Black Halo

Seven

HONEST AFFLICTIONS



No matter how hard she stared, the sun refused to yield any answers to her.

It had been a long time since she had first turned her stare upward, mouth agape and eyes unblinking. If her throat was dry or if the tears had been scorched from her eyes, she didn’t care. Her breath had evaporated long ago, dissipating on the heat.

And Asper continued to stare.

The sun was supposed to reveal truth to her. This she knew. Every scripture claimed as much.

‘And when the Healer did give up His body and His skin and His blood until there was nothing left for Him to give to mankind, and only when the entirety of His being was spent for His children, then did He leave the agonies of the cruel earth and ascend to the Heavens on wings heavy with lament.

‘He left no apologies, He left no excuses and He left no promises for those He had so freely given His body. He left but this: hope. The great, golden disc that reminded His children that He had taken only His bones and breath back to the World Above, leaving His body, His skin, His blood and His great eye.’

She could recite the hymn until her lips bled and her tongue swelled up, and that used to be fine, so long as the words that were uttered were the words she had sought comfort in all her life.

Now words were not enough. And the sun refused to answer her.

Her arm burned with an intensity to rival the golden heat she raised it to. Flickering, twitching crimson light engulfed it, the bones blackened as over-forged sin beneath the red that had been her skin. Each bone of knuckle and digit stretched out, reaching ebon talons to the sun, seeking to wrest truth from it.

Her reach was too short. And lacking that, she could but ask.

‘Why?’

The sky sighed, its moan reaching into her body and racking the bones boiling black inside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ the sun answered. ‘It’s my fault.’

No room for pride in her body, no room to take pleasure or offer forgiveness. She could feel the crimson slip up over her shoulder, sliding over her throat on red fingers and crushing her breasts in blood-tinted grip. The pain shoved out all other feelings, scarring her skeleton black beneath her.

She saw the ebon joints of her knees rise up to meet her as she collapsed, pressing skeletal hands against the dirt. The sun was hot now, unbearably so. She threw back an ebon skull, cried out through a mouth that leaked red light between black teeth, pleading wordlessly for the great eye to stop.

‘I’m sorry,’ it replied. ‘I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

Her screams were wasted on the pitiless sky, her pleas nothing beneath its endless, airless droning. It repeated the words, bludgeoning her to the floor and beating her into darkness.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’

Eyelids twitched in time with the breath that rained hot and stale upon her face. They ached as they cracked open, encrusted with dried tears. The light assaulted her, blinding.

She blinked a moment, dispelling the haze that clouded her to bring into view a pair of dark eyes rimmed with dark circles, staring vast and desperate holes into her skull as a smile full of long yellow teeth assaulted her widening stare. She felt leather fingers gingerly brush a lock of brown hair away from her sweat-stained brow with arachnid sensuality.

‘Good morning,’ a voice rasped.

The scream that followed was swiftly silenced.

Long-fingered hands snapped over her mouth, drowning her shriek in a tide of leathery flesh. Another hand was under the first and she felt a heavy thumb press lightly against her throat, seeking her windpipe with practised swiftness.

‘Silence is sacred,’ the voice suggested in a way that implied it was no impotent hymn.

Whatever threat not implicit in the voice was frighteningly apparent in the hands, coursing down the palm and into the fingers that slid across her throat. Her breath came in short, terrified gulps. Her heart pounded in her chest, eyes terrified to meet the dark and heavy stare that bore down on her like a bird of prey.

Breath after desperate breath passed and the light ceased to sting. As a face came to the eyes staring over her, breath came more swiftly and confidently. The smile ceased to be so menacing once she remembered well the crooked bent to it. And, at the look of recognition that crossed her face, the hands slipped off her mouth and neck.

‘Not that I’m not thrilled to hear your melodic voice,’ Denaos whispered, ‘but it does get a little tiresome after hearing it for a few days.’

‘A … few days?’ Asper felt her voice scratch raw against a throat turned to leather.

‘A few days, yes,’ Denaos replied, his nod a little disjointed. ‘You took a nasty blow to the head.’ He rubbed a tender spot against her brow, wincing in time with her. ‘Not surprising. Lots of wood flying this way and that. Hard to keep track of, no?’

‘Wood … flying …’ And wet, she remembered, falling like slow-moving hail, herself only one more fleshy stone descending in an airless blue sky. Her eyes widened with the realisation. ‘We were attacked. Sunk! But …’ She felt the sand beneath her, smelled the sea before her. ‘Where are we?’

‘Island. Archipelago, maybe?’ Denaos tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Peninsula, coast, beach, shore, littoral … left side of an isthmus. Not sure, lost the map.’ He stared out at the sea. ‘Lost everything.’

‘And … the others?’

‘Lost everything.’

Everything.

The word echoed inside her mind and down her body. Her heart pounded against it, feeling surprisingly light, a familiar weight removed from her chest. She glanced down and saw her robes parted, exposing a generous amount of bosom, a patch of particularly pale skin in the shape of a bird where her pendant had once hung dutifully.

She should have been more alarmed at that, she knew. The pendant had been with her since she had first been admitted to the priesthood. It had seen everything, from her initiation as a novice, to her rise to acolyte, to her full initiation.

It saw Taire, she told herself grimly. It saw the longface. It’s seen my arm. It knows. And now it’s gone.

Perhaps it wasn’t any wonder she was breathing more freely now.

‘I don’t wear my robes like this,’ she muttered. A horrific suspicion leapt from her mind to her eyes and she turned them, wide as moons, upon the tall man. ‘I was out for a few days.’

‘Three.’ He canted his head to the side, looking to some imaginary consultant. ‘Four? Six? No … three sounds right, thereabouts.’

‘You didn’t …’ She grimaced as she readjusted her garments. ‘You didn’t do anything, did you?’

‘Seems a little pointless, doesn’t it?’ He sneered at her blue garment. ‘I’ve already seen you naked.’

‘What? When?’ She put that thought from her mind, however difficult it was. ‘No, don’t tell me. Just … did you do anything?’

‘I might have. I am well versed in Sleeping Toad.’

She opened her mouth to protest further, but something in his grin caught her eye. It was not the smooth, rehearsed split of his mouth that he so often wore like a mask. It was strained at the edges, frayed, as though the porcelain of that mask had begun to crack, exposing a desperate grin and wide, shadow-rimmed eyes.

She forced her next words through a grimace. ‘You don’t look so good.’

His parched lips peeled off glistening gums like leather in the sun, seeming to suggest that he was aware of as much. His hair formed a greasy frame about his strained, stubble-caked expression.

‘Not so good at sleeping these days,’ he whispered. ‘There could be enemies anywhere.’

‘All this time?’

‘Doesn’t seem that long now,’ he replied.

She furrowed her brow; she had seen him function on three days’ insomnia without any ill effects before. That he would suddenly seem so rabid didn’t make any sense to her until he loosed a long breath, its stale air reeking with old barrels and barley.

‘You managed to save the whisky?’ she asked, crinkling her nose.

‘Wasn’t easy,’ he grunted. ‘Had to do some diving. Had the time, though. Couldn’t sleep, obvious reasons.’ He patted his breeches and smiled grimly. ‘No more knives, see? Felt naked, insecure. Whisky helped me alert stay …’ He trailed off for a moment before snapping back with a sudden twitch. ‘Stay alert.’

‘You could have slept, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know,’ he snarled. ‘I’m not the healer here. I didn’t know if you would even wake up.’

‘So, you …’ Her eyes widened slowly this time, the realisation less horrific, but no less shocking. ‘You watched over me all this time?’

‘Not much choice,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You were out. None of the others made it. Dread was absolutely worthless.’

‘Dreadaeleon? He’s alive?’

‘Fished both of you out. You were unconscious. He wasn’t. Had him make a raft with his ice … breath … magic-thing.’ He gestured to the beach. ‘Floated here. He stalked off to the forest shortly after, never came back out.’

She followed his finger to the dense patch of foliage over her head, saw the scrawny figure leaning against a tall tree, in such still repose as to appear dead. Perhaps he was, she thought with a twinge of panic.

‘Gods,’ she muttered. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘What isn’t?’

‘You didn’t check?’ She turned to him, aghast. ‘You didn’t ask?’

‘Not the healer.’ The rogue sneered. ‘I couldn’t watch over both of you, and you were the one with breasts. Process of elimination.’

‘How delightful,’ she muttered. ‘I suppose since I’m awake now …’ She made to rise, then paused as she became aware of a sudden pain in her cheek. She winced, pressing her hand to her jaw. ‘My face hurts.’

‘Yeah,’ he grunted, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve been hitting you for the past few days.’

She could but blink.

‘All right … should I ask?’

‘I’ve seen you do it before. Seemed like an easy medical process.’

‘You hit people who are in shock, idiot.’

‘I was a bit startled.’

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. When she looked up again, an unsympathetic sea met her gaze with the uninterested rumble of waves.

‘Lost everything?’ she repeated dully.

‘Does it somehow make it more believable if I say it three times?’ Denaos sighed. ‘Yes, lost everything, up to and including the derelict reptile that got us here.’

‘And Lenk, and Kataria …’ She sighed, placing her face in her hands and staring glumly out over the sea. ‘It …’ She winced, or rather, forced a wince to her face. ‘It had to happen, I suppose.’

‘It did,’ Denaos grunted, casting her a curious eye. ‘I’m shocked you’re taking it so well, though. One would expect you to be all on knees and hands, cutting your forehead for Talanas and praying for their safe return … or at least safe passage to heaven.’

She scratched the spot her pendant had hung. ‘Maybe it’s not so necessary these days.’

‘Gods are always necessary,’ he replied. ‘Especially in cases like these.’

She said nothing at that, instead letting the full weight of the words sink upon her. Lost everything … everything …

‘The tome,’ she gasped suddenly, turning to the rogue. ‘The tome! Did you at least look for it?’

‘Did,’ Denaos grunted, then gestured up the hill to Dreadaeleon. ‘Or he did, rather. Used some kind of weird bird magic that didn’t work before running off like a milksop. Useless.’

That thought plucked an uncomfortable string on her heart. She should have been more upset about the loss of her companions, she knew. But somehow, the loss of the book carried more weight. It seemed to her that the loss of the tome, merely the topmost piece in a growing pile of disappointments, was just a spiteful afterthought to drive home the pointlessness of it all.

It was for nothing. It was futile.

Those thoughts were becoming easier to endure with their frequency.

She looked up at a hand placed on her shoulder, doing her best not to cringe at his unpleasant smile.

‘Losing faith?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t know faith concerned you.’

‘Washed up on an island. No food, little water, friends dead and book lost.’ He shrugged. ‘Not much left but faith.’

She frowned; faith used to be all she needed. Somehow, Denaos seemed to sense that thought, however. He rose up, offering her a hand and a whisper.

‘I’m sorry.’

It came back on a flood of sensation, images carried on the stink of his breath, sounds in the warmth of his grasp.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was his voice that slipped through her memory, clear and concise, stored in the fog of her mind. And he repeated it, over and over. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry … but why? Why does this always happen to me?’

Was it merely an echo? An errant thought emerging from her subconscious? She had been unconscious, she knew, sleeping. She couldn’t have heard him. But, then, why did his voice continue to ring out in her mind?

‘This is the second one,’ he had said, she was certain. ‘I didn’t even do anything this time! It’s not fair! First her, then … her.’ She could remember a hand, lovingly brushing against her cheek. ‘Please, Silf, Talanas … any of you! I deserve it, I know, but she doesn’t! And she didn’t! Please. Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’

‘Who was she?’ The question came from her mouth unbidden on the tail of that sporadic voice that rose from her mind.

‘What?’ He hesitated pulling her up, looking down at her. The mask shattered completely, crumbled in thick, white shards onto the sand. What was left behind was something hard-eyed and purse-lipped. ‘What did you say?’

‘She … the woman you were speaking of.’ Asper pulled herself the rest of the way up. ‘You kept apologising.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He let his hand fall from hers. ‘How would you even know? You were out.’

‘I remember, though. I must have been awake for part of it, and—’

‘No, you weren’t.’ He cut her off with a razor edge. ‘I watched over you. You were out and you didn’t wake up, at any time.’ He turned away from her curtly. ‘I’m going to go sleep myself now. Go check on Dread.’

She watched him take all of three steps before the words came again.

‘For what it’s worth,’ she said, ‘I’m sure she forgives you.’

He turned upon her with the staggering need of a beggar two weeks starved. Considering her through expressionless eyes for a moment, he walked toward her, arms up in benediction. With more confusion than hesitation, she let herself into his embrace. There was no warmth in his arms, but an unpleasant constrictor tightness.

She gasped as she felt the knife, sliding like a snake up her tunic to kiss her kidneys with steel lips, the menace of the weapon conveyed in a touch that barely grazed her skin.

‘You,’ he whispered, his voice an unsharpened edge, ‘don’t ever speak of her.’

‘You …’ She swallowed hard. ‘You said you didn’t have any knives left. You lied.’

‘No,’ he gasped, looking at her with mock incredulousness. ‘Me?’

And in a flash, he was striding away from her. His back was tall and straight, shaking off his threat like a cloak. It fell atop the shards of his mask, and as she stared at his back, mouth agape, she couldn’t help but feel that he was already weaving another one to put on.

A warm breeze blew across the beach. The sun was silent. Her left arm began to ache.

After much careful deliberation, a lone seagull drifted down off the warm currents crisscrossing the island to land upon the sands and peck at the earth. In its simple mind, it vaguely recalled not visiting this area before. It was a barren land, bereft of much food. But in its simple eyes, it beheld all manner of debris not seen on these shores before. And thus, curious, it hopped along, picking at the various pieces of wood.

A shadow caught its attention. It looked up. It remembered these two-legged things, such as the one that sat not far away from it. It remembered it should run from them. It spread its wings to fly.

And instantly, it was seized in an invisible grip.

‘No, no,’ Dreadaeleon whispered, pulling his arm back. The force that gripped the seagull drew it closer to him, the bird’s movement completely wrenched up in panic. ‘I need your brain.’

His voice was hot with frustration. He hadn’t expected it to take nearly this long to seize a stupid bird that, by all accounts, should be infesting the shores like winged rats. But that was a momentary irritation, one quickly overrun by the sudden pain that lanced through his bowels.

His breath went short, his hand trembled and the seagull writhed a little as his attentions went to the agony rising into his chest. This was not normal, he knew; pain was the cost of magic overspent, and the ice raft he had wrought to deliver his companions certainly qualified. But those pains were mostly relegated to the brain and rarely lasted for more than a few hours. This particular agony that coursed through his entire being was new to him.

But not unknown.

Stop it, he scolded himself. You’ve got enough trouble without wondering about the Decay. You don’t have it. Stop it. Focus on the task at hand. Focus on the seagull.

The seagull, he thought as he drew the trembling bird into his lap, and its tiny, juicy, electric little brain.

Still, he hesitated as he rested a finger upon the bird’s skull. More magic would mean more pain, he realised, and it seemed unwise to expend any energy on anything that wasn’t guaranteed to find salvation from the sea. And, as magic went, avian scrying was as unreliable as they came.

Dreadaeleon had never found a bird that wasn’t a bumbling, hunger-driven moron. He could sense the electricity in its brain now: straight, if crude, lines of energy suggesting minimal, single-minded activity. It was those lines that made birds easier to manipulate than the jumble of confused sparks that made up the human brain, but it also made them relatively pointless for finding anything beyond carrion and crumbs.

But carrion and crumbs were food. And, as his growling belly reminded him, food was not something they had managed to salvage.

He whispered a word. A faint jolt of electricity burst through his fingers, into the avian’s skull. It twitched once, then let out a frightened caw. He could feel the snaps of primitive cognition, bursting in his own mind as their electric thoughts synchronised.

Scared, they told him. Scared, scared, scared, scared.

‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘Go, then.’

He released the bird, sending it flying out over the waters. He leaned back, closing his eyes. In his mind, he could feel the gull’s presence, sense its location, know its thoughts as he felt each sputtering pop of thought in its tiny brain. All he needed to do now was wait; he could hold onto its signature for at least an hour.

A lance of pain shot through him. He winced.

Or less.

‘What do you hope to achieve?’ someone asked him.

‘Animals search for food first. If there’s any around here, I’ll know about it,’ he replied, his thoughts preoccupied with the gull’s.

‘There are many places the Sea Mother’s creatures go that you cannot.’

‘If I can tap into a seagull’s brain, I can certainly figure out how to get where he’s going,’ he snarled. Only when his ire rose higher than his pain did he realise that the voice was not that of one of his companions.

But it was not unknown.

He turned about and saw her standing before him: tall, pale body wrapped in a silken garment, fins cresting about her head, feathery gills blended with emerald-colour hair. He looked up, agape, and the siren smiled back at him.

‘I am pleased that you are well, lorekeeper,’ Greenhair said. The fins on the sides of her head twitched. ‘Or … are you?’

‘Not so much now,’ he said. He tried to rise, felt a stab of pain and, immediately afterward, felt the urge to wince.

Don’t do it, old man, he warned himself. Remember, she’s tricky. She can get into your head. She can manipulate your thoughts. Stay calm. Don’t think about the pain. She’ll know … unless she already knows and is telling you how to feel now to further her agenda. Stop thinking. I SAID, STOP THINKING!

‘Be calm, lorekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘I do not come seeking strife.’

‘Yes, you’re quite talented, aren’t you? You find it without even searching for it,’ Dreadaeleon muttered. ‘You tricked us into going into Irontide after the tome and abandoned us when we had to fight for it.’

‘I was concerned for the appearance of—’

‘I wasn’t finished,’ he spat. ‘You then came back after we had it and got into my head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘My head, and tried to tell me to steal it for you.’

She blinked. ‘You are finished now?’

‘And you smell like fish,’ he said. ‘There. Get out of my sight. I’m busy here.’

‘Seeking salvation for your companions?’

‘Shut up,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes, attempted to seek out the gull’s thoughts.

‘That they might look upon you with the adoration that befits a hero?’

Don’t answer, old man. She’ll twist your words first, your thoughts second and probably your bits last. Focus on the gull. Focus on finding help.

He found the gull and listened intently to its electric pulse. There was a silence, then a burst, then a gentle sense of relief. A bowel movement.

Good thing you didn’t waste any energy on that. Oh, wait.

‘This is not the way, lorekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘You will find no salvation in the sea. This island is dead. It has claimed your other companions.’

‘Not all of them,’ he replied.

‘You seek their approval? When they do not so much as care for the effort you expend for them? The pain you feel?’

‘There is no pain. I’m fine.’

‘You are not. Something has broken within you, lorekeeper. A well of sickness rises inside your flesh.’

‘Nausea,’ he replied. ‘Sea air and sea trollops both make me sick.’

‘And you continue to harm yourself,’ she whispered. ‘For what? For them?’

Dreadaeleon said nothing. Yet he could feel her staring at him, staring past his skull, eyes raking at his brain.

‘Or for her?’ Greenhair said.

‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘Go away. Go turn into a tuna or get harpooned or whatever it is you do when you go beneath the waves. I have business to attend to.’

‘As do they.’

‘What?’

He turned to her and found her staring down at the beach. He followed her gaze, down to the shore and the two people upon it. The people he had extended his power for, the people that he had put himself in pain for, the people he had magically lassoed and mentally dominated a filth-ridden sea-pigeon for. He saw them.

Embracing.

‘But … he’s a rat,’ he whispered. ‘And she’s … she’s …’

‘She has betrayed you.’

‘No, they’re just doing … they’re …’

‘And you are not,’ Greenhair said, slipping up behind him. ‘As you burn yourself with impure fire, as you expend yourself for them, they roll on each other like hogs.’

‘They just don’t know,’ he said. ‘Once they see, they’ll know, they’ll see—’

‘They didn’t know when you saved them from the Akaneeds? When you kept them aloft with no concern for your own safety? Your own health? When will they notice?’

‘When … when …’

‘When you find the tome.’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘This island has barely any food. Even the creatures of the Sea Mother avoid it. But there is something else. The gull can find it. It calls to everything. It will call to the gull. The gull will call to you.’

Her voice was a melodic serpent, slithering into his ears, coiling around his brain. He was aware of it, of her talents, of her treachery. Yet even fools occasionally had good ideas, didn’t they? If he could find the tome, find it and show it to them, to her, she would know, she would know him. They would all know. They would see his power.

He closed his eyes, searched for the gull. He found it, circling somewhere out over the sea. Its eyes were down, its head was crackling as it spotted things bobbing in the water. It saw wood – wreckage, Dreadaeleon concluded, even if the gull couldn’t comprehend it. It saw no food, yet remained entranced, circling lower toward the sea.

Tome.

He twitched; that shouldn’t be possible. Birds had no idea what a tome was. They could not recognise it.

But it did, somehow; Dreadaeleon could feel it. It stared down into the depths, seeing it clearly as a stain of ink upon the pristine blue. It stared into the sea, past the wreckage and past the brine. It stared into the water, it stared into a perfect, dark square plainly visible even so far down as it was.

Tome.

The gull stared.

Tome.

The tome stared back.

And suddenly, Dreadaeleon heard it, felt it. Voices in his head, whispers that glided on stale air and whispering brine rather than electric jolts. A grasping arm that reached out, found the current that connected gull and wizard, and squeezed.

Where is it, the voices whispered, where is it? It was here ages ago. It spoke. It read. It knew. Tell us where it is. Tell us where it went. Tell us how it got there. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us who you are. Tell us what you’re made of. Tell us of your tender meat and your little mind. Tell us of brittle bones and tears that taste salty. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us how you work. Tell us. Tell us. We will know. Tell us.

He trembled, clenched his teeth so fiercely that they creaked behind his lips. His breath came in short, sporadic breaths. His head seared with fire, whispering claws reaching out to flense his brain and taste the electric-stained meat, tasting it for knowledge. He could hear the tome. He could hear it speak to him.

TELL US.

And then he heard himself scream.

‘Dread?’

He hadn’t recalled falling onto his back. He certainly hadn’t noticed Greenhair leaving. And he was absolutely positive he would have seen Asper coming. And yet he was on his back, the siren vanished and the priestess was kneeling beside him, propping him up, staring at him with concern. His voice was a nonsensical croak, his head spinning as thoughts, his own and the gull’s, sizzled in his skull.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head to dispel the last sparks. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, perfectly fine.’

‘You don’t’ – she paused to cringe – ‘look it.’

Steady, old man, he reminded himself. Don’t act all helpless now. Don’t let her know what’s wrong. He snarled inwardly. What do you mean what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong! Just a headache. Don’t worry about it. Don’t let her worry about it. And most importantly, don’t pay attention to the urge to piss yourself.

That proved a little harder. His bowels stirred at her touch, rigid with pain, threatening to burst like overfilled waterskins. Still, he bit back pain, water and screams as she helped him to his feet, resisting the urge to burst from any orifice.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Strain,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Magical strain.’

‘Bird magic, Denaos said.’

‘Bird magic,’ Dreadaeleon said, all but spitting. ‘Of course. It’s nothing so marvellous as seizing control of another living thing’s brain functions. It’s bird magic. What would he know?’ He found himself glaring without willing it, the words hissing through his teeth. ‘What would you know?’

‘Dread …’ She recoiled, as though struck.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just … a headache.’

In the bowels, he added mentally, the kind that makes you explode from both ends and probably kills you if it is what you think it is. He shook his head. No, no. Calm down. Calm down.

‘Of course,’ Asper said, sighing. ‘Denaos said you’d exerted yourself.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I trust you won’t begrudge me if I say I’m glad you did?’

You’re probably going to develop some magical ailment where you begin defecating out your mouth and choke on your own stool and she’s glad?

‘I mean, I know it was a lot,’ she said, ‘but you did save us.’

‘Oh … right,’ he replied. ‘The ice raft. Yeah, it was … nothing.’

Nothing except the inability to stand up on your own power. Good show.

‘It’s just a shame you couldn’t save the others,’ she said. ‘Or … is that what you were doing with your bird magic?’

‘Avian scrying,’ he snapped, on the verge of a snarl before he twitched into a childish grin. ‘And … yes. Yes, I was looking for them.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?’ She sighed, looking forlornly over the sea. ‘We were lucky to escape, ourselves. Anything left by the wreck would be devoured.’

There was something in her that caused him to tense, or rather something not there. Ordinarily, her eyes followed her voice, always a sharp little upscale at the end of each thought to suggest that she was waiting to be proven wrong, waiting for someone to refute a grim thought. If enough time passed, she would, and often did, refute herself, citing hope against the hopeless.

But such an expression was absent today, such an upscale gone from her voice. She spoke with finality; she stared without blinking. And she looked so very, very tired.

‘They … they might be out there,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Talanas watch over them?’

‘If Talanas listened, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.’

And then, he saw it, in the seriousness of her eyes, the firm certainty in her jaw. The idealistic hope was removed from her eyes, that whimsical twinge that he was always certain indicated at least a minor form of brain damage was gone from her voice. She was a person less reliant on faith, if she had any at all anymore.

She’s stopped, he thought. She doesn’t believe in gods. Not right now, at least.

There were a number of reactions that went through his mind: congratulate her on her enlightenment, rejoice in the fact that they could finally communicate as equals or maybe just speak quietly and offer to guide her. He rejected them all; each was entirely inappropriate. And nothing, nothing, he knew, was a less appropriate reaction than the tingling he felt in his loins.

Stave it off, stave it OFF, he told himself. This is the absolutely worst possible time for that.

‘Did you … feel something?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Absolutely not,’ he squealed.

She seemed to take no notice of his outburst, instead staring off into the distance. ‘Something … like I felt back at Irontide. Hot and cold …’

He quirked a brow; she had sensed magic back then, he recalled, but many were sensitive to it without showing any other gifts. And the source at the time, a fire- and frost-spewing longface, was a bright enough beacon that even the thickest bark-neck would have sensed it.

This concerned him, though. He could feel nothing in the air, none of the fluctuating chill and heat that typically indicated a magical presence. He wondered, absently, if she might be faking it.

Her left arm tensed and she clenched at it, scratching it as though it were consumed by ants. A low whine rose in her throat, becoming an agonised whisper as she scratched fiercer and fiercer until red began to stain the sleeve of her robe.

‘Dread,’ she looked up at him, certainty replaced by horror. ‘What’s happening?’