realm of Mandu. It is because he seeks nothing that he is ever dying. And it is because he seeks nothing that he is ever reborn.”

“Perhaps he should seek to build a few more windows in order to save on candles,” Durge muttered, but a glare from Melia caused the knight to clamp his mouth shut. Aryn had to resist the urge to hug the practical knight. Instead, they followed Melia through the door and into the temple beyond.

Evidently Mandu the Everdying was little more popular in Tarras than in the Dominions. The main space of the temple bore only a handful of worshipers. There was not much furniture—a few wooden benches where one might kneel in prayer, a bare marble altar, and, in the dim nave of the temple, carved of milky stone, a likeness of the god as tall as two men, gazing forward with serene, empty eyes.

A priest rushed toward them, tugging at his ill-fitting white robe to keep it from falling off his skinny shoulders. He was a young man, with a homely but cheerful face and a large, crooked nose.

“Your Holiness, Melindora! So the vision Mandu sent my master was true—you have come.”

Melia glided forward. “Tell me, acolyte, do you make it a habit of doubting the power of Mandu and the wisdom of your master?”

The young man’s eyes bulged. “Never, Your Holiness! Of course Mandu is all-powerful and my master is most wise. I only meant to say—”

“—that you are going to bring wine for your weary guests who have traveled far, then lead them to see Orsith at once,” Melia finished for him.

The young priest gaped at her.

“Wine,” Melia prompted with a pleasant smile. “Then Orsith.”

Aryn forced herself not to laugh; the young man was clearly having a bad enough time as it was. Yet she could
see the mirth in Melia’s amber eyes. It was clear the lady was not angry.

All the same, the priest acted as if his god had appeared before him in a blaze of wrath and glory. And perhaps that wasn’t so far off the mark, for Melia had once been a goddess herself—a fact of which the young man seemed quite aware. He hastily brought them wine, slopping some of it on the floor and wiping it up with the hem of his robe.

Only as she drank did Aryn realize she was indeed terribly thirsty; she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it sooner. Her eyes flickered to Mandu’s peaceful stone visage, but before she could wonder more the young priest beckoned them toward a door.

“This way, Your Holiness. He is waiting for you.”

When they stepped through the door, they found themselves standing in an utterly empty room. It was difficult to tell how large the space was, for floor, walls, and ceiling were all white. There seemed to be no distinct way to define where one plane ended and another began, and the light was a silvery glow that emanated from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Welcome,” a dry, warm voice said.

Aryn looked up and saw the room was not entirely empty. An old man floated in midair in the center of the room, cross-legged, hands on knees. His robe, hair, and flowing beard were all the same silver-white as the stone walls. However, his wrinkled cheeks were a dark, coppery color, and his small eyes were as brown as nuts.

Melia stepped forward, beaming. “Orsith. It is a joy to see you again.”

The old man smiled; it was one of the sweetest expressions Aryn had ever seen.

“My dearest, the joy is mine. But you must forgive me that I do not come down to greet you more warmly. I am in the second day of a Stillness, and I have yet one more day to remain here. Even speaking is a bit of a violation,
but I suspect Mandu will forgive me under the circumstances.”