It wasn’t exactly comforting, seeing as Neve hadn’t yet seen any insects in the Shadowlands.
The door stood fully open now, a rectangular maw in the cottage’s side. The legs—the Seamstress—had disappeared back into the gloom of her hovel. Apparently, the opening of the door was as much welcome as they’d get. Undeterred, Solmir started toward the door, unslinging the bag from his shoulder as he went.
For a moment, Neve considered staying out here, waiting for Solmir to finish whatever business he had with the Seamstress alone. But that three-eyed goat looked at her again, letting out another strange bleat—it sounded like a ship’s horn, as if the thing was running through a remembered list of noises every time it opened its mouth—and that was enough to send her hurrying to catch up.
Right before the threshold, Solmir stopped. He inclined his head toward the dark, not quite a bow but a show of deference. “Beloved of an Old One, I cede my power as I cross into your holding, and follow no law but your own as long as I abide by your hearth.” He set the bag down before the door.
A low chuckle from inside the cottage, unexpectedly melodious. “It smells like you don’t have much power to cede, once-King. Your well is near run dry. But I do appreciate the gesture.” Another one of those spider legs curved out of the dark, hooked the bag, and pulled it inside. The sound of a deep sniff, then a pleased click, like teeth snapping together. “Your offering is accepted. Be welcome, you and your guest.”
Solmir looked at Neve, smirked. “Last chance to stay out here. You could make friends with the goat.”
Neve didn’t give him the dignity of a response. She strode forward and crossed the threshold before he did, fighting down fear until it was nothing but a cold twinge in her middle. Her hand flexed as she passed him, itching to scratch his skin and steal another jolt of magic, but she closed it to a fist.
The inside of the cottage was just as disconcertingly normal as the outside, once her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Spiny things hung from the ceiling the way herbs might; a closer look revealed that they were insect legs, spike-haired and segmented. They looked exactly like whatever Solmir had stuffed into the bag back at the tower, what he’d given the Seamstress as an offering.
Her mouth pulled down. It seemed like most of the things in the Shadowlands were dead, but apparently that hadn’t always been the case, and Solmir had a stockpile of insect carcasses to offer in exchange for information. It made a nervous laugh itch at the back of her throat. She’d received so much training on trade, but she’d never considered bargaining with insect parts. Always something new to learn, apparently.
The small space was warmed by a crackling, colorless fire in a small hearth. A large wooden block sat in the center of the room—a table, maybe, though there were no chairs. Dark stains marred the block’s surface, studded with pieces of torn iridescence, like wing remnants. A plain cupboard was pushed against the wall.
And when her eyes couldn’t focus on the slightly twisted normalcy anymore, they had to turn to the cottage’s occupant.
A woman. Most of one, anyway. A torso clad in a simple white shift, a graceful neck, a beautiful face framed by cascading black hair. She looked normal enough, from the waist up. But where her legs should be, there were clusters of spider limbs, longer than the woman was tall. When she smiled, her teeth were sharp, and her eyes gleamed multifaceted in the firelight.
Neve’s mouth dried, but she was a queen, and the formal way Solmir had greeted the creature at the door told her she should show the same deference to the Seamstress as she would to any other dignitary. So instead of screaming and running out the door, she inclined her head. “Thank you for your welcome.”
The Seamstress’s grin widened, amused. “The little Shadow Queen, at last.” The whisper seemed layered, as if this creature had as many voices as she did limbs, all of them pressed together and tuned to one key. The Seamstress moved forward, so graceful on her spider’s legs that it looked like she floated, the torso of a woman in a writhing sea of black. “We’ve heard of you. Yes, we’ve heard so much of you and all you’ve done. The doorway you made and then closed.” She nodded, suddenly solemn. “As you should have. There are no shortcuts through this, no matter how Solmir would like there to be. Someone must be a vessel.”
Shadow Queen. The title felt familiar, though Neve couldn’t put her finger on how.
“Someone is a vessel.” Solmir closed the door and held his arms behind his back, voice nonchalant despite the stiff line of his posture. “Didn’t you say you smelled it? I’m holding all the magic for our little queen here. She doesn’t want to end up a monster.”
“Why not?” The Seamstress cocked her head at Neve, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. “You’ve gotten close already, up in your own world. It’s not so different down here. Just harder to hide.”
“She didn’t like the pain,” Solmir said. “Or the changes.” He almost sounded amused. Neve didn’t look back to see if he was wearing that cruel smile again, because if he was, she might not be able to resist clawing it off.
“Oh, that.” The Seamstress waved her hand. “Well. Power is pain, Shadow Queen, and monster in the eye of the beholder. You’ll learn.”
A rumble shook through the floor, enough to make the insect remains on the ceiling sway and the cupboard rattle.
“Tremors,” the Seamstress said softly. “Death throes of a dying place.”
“They’re getting worse.” Solmir came to stand beside Neve, his arms crossed over his chest. “We felt two coming here from the tower.”
The creature nodded. “This world frays at the seams with each Old One that dies, dissolving further, becoming more unstable. Magic shaking loose as the gods fall. Only three left now.”
For the first time since Neve had seen him in his true form, Solmir looked almost uncomfortable. Almost sympathetic. “And I assume yours is not one of the three.”
“No.” The Seamstress’s eyes closed, a shiver of grief working through her human shoulders and down her spider limbs. “No. My Weaver is gone.”
Solmir sighed, rubbing at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The silver on his hands glinted, and when his hair fell back, Neve noticed a ring glimmering in his earlobe, too. “My heart aches as yours does.”
“My sorrow is lessened by the presence of yours.” Archaic phrases, platitudes from out of time, keeping Neve on the outside of the conversation.