“Long she lived,” said Thistle, again. She had a ranger’s endless woodcraft, endless dead craft. But she spoke awkwardly, as if she’d never told a story. Perhaps she hadn’t. “Long she lived. She grew strong in a strong place. In Eyrie, the high city, before the moons were named. She was binder until her hair was fully gray, a woman of power.
“And then one day — three children went straying. As children do. And a sudden flood swept them out of the pinch and into the forest. Into the hands of the forest. Mad Spider went out to find them, and she found them on a stone in the middle of a stream.
“And there were three Hands that had found them too.
“So Mad Spider, all alone, called to the Hands. She was the first binder to face the White Hands, and she was the best. She was not afraid. She called to them.”
It was a famous story, and Thistle had the rhythm of it now, had the words. “Like frostbite they came,” she said. “Like snow they came. Mad Spider was quick; she danced like a rabbit; she sprang like a deer. She caught them in her cord. But she was touched.”
“She came too close,” said Willow. Her voice was softer, a thing of breath and blood again. “And she was touched. Eye and eye and cheek and hand, she was touched. And this she did to save the children.”
“Daughter,” said Thistle.
“Tell the end,” said Willow.
“Willow …” said Thistle.
“Tell it,” said the thing.
“She died,” said Thistle, no longer like a storyteller, but like a woman who had heard brutal news, and had no way to soften it. “Mad Spider died. She stayed six days, but then she could stay no longer. She pulled her lodge down on her own head, and buried herself alive. And three days later, the Hand hatched from her. And that is the end of it. That is the fall of Eyrie.”
“To save the children,” said Willow, in her human voice, and then —
And then the white hand struck out, fast as a branch whipping, snatching Thistle’s spear-hand.
Thistle screamed and staggered back, clutching her wrist. In Willow’s white hand, the spear bent like a sapling. It creaked. The knots all around it came raveling loose, fast as if they were caught in fire.
“To save the children,” said the thing.
“Mother!” shouted Otter.
The thing twisted its head like an owl. It stared at her.
Otter froze.
“Lady Binder,” wheezed Cricket. “Willow.”
Kestrel had caught the staggering Thistle, dragged her out of the thing’s range. If it had a range. Cricket was standing alone. “Willow,” he said in his raspy voice. “Would you like to hear a story?”
He lifted one hand. The thing mirrored him, lifting its human hand, the last human part of it. Cricket swallowed, loud enough to hear. Then he took one step forward and wove his fingers through Willow’s fingers.
“Where does it start?” said Willow, humanity drifting back into her voice. “Where does it start?”
“A long time ago,” said Cricket, his voice ruined, shaking. “A long time ago, before the moons were named, there was a binder named Birch. And she had a daughter, a binder named Silver. And she had a daughter, a binder named Hare. And she had a daughter, a binder named Spider, who later was Mad Spider, and that is as far as the memory goes.”
Willow sank down, sitting on a sleeping platform. Her movement was too smooth, as if her legs had joints like a spider’s. Cricket, his hand entangled, sat with her.
“So,” he said. “So. Mad Spider was not much more than a sunflower when her mother died in the blistering fever. She was too young. She was too frightened. She did not want to let her mother go.”
Otter swallowed. Across the lodge, Thistle was folded up on the other platform, the hand Willow had touched pushed hard against her chest. Otter could hear her breathing.
“Mad Spider was strong,” said Cricket. “It is said she could tie a knot in living bone: She had that much power. What she bound stayed bound. And so she bound her mother high in the scaffolds, under the pale sky. But the wind did not take Hare. The rain did not take Hare. The ravens did not fly her far. She was bound there, with her bones knotted, and she stayed bound.”
“Storyteller,” hissed Thistle, around a mouthful of pain, “what are you doing?”
Cricket lifted his chin, met Thistle’s eyes.
His chin was proud, defiant. His eyes were wide with fear. This story: This was a secret story. Otter had grown so used to sharing the secrets of other cords that it seemed like nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Cricket turned back to Willow.
“Mad Spider felt the pull on her knots,” he said. Willow leaned her head against his shoulder like a sleepy child. Their joined hands rested on her knee. “The knots tugged her and the knots troubled her. One night she went out to the scaffolds. And when the moon rose she saw it: hands that opened and closed. That begged and beckoned.”