dark eyes were slightly tilted, and her midnight hair marked by a single lock of pearl. The witch passed the two women, her multicolored robe fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
“Good morrow, sister,” the witch said, nodding to Aryn. Then she moved through an archway and was gone.
Lirith looked at the baroness. “Who was that?”
“Her name is Sister Mirda.”
Lirith had not heard the name before. “Is she one of Liendra’s group?”
“No, I don’t think so. At the first meeting of the coven, she wished for Sia to bless me.”
Lirith considered this. Surely no one from Liendra’s faction would impart such a blessing. However, Lirith knew the great majority of the witches in the Dominions by name if not by sight. Only she had never heard the name Mirda before.
“Maybe she’s a friend of Ivalaine’s,” Aryn said with a shrug.
Lirith sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure Ivalaine has any true friends among the Witches. Many respect her, of course. But she has made it her place to stay a step removed from the others, to be a source of unity when there is dissension.”
“Do you think she can remain that way? She tries to balance herself among all views, but Liendra is not the only one who wants to know what Ivalaine believes.”
Lirith could not disagree. But as for what Ivalaine truly thought—that was a mystery that would have to wait.
Kissing Lirith quickly on the cheek, Aryn turned and dashed down a corridor, looking like nothing so much as a dark-haired girl, although this coming winter would beher twentieth. Lirith smiled, then turned to make her own way through the castle.
This time it came utterly without warning. She had not even been using the Touch, but it was there all the same, undulating in the corner of the entry hall: a tangled mass of threads. Lirith’s mouth opened to scream, but no air passed into or out of her lungs. Even as she watched, the seething knot seemed to reach out hungrily, drawing more shimmering threads into itself. They dimmed to dull gray as they merged with the tangle. Then Lirith felt the first few tugs on her being. Memories flooded her. Once before she had been pulled like this toward a destination that would devour her.
Dance, my little grackle. Ah, but you are not so little anymore, and you can hide your beauty no longer. Come dance, and they will shower you with gold. Dance!
A moan escaped her lips, and Lirith began to sway back and forth. The seething of the knot quickened, as if excited by her movements. A gray thread spun out, reaching for her.
“My lady?”
The far corner of the hall was empty; the tangle was gone. Before Lirith stood a serving maid—barely more than a girl—a fearful look on her dirt-smudged face.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you ill? Should I send for the queen’s men?”
Lirith found her voice. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The serving maid ducked her head, then scurried from the hall.
Lirith glanced once more at the corner, but she knew that even if she used the Touch she would not see it again.
But it’s still there, I can feel it. And it’s growing
.
Yet what did it mean?
A thought struck her. There was one who might know—one who was older and wiser than any witch in this castle. Lirith picked up the hem of her gown and ran from the hall.
13.
Melia was not in her chamber.
“I’m sorry, Lirith,” Falken said, looking up from his lute. “I’m afraid she was in one of her moods today. When she left, I didn’t ask where she was going.”
Melia couldn’t have gone far in an hour; at least so Lirith assumed. However, Melia had powers she couldn’t hope to understand. And that was precisely why Lirith needed to find her.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said breathlessly.
Falken opened his mouth to reply, but before the bard could speak Lirith turned and dashed back down the passageway.
In no particular order, she tried the great hall, the baths, the library—even the privy—all with no luck. After
“Good morrow, sister,” the witch said, nodding to Aryn. Then she moved through an archway and was gone.
Lirith looked at the baroness. “Who was that?”
“Her name is Sister Mirda.”
Lirith had not heard the name before. “Is she one of Liendra’s group?”
“No, I don’t think so. At the first meeting of the coven, she wished for Sia to bless me.”
Lirith considered this. Surely no one from Liendra’s faction would impart such a blessing. However, Lirith knew the great majority of the witches in the Dominions by name if not by sight. Only she had never heard the name Mirda before.
“Maybe she’s a friend of Ivalaine’s,” Aryn said with a shrug.
Lirith sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure Ivalaine has any true friends among the Witches. Many respect her, of course. But she has made it her place to stay a step removed from the others, to be a source of unity when there is dissension.”
“Do you think she can remain that way? She tries to balance herself among all views, but Liendra is not the only one who wants to know what Ivalaine believes.”
Lirith could not disagree. But as for what Ivalaine truly thought—that was a mystery that would have to wait.
Kissing Lirith quickly on the cheek, Aryn turned and dashed down a corridor, looking like nothing so much as a dark-haired girl, although this coming winter would beher twentieth. Lirith smiled, then turned to make her own way through the castle.
This time it came utterly without warning. She had not even been using the Touch, but it was there all the same, undulating in the corner of the entry hall: a tangled mass of threads. Lirith’s mouth opened to scream, but no air passed into or out of her lungs. Even as she watched, the seething knot seemed to reach out hungrily, drawing more shimmering threads into itself. They dimmed to dull gray as they merged with the tangle. Then Lirith felt the first few tugs on her being. Memories flooded her. Once before she had been pulled like this toward a destination that would devour her.
Dance, my little grackle. Ah, but you are not so little anymore, and you can hide your beauty no longer. Come dance, and they will shower you with gold. Dance!
A moan escaped her lips, and Lirith began to sway back and forth. The seething of the knot quickened, as if excited by her movements. A gray thread spun out, reaching for her.
“My lady?”
The far corner of the hall was empty; the tangle was gone. Before Lirith stood a serving maid—barely more than a girl—a fearful look on her dirt-smudged face.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you ill? Should I send for the queen’s men?”
Lirith found her voice. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The serving maid ducked her head, then scurried from the hall.
Lirith glanced once more at the corner, but she knew that even if she used the Touch she would not see it again.
But it’s still there, I can feel it. And it’s growing
.
Yet what did it mean?
A thought struck her. There was one who might know—one who was older and wiser than any witch in this castle. Lirith picked up the hem of her gown and ran from the hall.
13.
Melia was not in her chamber.
“I’m sorry, Lirith,” Falken said, looking up from his lute. “I’m afraid she was in one of her moods today. When she left, I didn’t ask where she was going.”
Melia couldn’t have gone far in an hour; at least so Lirith assumed. However, Melia had powers she couldn’t hope to understand. And that was precisely why Lirith needed to find her.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said breathlessly.
Falken opened his mouth to reply, but before the bard could speak Lirith turned and dashed back down the passageway.
In no particular order, she tried the great hall, the baths, the library—even the privy—all with no luck. After
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