Butcher’s face split into his gap-toothed grin, and he beckoned to Bladesinger, who tossed him her sword. Mia watched from the corner of her eye as the Liisian began running her brother through basics of grip and stance and tactics (“When in doubt, always go for the bollocks”). She supposed it would keep Jonnen moving, at least. Keep him warm. But truth was, part of her wanted to protect the boy from this world of hers.
All the shit and hurt in it.
Ash sat by the fire, Mia a little farther away so as not to risk a burning. The flames still reached toward her, but not as fierce as when she drew close. ’Singer crouched between, stretching out her hands to warm them. Mia could see the awful scar on her swordarm, earned during their battle with the silkling at Whitekeep. The wound had almost seen her sold off by their domina, and Mia couldn’t help but wonder.
“How’s it healing?” she asked.
Bladesinger glanced at Mia, firelight flickering on her tattooed skin. “Slow.”
“How’s your swordgrip?”
The woman’s lip quirked, her eyes narrowed. “No fear on that front, Crow.”
Mia shook her head and smiled. “Never.”
The Dweymeri watched the flames for a few moments, obviously wrestling inside.
“So, the soulless one,” she finally said. “The deadboy. What’s his tale?”
“He’s a friend of ours.” Mia glanced at Ashlinn. “Well … mine, I suppose.”
“What do you mean soulless?” Ashlinn asked.
“I mean there’s naught to him but meat and bone, lass.” Bladesinger touched her breastplate. “Empty here. What’s he doing traveling with you?”
“It’s…” Mia shook her head, looking at the flames. “It’s a long tale.”
“What Butcher said was true, you know.” Bladesinger glanced out into the rain as if she feared Tric might be listening. “I’ve marked it, too. There’s more color to his flesh now than in Whitekeep. Less chill to the air about him.”
“It’s the sunslight, I think,” Mia replied. “He grows stronger the weaker it becomes. Just like me. But don’t fear, ’Singer. He’s been sent back to help us.”
’Singer raised one dark eyebrow, shook her head. “I studied seven years at the feet of the suffi in Farrow, girl. Learned about every god, every creed under the suns. And I tell you now, the dead don’t help the living. They only hinder us. And they don’t return lest they’ve business unfinished. What dies should stay that way.”
Mia glanced at Ashlinn, found the girl staring back with an I told you so look in her eye. But Ashlinn had the presence of mind to keep silent.
“He’s my friend, Bladesinger.” Mia sighed. “He saved my life.”
“Look at his eyes, Crow,”’Singer said. “No matter the new flush in his cheeks or the fresh spring in his step. Our eyes are the windows on our soul, and I tell you true, his look in on an empty room.”
Sidonius stomped in from the storm, dripping head to feet and looking utterly wretched. He pulled off his helm and sopping cloak, shook himself like a dog.
“Four Daughters, it’s falling harder than an inkfiend on the nod out there…”
He looked about the tower’s belly, noted the strain in the air.
“… What’s amiss?”
“Nothing,” Mia said. “Where’s Tric?”
“Still roaming.” Sid crouched by the cooking pit and stretched his hands toward the blaze. “He headed south, checking the scrubland. Sniffing the air as he went like a hound on the hunt. Strange bastard, that one.”
“Aye,” Ashlinn murmured, looking at Mia. “Deathly strange.”
“Oi, Sid,” Butcher called. “Come over here and show the boy that fancy spin move you do. The one that gutted that scythebear in Whitekeep.”
“Ah, you mean the widowmaker!” Sid grinned, dragging his hand along his scalp. “I’m not sure our young consul is ready for that one.”
“I can do it,” Jonnen insisted. “Watch.”
The boy lashed out with his gladius, one, two, his shadow dancing on the wall, his steps as clumsy as a nine-year-old with five minutes of practice under his belt.
“Impressive,” Sidonius smiled. “All right, I’ll show you. But you must promise not to use it unless at the utmost need. You could kill a silkling with this one.”
The Itreyan stood, trudged around the cooking pit, and began running Jonnen through the move. Mia watched the pair of them for a time, a small, sad smile on her lips. Truth was, this tiny respite, these friends and familia around her—it was the closest she’d had to normalcy for eight years. She wondered what her life might have been. What she might have had