herself from throwing up from sheer nervousness. She’d run scout for Vilsara in Xenok many times, but this?
This was not the same beast at all. They were following the craftmark on the blade they’d been given in the tavern - the whole thing was creeping her skin, and frankly, she wanted to be back behind the safety of the high palace wall.
Any wall. Any wall but this one.
But the old crafthouse was silent, its shutters closed and sagging, its heavy wooden door sealed.
Figments of white mist gibbered laughter in her head.
Stop that!
She swallowed, found her mouth was too dry and smothered a sudden cough, a plume of pale breath rising like steam. As she did so, Triq moved as though released, swift and almost soundless, easing quickly and carefully across the weed-edged flags.
Triq had drawn her second blade, held them both folded back along her wrists. Amethea drew her own little belt-blade and watched her friend’s progress.
Any moment now, she thought, the attack, the ambush, the monster...
Nothing happened.
The weeds writhed silent and the white mist eddied into spectres, pale shadows of emptiness.
Triq threw a glance at her. Grinned.
This is crazed.
Amethea did not want to go into this place, did not want to know why half the roof had fallen in, why the creeper had grown through everything like a disease. She was no warrior; faced by the centaurs, then by Maugrim, she’d not been able to save Feren’s life or her own sanity...
Stop that! Think about what you’re doing!
Triq had taken cover beside a sculpted guard-creature, a rearing beast of stone and teeth, ever watchful and ever blind. She paused for a moment, then beckoned with a sharp movement of her shoulder. Amethea gathered her courage and crept forwards. As she moved across the courtyard, she mouthed a silent, pointless prayer.
Lot of good that’ll do me.
But there was nothing, no motion, other than the mist; no sound, other than her heart in her throat, her blood in her ears.
Birds on the river, greeting the newborn sun.
As she caught up to where Triq was crouching, the Banned woman gave her a wink, then gestured for her to stay put. Triq checked the open flagstones again, then made a swift and quiet race for the huge, carven stone doorway.
Above Amethea, the guard-creature snarled at nothing, poised in his roar until the end of the Count of Time.
Amethea waited. Carefully, Triq extended a hand to the heavy door.
The crash as it fell into the hallway made them both jump. Triq dropped to a crouch, both blades ready.
But the seething mist settled, and the creature above Amethea didn’t creak into motion and sink its stone claws into her shoulder.
Not that I’d expected it to. No. Not at all.
The stones in Triq’s cheek flashed again as she took a moment to look up and round. Then she carefully, carefully, crept into the waiting maw.
But still, nothing. The crafthouse was peaceful, and the pale early morning light tumbled softly through the broken roof.
Amethea dismissed her fear, and went after her friend.
The building stood empty, bereft of life.
There should be a pirate nest under here or the scattered homeless of the city’s outskirts lurking in the cellars. There should be the crumbled fragments of the craftmaster’s works - tight containers split, and the resin slowly solidifying as it contacted the air. There should be the cut stalks of the plant, rotting now with the past returns. There should be old tally-books, no longer needed - and equally old bookkeepers to go with them.
There should be...
Stop it!
The monsters lived in her mind, her memory. They danced at the corners of her vision, tempted out of the darkness by her lack of sleep. They were not here, they couldn’t be. This was Amos and her threats were solid and real and “normal”. Getting her throat slit by a local pirate was a good deal more likely than encountering stone and darkness and fire and blight and her own blood spiralling across the floor
This was not the same beast at all. They were following the craftmark on the blade they’d been given in the tavern - the whole thing was creeping her skin, and frankly, she wanted to be back behind the safety of the high palace wall.
Any wall. Any wall but this one.
But the old crafthouse was silent, its shutters closed and sagging, its heavy wooden door sealed.
Figments of white mist gibbered laughter in her head.
Stop that!
She swallowed, found her mouth was too dry and smothered a sudden cough, a plume of pale breath rising like steam. As she did so, Triq moved as though released, swift and almost soundless, easing quickly and carefully across the weed-edged flags.
Triq had drawn her second blade, held them both folded back along her wrists. Amethea drew her own little belt-blade and watched her friend’s progress.
Any moment now, she thought, the attack, the ambush, the monster...
Nothing happened.
The weeds writhed silent and the white mist eddied into spectres, pale shadows of emptiness.
Triq threw a glance at her. Grinned.
This is crazed.
Amethea did not want to go into this place, did not want to know why half the roof had fallen in, why the creeper had grown through everything like a disease. She was no warrior; faced by the centaurs, then by Maugrim, she’d not been able to save Feren’s life or her own sanity...
Stop that! Think about what you’re doing!
Triq had taken cover beside a sculpted guard-creature, a rearing beast of stone and teeth, ever watchful and ever blind. She paused for a moment, then beckoned with a sharp movement of her shoulder. Amethea gathered her courage and crept forwards. As she moved across the courtyard, she mouthed a silent, pointless prayer.
Lot of good that’ll do me.
But there was nothing, no motion, other than the mist; no sound, other than her heart in her throat, her blood in her ears.
Birds on the river, greeting the newborn sun.
As she caught up to where Triq was crouching, the Banned woman gave her a wink, then gestured for her to stay put. Triq checked the open flagstones again, then made a swift and quiet race for the huge, carven stone doorway.
Above Amethea, the guard-creature snarled at nothing, poised in his roar until the end of the Count of Time.
Amethea waited. Carefully, Triq extended a hand to the heavy door.
The crash as it fell into the hallway made them both jump. Triq dropped to a crouch, both blades ready.
But the seething mist settled, and the creature above Amethea didn’t creak into motion and sink its stone claws into her shoulder.
Not that I’d expected it to. No. Not at all.
The stones in Triq’s cheek flashed again as she took a moment to look up and round. Then she carefully, carefully, crept into the waiting maw.
But still, nothing. The crafthouse was peaceful, and the pale early morning light tumbled softly through the broken roof.
Amethea dismissed her fear, and went after her friend.
The building stood empty, bereft of life.
There should be a pirate nest under here or the scattered homeless of the city’s outskirts lurking in the cellars. There should be the crumbled fragments of the craftmaster’s works - tight containers split, and the resin slowly solidifying as it contacted the air. There should be the cut stalks of the plant, rotting now with the past returns. There should be old tally-books, no longer needed - and equally old bookkeepers to go with them.
There should be...
Stop it!
The monsters lived in her mind, her memory. They danced at the corners of her vision, tempted out of the darkness by her lack of sleep. They were not here, they couldn’t be. This was Amos and her threats were solid and real and “normal”. Getting her throat slit by a local pirate was a good deal more likely than encountering stone and darkness and fire and blight and her own blood spiralling across the floor
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