‘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?’
Eight
THE NATURALIST
The crawling thing picked its way across the sand, intent on some distant goal. It had six legs, two claws, two bulbous eyes and, apparently, no visible destination. Over the bones, over the tainted earth, over the fallen, rusted weapons it crawled, eyes always ahead, eyes never moving, legs never stopping.
Surely, Sheraptus reasoned, something so small would not know where it was going. Could it even comprehend the vastness of the worlds around it? The worlds beyond its own damp sand? Perhaps it would walk forever, never knowing, never stopping.
Until, Sheraptus thought as he lifted his boot over the thing, it became aware of just how small it was.
Then it happened: a change in the wind, a fluctuation of temperature. He turned and looked into the distance.
‘There it is again,’ he muttered.
‘Hmm?’ his companion asked.
‘You don’t sense it?’
‘Magic?’
‘Nethra, yes.’
‘I am attuned to higher callings, I am afraid.’
‘So you say,’ Sheraptus said.
‘You have no reason to distrust me, do you?’
‘Not as such, no.’ His lip curled up in a sneer. ‘That provides me little comfort.’
‘What is it that troubles you, if I may ask?’
‘You may, thank you. A signature, a fleeting expenditure of strength. It’s not what you’d call “big”, but rather … pronounced. It’s a moth that flutters before the flame and disappears before I can catch it in my hands.’
‘A moth?’
‘Yes. They do fly before flame, do they not?’
‘They do.’ The Grey One That Grins smiled, baring finger-long teeth. ‘You seem to be fascinated with all things insect today.’
‘Ah, but did you not say that this thing—’ He flitted a hand to the crawler.
‘Crab.’
‘This crab. It is not an insect?’
‘It is not.’
‘It has a carapace, many legs …’
‘It does.’
‘Why is it not an insect, then?’
‘Its identity is its own, I suppose.’
Sheraptus glanced down to the sand and the tiny crab. ‘Why does it exist?’
‘Hmm?’
‘A tiny thing that moves in the same, meaningless direction as other tiny things, that looks exactly like other tiny things, but is not the same tiny thing as the others?’ He quirked a brow. ‘I have never seen such a thing.’
‘They have no such things in the Nether?’
‘None. Females are females. Males are males. Females kill. Males speak with nethra. This is how things are.’ He sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘This is what makes them so … dull.’
‘Hence our agreement.’