Chapter 64 #2
Outside, the little pony is staked close against the wall, its flanks moving rhythmically as it strips the remains of the byre of what greenery it can find.
Shipwright takes out a comb, tosses another to Shroudweaver, laughing at his expression. ‘Did you think that this sturdy trooper looked after himself?’
‘I thought there might be a charm. From the Burners or something. What was your friend’s name, Thorndaughter?’
She laughs again. ‘I’ll tell her that. She’ll enjoy it.’ She starts combing and the rough wire of the small horse’s mane grudgingly straightens under her steady fingers. ‘Come on, this soothes me too, OK? Don’t leave me hanging.’
He smiles, starts brushing softly. Shipwright fixes him with a look.
‘Harder. He won’t break.’ They work quietly for a moment, until her courage recovers.
She clears her throat. ‘So, Crowkisser has some body magic, maybe mixed up with some kind of prophecy. But that’s not all, is it? There’s what she did down south.’
Shroudweaver flinches back as the pony whickers.
She utterly fails to hide her grin.
He collects himself before he replies. ‘Yes, there’s that. And that’s one thing I don’t understand. There’s nothing I know of that could have taken a city, an army apart like that. Nothing that could have taken our names.’
Shipwright tries to keep the brush steady. Not too harsh, not too gentle. ‘Nothing?’ Watches his face as he answers.
‘Nothing. Either she’s found something very old, or very new. Or she’s mixed things that … shouldn’t be mixed. Broken some rules.’
Shipwright unpicks suckflies from around the little horse’s eyes, crushes them between thumb and forefinger. ‘Sounds like her.’
Shroudweaver leans forward onto the pony’s back. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
He stays there for a moment, feeling the warmth of its body against him.
A little spike of guilt in his heart for holding back. A larger chunk of ice as he thinks again about what unbinding the dead means.
‘That’s why we need the composite. If we can hit her hard enough, we can take her out before she brings … whatever else she has to bear.’
Shipwright pats the horse on its flank, reties its stay.
‘Take her out. You keep saying that.’ She gestures. ‘Water into the trough, thanks.’
Shroudweaver stoops over the stone trough. ‘How do I do this again?’
‘Oh for heaven’s. Let me. And you, tell me what “take her out” means. I want to puke when you’re vague.’
He watches her work, her fingers dancing over a spinner she’s pulled from the saddlebags.
‘Like I said, hit her hard enough to stun her, or capture her. That would be ideal. She’d be a peerless hostage. That army, Slickwalker, they’re nothing without her.’
Shipwright presses softly on the spinner’s hull, and it starts to hum gently before she sets it in the trough.
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
He watches the brass orb turn for a while, slowly drawing all the moisture and dew from the stone and soil, collecting it in the trough. It takes him a while to get the words out.
‘If that doesn’t work. I can redirect the composite’s power. Pour it into Crowkisser until it burns her out.’ He looks away, out across the fields. ‘Like I said. That army’s nothing without her.’
The trough fills. Shipwright dips her hand and retrieves the spinner, letting her fingers move back and forth on the water’s surface for a moment before the horse shoulders her aside.
She walks across to Shroudweaver, hugs him. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
He nods.
The tent is warmer once the lamp is lit, and his face softens in the glow.
She kisses either cheek, then the bridge of his nose.
‘So this composite, it’s just loose. You’re going to be the only thing holding it together?
How does anyone hold that many souls? I thought hanging onto those things was killing you. ’
He’s quiet.
She can smell the night air on his skin, watch the shallowness of his breath.
‘I was there when we threw down the Empire. I know just how many dead there were. How can you stand it? Having them all roiling inside you?’ When Shroudweaver doesn’t reply, she turns his head gently. His eyes are bright with tears.
‘I can’t. It’s why I have to let them out.’
She frowns. ‘I thought so. And once they’re out, you’re the only thing that’s going to be holding thousands on thousands of souls together?’ She puts a hand to his cheek, holding the tremor from her voice. ‘My pale little lover. The only thing holding the shape of a new god? Just you.’
He runs a finger along her hairline, presses a curl straight. ‘Yes. Just me.’
She takes his hand, puts it down in his lap, ‘You idiot.’
‘I can do it.’
She furrows her brow, unconvinced. ‘How did they teach it at the Aestering?’
He thins his lips into a line. ‘They didn’t. But I can do it.’
‘Can you?’ Her eyes are fire in the half-light. ‘Can you really?’
He nods. ‘I can. I know I can. I’ve thought about this for a long time. Since before the war.’
She watches his lips. ‘Since then? Why?’
‘I thought we might need it to take down the Emperor. In the end.’
‘That was more of a group endeavour,’ she mutters.
He grimaces. ‘I know.’
She takes his hand again, holds it tight between her palms.
‘You can do this? Safely? Do it and get out alive?’
‘I think so.’
She raises an eyebrow as she gently pushes him down onto the bedroll. ‘I could have done with a stronger endorsement there.’
He’s thin under her, the sharp, hollow lines of his face picked out by the shadows. Something like the ghost of an owl. Tired. Frightened. Beautiful.
‘I can do it.’ He says, and she hears the truth in his voice. Somewhere inside her, a knot of fear relaxes.
She adjusts so her head’s on his chest, puts an arm over his ribs. Wills her breathing to slow just a notch, the hammer of her heart to drop its drum.
‘Do they know? Kinghammer? Skinpainter? Do they know what the unbinding will do?’
He kisses her hair, lets his lips linger, talks down into her skull. ‘Only Skinpainter. Only they were there at the end. The real end of the Empire.’
‘And they’re OK with it?’
‘They understand sacrifice. Understand the need to hold the line. Better than anyone.’
She strokes his hair, methodically unbuttons his shirt and shucks him out his robes.
‘And my job’s going to be what? Stopping Kinghammer from braining you?’
He laughs, slides under the covers with her. ‘For starters, yes.’
They’re quiet then, taking a moment to be just skin and skin. Part of her heart loves it, this moment of closeness, of peace. The other part of her wonders if her body will betray her. If, somehow, he’ll see all the fear, all the worry creep out of her skin.
She holds him tight anyway. It’s worth the risk.
‘Why have we never talked about this before, love? We’re a little down to the wire.’
His fingers stroke her shoulders, finding the knots.
‘I …’
She shifts, kisses his neck. ‘What, string-bean?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. I know you worry.’
She doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry. The noise that comes out is somewhere in between.
‘So, you just thought you’d not mention it?’
He looks at her. ‘There’s so much to mention. Sometimes, I just don’t know where to start. I don’t know how you’d bear it.’
She kisses him again. ‘You’d be surprised what I can bear.’
And with that, she turns, and blows out the light.