The Dark Remains by Mark Anthony Page B

terribly wise—would choose to read.
    “Don’t even bother trying, Durge,” Falken said with a snort. “It’s not as if she’s reading something interesting. I’m afraid it’s one of those newfangled romances the bards here in Ar-tolor have taken to penning.”
    Durge frowned. “Romances? How could one compose an entire book about romances?”
    “I’m not really sure,” Falken said. “But as far as I can tell, they’re all about long-haired knights in white armor who sing songs about flowers and slay dragons in order to win the hearts of wan maidens who don’t seem to do anything but pine about having to marry some rich king.”
    Durge stroked his drooping mustaches. “These knights and maidens you describe sound demented.”
    “Oh, they are,” Falken went on, grinning wolfishly now. “They’re always spouting poems about how gold and jewels mean nothing, how love is stronger than a thousand swords, and other positively absurd ideas. All I want to know is whatever happened to good stories—you know, ones where the dragon eats the suitor and the maiden forgets about him, marries a wealthy baron, gets fat, and has lots of kids?”
    Durge nodded in approval. “I like that story.”
    “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? But these romances”—Falken waved his hand at an entire shelf of books with ornate gold writing on their spines—“as far as I can tell, they contain nothing of any importance.”
    “And what would you know about what is or isn’t important to a woman, dear?” Melia said pleasantly, her eyes still on the book. “The last time I counted, it had been a century since you had good fortune with a lady. Or has it been two?”
    Falken clenched his hands into fists, sputtered something completely unintelligible, then turned and stamped back to the window.
    Melia sighed, shut the book, and clasped it to her chest. “Now this,” she said, “is how a man should behave.”
    “My lady …” Durge began. It was time to quit discussing modern literature and find out why Melia and Falken had called him there.
    “Of course, dear,” Melia said, handing him the book. “You may borrow it. But don’t get any blood or food on it. And pay particular attention to page seventy-four. Only use more flower petals.”
    Durge accepted the book in fumbling hands. He flipped through the stiff parchment pages, but the few words and pictures he glimpsed were far more strange and mysterious than anything he had ever read in one of histomes concerning the alchemical arts. The knight hastily set the book on a stack of others the moment Melia turned her back.
    “Oh, quit sulking, Falken,” she said.
    He didn’t turn away from the window. “It hasn’t been
that
long since I got lucky.”
    “Of course, dear. I forgot to count the one-eyed fishwife in Gendarra.”
    Falken turned, thrust his shoulders back, and snapped his gray tunic straight. “And thank you very much.”
    Durge’s eyes bulged, but he stifled any urge to ask for further explanation.
    “Now, to answer your question, Falken,” Melia said, folding her arms across the bodice of her silver-white kirtle. “I suppose I have as much of an idea of what they’re up to as you. For years they have whispered of his coming. And last Midwinter he was revealed.”
    Falken rubbed his chin with his black-gloved hand. “Who would have thought they’d actually turn out to be right?”
    “No, Falken,” Melia said, her tone stern. “Do not dismiss the power of the Witches simply because you do not comprehend it. Their magic is different than that of your runes, but it is every bit as old. The name
Sia
has been spoken in the lands of Falengarth as long as that of Olrig Lore Thief.”
    “And both have been spoken longer than any of the names of the New Gods of Tarras, in case you had forgotten.”
    Melia’s eyes flashed molten gold, and Durge took a step back, even though he was not the focus of her ire.
    “I have hardly forgotten, Falken. The magic