Chapter 51
Wings even in the dark, in the second sky that sleeps
beneath the skin of the world.
Little things in the black, that know how to thrive
in the absence of light.
—What Is Born Beyond Blades, Heartshamer
Crowkisser comes to Thell in the cold shadow of the night, in the dip of the flame. She peels loose from the high walls with a flutter, a scuttling spider-like flowing, quick and economical.
Snow falls with her. Her feet are pale and sure on the stones.
She floats the last few inches, landing on the tips of her toes.
There’s a flicker of feather. In front of her, Skinpainter licks the taste of burnt sugar off their lips, glances up the cold reach of the mountain shaft.
Quiet from above, only the last few breaths of summer thaw, and the guards shifting softly at their posts.
She watches Skinpainter, as the last pinions slide back under her bones. Her right hand is twined with scraps of something ragged, red to the wrist. The remnants of a weaver’s ribbons. Or a weaver. Her left is spread wide, fingers tense.
Skinpainter nods to her, shifting slowly in front of the fire, before they gesture to an alcove, a carved bench, a gently smouldering brazier with a clay pot suspended above. ‘Hello. Sit. I’d wondered if this was coming.’
She does. They busy themselves with the brazier, twisting a wrist and flicking a few dried leaves into the belly of the coals. The smoke is sweet. They beckon it into their hood, breathing deep. It soothes their lungs, their racing thoughts.
Crowkisser sits with her hands gripping the edge of the alcove. Skinpainter joins her, lightly taps a knuckle, offers a cup.
‘Drink?’
She shakes her head.
‘Suit yourself. It’s cold, though.’
They ladle liquid from pot to cup and sip, watching her in the ripples. A flutter of excitement flares in their chest – the godkiller here in their mountain; the name-stealer. Face-to-face at last. She’s small, this godkiller.
She turns her head towards them, her eyes light in a face thinned by hunger. Gingerly, she extends a hand. They fill a second cup, pass it.
She leans into the smell of spice and apples.
Skinpainter sips, swallows, ‘So, why now?’
Crowkisser smiles, suddenly younger in the firelight. ‘You know why. We’re marching.’
They snort and set the cup down, turning to face her.
‘Hardly a surprise. I felt you fluttering around the edges of the wind nights ago. Feeling out the mountain. A new thing.’
She inclines her head slightly. ‘I wanted to get a sense of you.’
Skinpainter runs a hand over their mouth, lips tingling. ‘Don’t make the same mistake everyone else does, little crow.’
Crowkisser worries at the red bindings on her hand with sharp teeth. Speaks muffled. ‘What’s that?’
They drink again.
‘Thinking that I’m something more than I am.’ They grin. ‘The power behind the throne.’ They shrug. ‘I’m not some weaver of destinies. I’m what’s left when everyone else tries it.’
She sniffs the cup again, screws up her nose and hands it back. ‘But you know things. Old things. From before the south. The tattoos. The shapes. The d—’
They place a hand over her mouth, feel her lips wet against their skin. ‘Go slowly, little crow. No need to draw their attention.’
They return the hand to a sleeve. Their hood shifts. ‘I do know these things, but they were earnt.’ A rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid they can’t be bought. And neither can I.’
Crowkisser starts to draw breath but they cut her off. ‘What are you going to offer me? Money? We don’t really use that here. Power? I already have it.’ They laugh. ‘Sex? I’ve never found sex to be of great interest.’
They spread wide palms, tipping them back and forth. ‘I prefer ink. If you truly want to understand Thell, you need to understand the ink.’
Skinpainter takes her hand. She flinches. A little part of them is delighted. Finally, some respect. They feel Crowkisser’s breath shudder as they pull her fingers across the backs of their hands, along their arms, up beneath their robes.
‘Feel how it flows. The angles. The depth of the pigment. We would be lost without it.’
They grin, deep in their hood as they press her questing fingertips to scars, absences. ‘Or rather, we would be found.’
It takes her a second to feel the thing that rests against their skin. When it pulses beneath her fingers she snatches her hand back, stifling a scream.
They watch her levelly. ‘All power has a price. As well you know.’ They readjust their robes. ‘But it’s an idiot who doesn’t shop for a discount.’
She laughs at that. High and bright, almost childlike.
Skinpainter smiles. ‘Thank goodness. I thought you were as dry as your father.’
Sudden pressure. The threads on her hands lifting slightly.
The briefest flicker of feathers. The coals flare.
Ears pop. Skinpainter waves a hand soothingly.
‘It’s OK. I have no interest in sharing that further.
Although more people know than you’d think.
Just because you were too young to remember it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. ’
She frowns. ‘You know about me, and you know him. Yet you still stand with him?’
Skinpainter reaches into their pockets, subtly readjusting the press of their robes. They lean back. A hand cracks a walnut, dancing the shell over quick knuckles. ‘You want some?’
She shakes her head. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
They smile as they roll the nut between their palms.
‘You’re a terse girl, as terse as your father. Even if you know how to laugh. And no, I didn’t. That’s because I don’t owe you anything.’ The shell is caught, crushed.
‘Did you expect something different?’
Crowkisser shrugs, refocuses on their hands as they dust themselves clean.
‘You know this is going to lead to battle, don’t you?’
She nods.
Skinpainter sighs. ‘I knew as much once Quickfish arrived. Too good an opportunity to pass up, wasn’t it? A brave boy trying to save his dying mother.’
She flashes them a smile. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’
They nod, drumming on the floor with a foot. ‘You’re learning.’
The stone suddenly feels sharp and cold under them, despite the brazier.
They shift uncomfortably, rags fluttering.
‘You must understand. There are many people I love dearly within this mountain. Now, I have never been a fan of the gods. Or the dead. Or anything that wants us for their own.’ They hold Crowkisser’s wrist, voice low.
‘So, I’m not without sympathy for your actions. ’
For a second, she smiles, before they grip tighter, pulling her close into their hood, their lips rough and harsh, clove oil on the skin. ‘But, let me repeat. There are many people I love dearly within this mountain. And if it’s them or you, it’ll be you.’
She flicks her eyes hastily over their shoulder, to the deeper shadows.
Skinpainter smiles ruefully as they let her go. ‘Is he here? Slickwalker?’
She shakes her head, laughs, then looks at Skinpainter coolly. ‘No. But he will be, soon enough.’ Her voice is rougher than expected, husked by the cold and the night.
The back of Skinpainter’s neck itches. The air briefly acrid and sharp.
They clear their throat. ‘Changes nothing. You’re a fool if you think I haven’t dealt with worse.
Permanently.’ Their brows are heavy in the shadow of their hood.
Keeping the sorrow from their voice is a challenge, even with the softening smoke.
‘I understand loss, Crowkisser. More than that. I’m tired of it. I’ve had my fill. I am sick to my heart of death.’
Their next words are hushed with longing. ‘I’d hoped you were too. I don’t think either of us wants people to die. Especially not here.’
She’s silent for a long time. Long enough for Skinpainter to watch the shadows play over her face, to watch the slight twists and tics she must think hidden, to watch her thoughts running riot over her skin.
Before she even speaks, Skinpainter knows that this only ends in war.
The lie when it comes is obvious, bland. Skinpainter dealt with better in the days of the old Empire, when the only real truths could be communicated by touch, tapped out on skin. Hidden from the ears of the Emperor’s spies.
Crowkisser needs a few more decades under her belt before she can sell this one. She tries it anyway. ‘What’s your suggestion then?’
They pretend to chew thoughtfully. ‘Give me time with Shroudweaver. If I can get him out of the walls, away from Kinghammer, we could end this without bloodshed.’
All Skinpainter really needs is time. Time to get Thell’s army out from the mountain, away from the Barrows. Safely marching south where they can scour this girl and her madness from the earth.
Skinpainter knows the last thing Crowkisser has is time. Years starving in the south, relying on personality alone to hold her people together. They know from experience how hard that is. If they’re going to stay here any longer, they need to keep her on the hook.
She tilts her head thoughtfully. ‘If my father trusts anyone, it would be you. But if you can’t persuade him?’
They shake their head. ‘Then bloodshed.’
‘And neither of us want that,’ her lips say, while her eyes sing out her hunger for it.
Skinpainter’s disappointed. As if they hadn’t heard the stories of the villages who resisted and clung to their names, of the gallowswatchers raised in their ruins.
Crowkisser shrugs diffidently. ‘I’ll consider it.’
Another lie, cheap and shallow. They let it wash over them, offering a grateful smile.
Perhaps not quite convincing enough to earn her trust, but time will tell.
Skinpainter has a moment to try and read her in the flickering light, before she shifts and the spell is broken.
As she starts to stand they catch her arm, noticing again that slight, satisfying flinch.
‘Thank you. For coming.’ And their lie is smooth, and easy, and honest-looking.
Crowkisser pulls away slowly. Her fingers linger on their side for a moment. Skinpainter’s too focused on her touch, her face, her words. Misses a slight cut, as a leather strap gives way and a pouch slips into Crowkisser’s waiting hand.
The barest weight, a single bone. The last piece of the Emperor of the Dead. As promised.
She fixes on Skinpainter’s gaze to hide her hammering heart. ‘I had to,’ she says. ‘I know what happens otherwise.’
The theft hangs unnoticed. Crowkisser holding Skinpainter’s gaze steady, even as her hand tucks the bone tight against her skin.
Oblivious, Skinpainter nods sadly. ‘High power. The highest prices.’
Something in their voice catches her, and for a moment, the mask slips. Catching the look in her eyes, Skinpainter sighs, and pushes their hood back.
Crowkisser takes them in. The minutes pass; ice melting in the heart of the mountain, sweet smoke, walnuts.
By the time Skinpainter wraps the soft cloth around themselves again, they are both wet with tears.
She leaves soon after. Feathers, burnt sugar, spidering into blackness.
Once she’s gone, Skinpainter slowly lets the shells fall into the flames, chaff burnt and consumed. A moment, two. Collecting their breath before they turn again to the shadows. ‘What do you make of that then?’
Icecaller steps forwards from the darkness, grim-faced. ‘That bitch needs to die.’
Skinpainter puts their arm around her, pulls her close. ‘I’ve taught you well.’