The Dark Remains by Mark Anthony

said, taking her hand. “You needn’t make such a fuss. It’s a simple enough role,you’ll see. You’ll be a lovely Maiden. And you
are
a maiden, are you not?”
    Aryn’s face blazed bright red as she fumbled for words.
    “Very well, that’s answer enough,” Tressa said, patting her glowing cheek.
    Lirith moved to the young baroness and embraced her. “Sia be with you, sister. I am so pleased.”
    Aryn let out a small gasp as she returned the embrace with her left arm, but she seemed unable to utter any words.
    “All right, then,” Tressa said. “We must be off, Sister Aryn. There is much to teach you before the coven meets again.”
    “Good luck,” Lirith said, releasing the young woman.
    Aryn gave her hand one last squeeze. “Thank you,” she said at last, blue eyes shining. “For everything.”
    Lirith only nodded as Tressa bustled the young woman from the room. The door shut, and Lirith sighed, alone again.
    Now what? There was little for her to do until that evening, when the witches in the castle would meet in smaller circles and covens. It was in three days that the High Coven would reach its climax, when the Witches charted their future course as one. In the meantime, the witches in the castle would meet in smaller groups, exchanging simples, spells … and whispers.
    Lirith was to meet with a group of witches her own age that evening. She looked forward to it, for there would be seven of them, one hailing from each of the seven Dominions. But what could she do until then? She could think of nothing … unless she tried once more to use the Touch.
    She started to shut her eyes.
    “I knew she’d forget me,” a sullen voice said.
    Lirith’s eyes popped open. So she was not alone after all.
    He slouched in a corner, half-sunk into a pile of pillows,his bloodred tunic merging with the crimson fabric. Long, black hair half concealed the pale oval of his face.
    “Lord Teravian!” Lirith said.
    The young man sat up, cross-legged on the pillows. “You were about to cast a spell, weren’t you? Your kind are always casting spells. So did I ruin it?”
    Lirith drew in a breath, her composure quickly returning, and took a step toward him. “It was nothing, my lord. You needn’t apologize.”
    A smirk touched his mouth. “I didn’t apologize. I think it’s funny when you make mistakes. It’s like seeing a spider get caught in its own web.”
    Lirith forced her visage to remain smooth. Aryn was right; Teravian was a frustrating boy. He hardly seemed related to the blustering but good-hearted king of Calavan. Boreas was a solid bull of a man; his son seemed more like a shadow—slight, dark, and ephemeral. Still, Teravian was King Boreas’s heir and Queen Ivalaine’s ward. Lirith knew she must treat him with respect.
    “We have never properly met, my lord,” Lirith said. “I am the countess of—”
    “I know who you are, Lirith of Arafel,” Teravian said in a bored voice. He flicked his hair back over a thin shoulder. “I know everyone in this grotty castle. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”
    Lirith sighed.
So much for that line of polite conversation
.
    Teravian stood and walked to the window. Unlike so many young men of sixteen winters, Boreas’s son was anything but awkward. He moved with lean, catlike grace, leaning on the stone sill, gazing through rippled glass at the bright world beyond. Lirith supposed there was nothing to do but ask her leave. She took a step forward—then was surprised as her lips uttered a different question.
    “Why are you here in Lady Tressa’s chamber, my lord?”
    He kept his back to her. “Are you a dolt? I was beingpunished, of course. It’s not like they talk to me for any other reason.”
    Lirith ignored his insult. “What were you being punished for?”
    He turned, his green eyes piercing beneath the sharp, black line of his eyebrows. They nearly joined above his nose, but the effect was striking rather than homely.
    “You’re