She shivers. ‘You creep.’
‘It’s true. Unless you’re born to it, trained in it, you might not even know you can do it. The hosts used to be the best at it. Something about having a god inside you. Thins you out, gives you a stronger connection between your blood and your soul. Lets your mind slip in and out easier.’
Shipwright shifts uncomfortably. ‘Thanks for that news.’
He purses his lips. ‘You’re fine. The weaving barely touched you. It takes … months, years for a god to change a person.’
He finally sets the boot down.
She looks at it with a raised eyebrow. ‘That it?’
‘What do you mean? It’s done.’
She clicks her tongue, picks it up and sets to work. ‘So if we’re saying Crowkisser would never have anything like a host’s power, where’s she pulling the juice for this prophecy from? How’s she not suffering for it?’
Shroudweaver looks pained. ‘I’m not sure she isn’t. Suffering, I mean. At the Aestering we were always taught prophecy dislocates you. Pulls you out of your own skin and shoves the future in. Your body sort of soaks up … potentialities. Your mind slips free to look at whatever you want. Then when your ritual, whatever it is, ends, your mind and your body slam back into each other. Your mind remembers what it can, and your body absorbs the dregs of the future that are clinging to your bones.’
Shipwright puts the boot down. ‘That’s messed up.’
He nods. ‘Magic usually is. But if you’re good at it? Or you don’t care about going a little mad? Or you think it’s worth it …’ He shrugs. ‘The advantages are pretty huge.’
Shipwright begins unrolling bedrolls, staking their tents in the lee of the wind.
‘Could she be watching us right now?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not directly. The prophet sees as well as whatever they’re using to see. Crows aren’t great in the dark.’
‘That’s a relief,’ she says, paying out line.
‘Of course, if my darling daughter’s actually sifting the future, she might have heard this conversation already.’
‘That’snot. Can we do anything about it?’
Shroudweaver takes a spike, twists the guy rope around. ‘If we were talking about something essential, sure. A little pushing out on silver threads can create … static. But … it’s tiring. She can hear us wonder if she wants. I doubt she will though.’
Shipwright smooths cloth. ‘Why not?’
He looks up from fumbling with a knot. ‘Because prophecy takes you out of yourself. It’s a complete loss of control. She couldn’t stand it for long. My guess is she only uses it when she absolutely has to. If at all.’
Shipwright nods. ‘That’s some consolation, I suppose.’ She crawls inside the canvas, tests it. Her voice muffled. ‘Could someone …?’
Shroudweaver steps closer to her shadow. ‘Kill her?’
‘I didn’t want to say it.’
He comes inside, sits down. ‘We might need to, at some point.’ He shifts until his legs are crossed. ‘As to whether we could. Possibly. If it weren’t for Slickwalker.’
She grimaces. ‘Shit. Of course.’ She looks down at him on the bedroll. ‘Don’t get comfortable, your lordship. The horse.’
She offers a hand, and he takes it grudgingly.
Outside, the little pony is staked close against the wall, its flanks moving rhythmically as it strips the remains of the byre of what greenery it can find.
Shipwright takes out a comb, tosses another to Shroudweaver, laughing at his expression. ‘Did you think that this sturdy trooper looked after himself?’
‘I thought there might be a charm. From the Burners or something. What was your friend’s name, Thorndaughter?’
She laughs again. ‘I’ll tell her that. She’ll enjoy it.’ She starts combing and the rough wire of the small horse’s mane grudgingly straightens under her steady fingers. ‘Come on, this soothes me too, OK? Don’t leave me hanging.’
