He forges on. ‘People want their names. No, not even that. They want revenge. Fallon’s raising an army even now.’
‘I can take care of him,’ she shrugs.
Shroudweaver feels the stress in his voice for the first time. ‘That’s not the point. There’ll always be another Fallon, another army. The only way out would be to convince people that they’re better off this way which is’ – he laughs – ‘a tough sell, to say the least.’ He leans forwards. ‘You couldn’t do it without telling them the truth. And even if … evenifyou get them to believe you, the panic you cause will be like nothing under the sun.’ He composes his face carefully. ‘I mean, I damn near shit myself. And I just found out.’
She snorts. ‘And you my big strong Da?’ She grins. ‘I know, I know. It’s a gift of crabs, this whole thing, but this just makes things clearer.’
Her smile softens. ‘I’m glad we talked. I know what I have to do.’
He watches her bright eyes. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to kill it.’
He almost laughs, and then feels a dread set into his stomach like thick green ice.
She steps closer, puts her hands on his shoulders. ‘I can do it, Dad. Then we’ll really be free. Help me. It’ll be easier with you.’
His heart breaks. ‘I can’t, love.’
Her voice is low, soft, betrayed. ‘Why?’
He tries to martial his screaming brain, tries to arrange his words cold and clear as knives on a plate. ‘First, to get that kind of power, whatever it might be, you’d need to raise an army. Fund expeditions. Make deals.’ His face twists sympathetically. ‘They just won’t let you.’
She bites off the words. ‘Won’tletme?’
He looks her in the eye. ‘People aren’t on your side. Not enough, at any rate.’
She gestures out towards the campfires. ‘These ones are. More will come.’
Shroudweaver presses his fingers against his temples, fighting the weariness gathering there. ‘Do you really think so? Do you think even these poor folk’ll stay once they find out the truth of what happened?’
She steps to the tent-flap and peels it back slightly, the freshening of the night breeze lifting the curls at the nape of her neck. ‘The truth is what I let it grow into.’
He sets the glass down on a thin, lacquered table, all marquetry and turtle shell. ‘That’s a dangerous way to think.’
She glances over her shoulder. ‘Whereas you think so clearly?’ She turns, stretching her fingers until the knuckles pop, little bits of stray bone aligning under the skin. ‘How many of your thoughts are your own, anyway?’
She moves her fingers lightly against his temples. ‘How do you know they haven’t got in there? Some hungry little gods. Making you smile, or laugh, or cry.’
She sits again, long fingers making circles against tired cheeks. ‘It scares me. It got so I couldn’t trust anyone happy. Couldn’t trust my own happiness.’ She toys with the hem of her dress.‘Never knowing if my joy was my own. Can you imagine? With Slick, with anyone. Feeling the sun on my skin, falling asleep, wondering if it was really me, or if something had wormed its way in, burrowed at the back of my brain, sung all its little lies into my ears, day after day.’
He kneels in front of her, takes her fingers in his, straightens them gently. ‘The gods were never like that. Not even the ones that took hosts. Not in our time, at least. If ever. They’re beautiful, awe-inspiring, sure, but not like that.’
‘They’reexactlylike that.’ She scratches at her arm, the nails leaving pink welts. ‘Tell me. Tell me you’ve never felt it. That beautiful, thunderous surge. It makes you want to kneel, just lie down in front of them. In the peace and the light.’
‘I think that’s what healing feels like, love.’
‘That’s what slavery feels like,’ she takes his wrists. ‘Help me, Dad.’
‘You don’t need my help, love. And I can’t give it.’
Her head sinks low, her chin touching her ribs. ‘I do.’ Her voice barely a whisper, a lick of wind from the woods. She looks up. ‘I do.’
Her fingers tighten around his, until he can feel bone beneath the flesh.
He leans in. Her breath is hot and sweet against his cheek, her grip like a tired swimmer.
‘I do, Da. I want to feel them again. That light. That warmth. I can’t get clean of it.’
