Snow falls with her. Her feet are pale and sure on the stones. She floats the last few inches, landing on the tips of her toes. There’s a flicker of feather. In front of her, Skinpainter licks the taste of burnt sugar off their lips, glances up the cold reach of the mountain shaft. Quiet from above, only the last few breaths of summer thaw, and the guards shifting softly at their posts.
She watches Skinpainter, as the last pinions slide back under her bones. Her right hand is twined with scraps of something ragged, red to the wrist. The remnants of a weaver’s ribbons. Or a weaver. Her left is spread wide, fingers tense.
Skinpainter nods to her, shifting slowly in front of the fire, before they gesture to an alcove, a carved bench, a gently smouldering brazier with a clay pot suspended above. ‘Hello. Sit. I’d wondered if this was coming.’
She does. They busy themselves with the brazier, twisting a wrist and flicking a few dried leaves into the belly of the coals. The smoke is sweet. They beckon it into their hood, breathing deep. It soothes their lungs, their racing thoughts.
Crowkisser sits with her hands gripping the edge of the alcove. Skinpainter joins her, lightly taps a knuckle, offers a cup.
‘Drink?’
She shakes her head.
‘Suit yourself. It’s cold, though.’
They ladle liquid from pot to cup and sip, watching her in the ripples. A flutter of excitement flares in their chest – the godkiller here in their mountain; the name-stealer. Face-to-face at last. She’s small, this godkiller.
She turns her head towards them, her eyes light in a face thinned by hunger. Gingerly, she extends a hand. They fill a second cup, pass it.
She leans into the smell of spice and apples.
Skinpainter sips, swallows, ‘So, why now?’
Crowkisser smiles, suddenly younger in the firelight. ‘You know why. We’re marching.’
They snort and set the cup down, turning to face her.
‘Hardly a surprise. I felt you fluttering around the edges of the wind nights ago. Feeling out the mountain. A new thing.’
She inclines her head slightly. ‘I wanted to get a sense of you.’
Skinpainter runs a hand over their mouth, lips tingling. ‘Don’t make the same mistake everyone else does, little crow.’
Crowkisser worries at the red bindings on her hand with sharp teeth. Speaks muffled. ‘What’s that?’
They drink again.
‘Thinking that I’m something more than I am.’ They grin. ‘The power behind the throne.’ They shrug. ‘I’m not some weaver of destinies. I’m what’s left when everyone else tries it.’
She sniffs the cup again, screws up her nose and hands it back. ‘But you know things. Old things. From before the south. The tattoos. The shapes. The d—’
They place a hand over her mouth, feel her lips wet against their skin. ‘Go slowly, little crow. No need to draw their attention.’
They return the hand to a sleeve. Their hood shifts. ‘I do know these things, but they were earnt.’ A rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid they can’t be bought. And neither can I.’
Crowkisser starts to draw breath but they cut her off. ‘What are you going to offer me? Money? We don’t really use that here.Power? I already have it.’ They laugh. ‘Sex? I’ve never found sex to be of great interest.’
They spread wide palms, tipping them back and forth. ‘I prefer ink. If you truly want to understand Thell, you need to understand the ink.’
Skinpainter takes her hand. She flinches. A little part of them is delighted. Finally, some respect. They feel Crowkisser’s breath shudder as they pull her fingers across the backs of their hands, along their arms, up beneath their robes.
‘Feel how it flows. The angles. The depth of the pigment. We would be lost without it.’
They grin, deep in their hood as they press her questing fingertips to scars, absences. ‘Or rather, we would be found.’
It takes her a second to feel the thing that rests against their skin. When it pulses beneath her fingers she snatches her hand back, stifling a scream.
They watch her levelly. ‘All power has a price. As well you know.’ They readjust their robes. ‘But it’s an idiot who doesn’t shop for a discount.’
