She smiles, bitterly. ‘Oh, ofcourse. But something made you give a shit about me. When did I catch your attention again?’ She studies the scuffed cuffs of his robes, the stains. ‘What made you remember you had a daughter?’
He doesn’t answer, at first, his fingers working at the red threads strung over his wrist, half-crusted with blood. He’s picked up a lot of little cuts in the mountain.
Eventually, he gets there, with a little prompting.
‘When did you first hear about me? When did you start to care again?’
‘When we lost the south.’
A little coil of relief inside her. Of course. ‘That’s diplomatic. Don’t lie to me.’
‘Fine. OK.’ A deep breath. ‘After I heard about what you’d done.’
‘And what did I do, Dad?’
He winces. ‘Do we really need to do this?’
‘Yes.’ She straightens her legs. ‘I want to know what you think of me.’
He reaches for her hand, and she pulls it away, but not far.
He picks his words carefully – hangs them around the rim of his cup. ‘You killed the gods. Broke them, at the very least. Destroyed a city in the process. Used our names to hunt us if we kept them.’
She leans forwards, her eyes deep and black, fingers steepled. ‘Go on.’
‘Left the south with Slickwalker. Took Astic in … a night, two. Hung everyone that refused to change for you.’ He breathes out, knocks a shot back. ‘And now … raised an army. Marched north. Destroyed a mountain.’
She blinks, smiles without joy. ‘Wow. I’m … terrible.’
He reaches for her hand again, misses again. ‘I’m not saying that, I just have to knowwhy.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Would you believe me if I told you?’
‘I’d try.’
She presses her lips together.
‘Why should I? I don’t owe you anything.’
He tilts a hand consolingly. ‘No, but I owe you a chance to tell your side. Who else do you talk to? Slickwalker?’ He reaches, finds her fingers and holds them tight. ‘It can’t have been easy.’
She tugs a little, gives up. ‘What is? Fine. You want to know? Fine.’
She rolls her shoulders, pulls him closer, conspiratorial. ‘I did it. I broke the gods. I found their little latches and I snipped them off. Because we shouldn’t have to think like they want us to think, or feel like they want us to feel. You know where that gets us. More than anyone, you should know!’ Her voice pitches a moment, raises up. She takes a second, gathers herself, ‘You should know. Mum did at the end. And it was only me left to see it. To see her starving for their touch. And how many others? How many other mothers and fathers and children? Abandoned.’ Her hands wild, agitated. ‘They cling. They stick like honey. They never let go. Not really.’ She pauses. The glass in her hand creaks. ‘So I learnt. I studied. I went places and I dug deep, to find some answers.’ She swallows, winces. Reflexively, Shroudweaver puts a hand to the side of her face. She flinches. ‘And I found things, in the south. In forests, behind waterfalls. Under fountains. I found things.’
She wipes her lips, her teeth wide and wet. ‘And the more I found, the more there was to find. Like something knew I was searching. Like it was calling to me. Scraps at first, then, then …’ She waves the empty glass. He refills it, watches the oily liquid slosh around the lip. Pours a splash for himself, corks it.
He laces her hands around the glass. ‘Scraps.’
She nods. ‘About the gods. Where they came from. How to kill them.’ She stands, paces, tugging fingers through her hair. Outside there’s raucous laughter. She shoots a venomous glance towards the mouth of the tent, then turns and waves the glass. ‘The gods. They’re not from here.’ She chews her lip, worries a thin strip of skin loose. ‘We made them, or they came here. I don’t know. It’s not clear. Not clear at all.’ She fixes him with a wide-eyed look. ‘And I searched, you don’t know how I searched.In the mud and the bone, and under that.’ She slumps. ‘I’ve peeled the skin off this blasted world.’
She swallows and sets the glass down unsteadily. ‘And where were you? Where were you? Foryears. When I was lost down there with all that black earth?’
She raises a finger like a dagger, swaying slightly. ‘Offmakingthem. Making new gods. Stitching them into people. Or withher.’ She spits. ‘Shroudweaver. You’re a parasite. No, worse than that. You’re a vector. A dirty, crusted knife.’
He stands slowly, walks towards the tip of her finger. ‘I heal people. I give peace and use to the dead.’
Her eyes are flat as stones. ‘Some of us can’t be healed.’
