‘It was a finger,’ she said, and then, rushing on in the same breath, ‘but he’s just a child, Mother Cressin, please, for the mercy of Tomas—’
‘A child born of forbidden copulation. Of evil. Of excrement. We will, of course, make it look like an accident – he can never know how his life is used, we are not that cruel – but he might start to wonder at his luck. Ten years old, and missing two fingers. Perhaps we should make it an eye, just for the sake of variety.’
‘No!’ Lin almost reached for her, almost took hold of the tiny woman and wrenched the life force from her, but the other agent stepped forward, raising her arms slightly. Lin faltered.
‘A finger, then, this time. Let’s hope his mother is more careful in future.’ The Drowned One raised her head, revealing eyes that were as colourless as her skin. ‘Do your job, Fell-Lin. Fell-Noon belongs back at the Winnowry. Her living, breathing, traitorous self – or her ashes.’
Blood had dried on the bark, leaving it the colour of old meat. Oreon took hold of the squirrel’s body, still flexible and slightly warm, and twisted it off the wickedly sharp thorn. She popped it in the basket tied to her back, and looked down to see her son doing the same with something she couldn’t quite see.
‘’nother squirrel, Jaron?’
‘Nah, Mum, bird. Red feather.’ He briefly held up a small body, the scarlet slashes of the bird’s flight feathers the brightest thing she could see. That was good. You didn’t get a lot of meat off a red feather, not at this time of year, but they were tasty. Oreon took a handful of berries from a pouch at her waist and, leaning down carefully to avoid the bristling thorns, deposited a handful in the cup strapped to the intersection of branches. The animals in this forest were wild for these berries – over the years, she and her family had grown them in their tiny section of the Underthorn, cross-breeding varieties until they had a berry that was irresistible to the smaller forest creatures. So much so that they would force their bodies into these tiny, lethal spaces, and in their fervour would impale themselves. The Wild was strange – those words were with them always.
Jaron scrambled his way up and sat next to her. He was even better at moving through the thorns than she was. She patted his arm absently.
‘You set your berries?’
‘Aye.’ He pulled off his gloves and fussed with his hair. ‘Hey, who’s that?’
They were on the very edge of the forest here, and high up, so that the plains fell away in front of them in a scrubby yellow-and-brown carpet and, far beyond that, the purple Bloodless Mountains were a jagged line. Three people were leaving the forest. They were riding the tough ponies that she often saw, making their way across the plains. She leaned forward, trying to get a better look.
‘There were strangers in the Underthorn yesterday,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see ’em, but they slept in the hunting den. Everyone was talking about it.’
They made a strange sight. In front was a shapely woman with dark brown skin and an explosion of black curly hair, hunched over her pony as though sheer determination could get them to their destination faster. In the middle was a young woman with a black hat, riding easily in her saddle but looking around continually. And at the end was the Eboran. Oreon sat up slightly, narrowing her eyes.
‘Is he really one of those bloodsuckers, Mum?’
‘It looks like it. Can’t believe ol’ Reen let them stay the night, whatever they was trading. Time was, an Eboran within miles of here was considered an act of war.’
‘They’re not dangerous any more, Mum, everyone knows that.’ Jaron pushed his fingers through his hair, making it fall back from his forehead in a wave. He tried to oil it that way, sometimes. ‘Blood lust killed ’em all out. And just one against all of us. He couldn’t do nothing.’
Oreon pursed her lips. Oreon was too young to have heard the stories from his great-grandfather’s own lips, but she remembered the look on the old man’s face when he told them. He had been a gregarious man, more interested in his berry brews than on doing a proper day’s work, but when he talked of the Carrion Wars all the good cheer would leave him; the stories of distant relatives slaughtered on battlefields and in their homes never seemed to fade with time. Those scars were deep for their people.
‘He’s very tall, isn’t he?’
Oreon nodded. The Eboran, even lounging in his saddle, was an imposing figure. She could just make out his profile. As she watched, he pulled something from his belt and tipped it to his lips. Whatever it was, it was gone in one gulp. A shot of strong liquor, perhaps, or something else.
‘Come on, my lad, let’s get back to the Underthorn. I’ve seen enough blood for one day.’
The Wild was strange, but sometimes the world outside was stranger.
25
‘And when will Mistress Hestillion be gracing us with her presence, exactly?’
Aldasair forced a smile on his face and transferred his attention to the old human woman with the melted face. Hestillion had told him to be polite at all times, particularly with more and more representatives from all over Sarn streaming into Ebora. Polite, but firm. It was inevitable, she had said, that the humans would see the terrible state of their people and home, but it wouldn’t do to give the impression that they were desperate. They were still Ebora, they were still apart from the human rabble. It was important the human visitors did not lose sight of that fact.