Chapter 32
Better loose hands than an ill-tethering.
—Burner saying, last heard at the signing of the Black Accord
Belltoller leaves with a hammering in her heart. Unconsciously, she stretches her hands out to either side. The Deadsingers take one each, leaning their heads consolingly against her arms. They smell as they always do, of fur and smoke, cider and blood.
The trio take a path back towards the heart of the Stump.
A little food might help. Stone knows she doesn’t want to split the Council over one wayward lad, but this risk?
It’s too much. The Singers are some comfort, though rarely do they speak up.
Theirs is a life of ritual and reassurance, they don’t take to disruption easily.
A little food, she thinks, and a stiff drink. Perhaps there is a way through this.
She almost doesn’t notice her new company as they emerge from the shadows.
One of the mountain’s innumerable alcoves disgorges ragged robes fluttering red, yellow and red again.
Skinpainter’s amber eyes catch hers and the Deadsingers flinch, shrinking into her shadow.
Belltoller stands tall, but she can still feel the pulse crawling in her throat.
‘Painter.’
‘Ladies. What a pleasant coincidence.’
Skinpainter’s smile is light as a knife in the darkness of their hood. ‘Been breakfasting with the Kinghammer?’
‘He hasn’t eaten yet,’ Belltoller replies. Like that’s relevant. She’s off-balance.
‘Really? Rather you than me then. The old bear gets twitchy when his blood runs cold.’ They match her stride as they continue through the Stump.
A group of young soldiers hurries past, late for training.
They smile at Skinpainter, flicking their tattoos in quick salute.
Belltoller notices the eddy they leave around the Singers and her own tired feet.
‘All well though, I trust?’ Skinpainter’s voice is warm, friendly, like a banked fire. ‘Strange times, with new visitors. Little stray dogs that Icecaller’s brought in.’
‘Strange times indeed,’ she concurs.
‘Good to be able rely on one’s old friends, when the world shifts.’
Belltoller makes a noncommittal noise.
‘Times like these, we remember how much we owe to each other. Wouldn’t you agree?’
She turns to look at them. The warlock is always bigger than she remembers, something strange about their shape in that robe. The sense of something being held back. Like staring into one of the deep caves, and only too late noticing the spoor of wolves or bear.
‘I have a good memory, Painter. Better than most.’
They nod, smile softly again. Their warm voice like honey heated and stirred. ‘Of course, then you will remember Twicefallow, and the sound it made when it broke. You will remember what was almost lost there. And you will remember who brought it back.’
Warm words that slide ice into her heart. She moves to step away, but their hand is on her wrist. Such strong fingers, honed from the work of moving ink and blood.
‘You do remember, Bell? Do you remember that high sound in that dark night? Do you remember what followed after?’
‘I can never forget, Painter. What is your point?’
‘My point, old friend, is that sometimes, a little change can scare us, but when we remember how we have overcome adversity together in the past, than a little change seems small weather for our sturdy boat.’
Skinpainter waits. They watch the Deadsingers, whose eyes flash in the half-light. They have paused just before the passage opens up into a warmer cavern. Food, and drink; laughter and light just beyond.
Skinpainter waits. Belltoller’s hand twitches. For a second, she brushes the metal curve of the bell beneath her robes, watching as Skinpainter’s own fingers move, just a little, in response.
‘Are we rowing in the same direction, Bell? Or will we be swept away like the good people of Twicefallow, who made one resounding mistake?’
Their amber eyes hold her like a moth trapped in resin. She matches it, for a time, then slumps.
‘You want my assent in Council.’
Skinpainter inclines their head. ‘If you are offering it so freely, who am I to refuse?’
Her lips set in a hard line. She fights the urge to spit. ‘In remembrance of our time in Twicefallow then.’
Skinpainter’s voice is soft, pleased, like a cat. ‘I am glad to hear it old friend. For truly, is that not the burden of your name, and your trade? Shall we focus on the sound of the bell, and forget the toll?’
‘I think not,’ she says, clipped, furious.
‘Then I look forward to your assent when young Quickfish brings forth his petition.’
Belltoller steps forward. For a moment it seems as though Skinpainter will not move, but they bow graciously, and wave her past. She storms outwards, towards the smell of frying venison, towards some honest light.
The Deadsingers move to follow, but Skinpainter is there again, red and yellow flickering in the dark of the passageway. Their smile sharper than before.
‘Singers. I require your assent, in addition.’
The pair look at each other. The left mutters something, and the right amplifies. ‘No debts to pay to your double-flesh.’
Skinpainter actually laughs. Light and easy.
‘Of course not, ladies. No debts. For you have always stayed clean and clear. Reading the wind, and the songs, the murmurs of the dead and those moving towards death. Ah, I understand how soothing it must be.’
The warlock steps closer. The Singers look at them. Elderly women in the end. Small. Slight. Frail.
‘How soothing it must be,’ Skinpainter says. ‘And how quickly these things can change. If we don’t take care, tomorrow, the very wind might fall still. The dead could finally find peace. Silence would descend on you both. Like a shroud.’
The pair say nothing, but step closer together. Skinpainter laughs again. ‘Of course, we do not need to worry. We will remain united. We will support our friends. And we will prevent harm coming to one another. Yes?’
The question hangs in the half-light. Eventually, the leftmost sister nods.
‘Yes’, says the rightmost.
‘Excellent,’ Skinpainter purrs. And their voice is softened butter, and the hearth of home. ‘I’ll go and tell Kinghammer that this misunderstanding has melted away like ice before spring. Take care, dearest ladies.’
They step into the shadows again, turning towards Kinghammer’s chambers.
Alone now, the Singers look at each other.
They say nothing, but the song flows between them.
Moving in breath, in the flicker of an eye, in the blush of skin.
The dead and the living singing. The pulse of blood keeping time.
The metre of the mountain, and the high notes.
The flourish of hawks, and the thrum of change.
Two women, elderly, slight and frail. Staring into each other’s eyes, and seeing in that reflected light the split between the world that might have been, and the world that must now inevitably come.