She walks to the counter, lifts the glass, drinks deep. ‘Do you know how many nights I spent thinking about how stupid we were?’ She stops, raises a finger. ‘No, sorry, how stupidyouwere.’
She walks towards him. ‘Binding the dead of the Empire, of Thell.’ She puts a hand back on his chest. ‘Binding them all to your own stupid heartbeat.’
He covers her hand with his own. ‘There’s nothing stronger than blood, Smoke. A heartbeat’s the steadiest rhythm in the world. I needed something I could trust.’
She snatches her fingers back. ‘Steady until it breaks. Have you any idea how close you were then? How close you’re getting again now?’
She leans against the counter, tips her head back. ‘God, I can see you clear as day, staggering to my door. Other peoples’ voices spilling off your tongue, other peoples’ memories in your head. Half-mad from the hubris of it all.’
Her voice rises. ‘You fucking idiot. You think just because itworked,it makes it OK? Begging me to help you fix that jury-rigged ritual. Which you did by yourself.Yourself!I know for sure your old teachers would skin you alive for that.’
She pushes fingers against her brow. ‘How many days was it, Shroud? You and me in here, your head in my lap and your mind in that fucking mountain, running wet with a thousand other souls?’
She glares at him. ‘Have you any idea what that was like? Not for you. For me.’
She thumps her chest as she says that, her voice splitting. She drains the glass. ‘And now you come back. With another desperate plan stacked onto the back of the first. Fifteen years I swore I’d never touch your bloody magic or your bloodier ego, and here we are.’
Shroudweaver’s hands tighten. ‘I need your help, Smoke. I know I’ve handled it all terribly, but this is bigger than either of us.’
She turns the glass thoughtfully. ‘You’re right, as usual. And as usual that still doesn’t make it OK. Do you get that, Shroud?’ She gestures towards him with the empty glass. ‘It’s important to me that you get that.’
Shroudweaver nods. ‘I do.’
She grits her teeth, bites down on the urge to go and comfort him. ‘That’ll have to do. Bare minimum, but it’ll have to do.’ Smokesister breathes deeply, smooths her dress, adjusts her hair ‘OK. One last question.’
‘Of course.’
‘The unbinding. Why now?’
He looks at her, and the regret that rises in him feels like a black wave. ‘Because I can’t think what else to do. Because I know this’ll work. It’ll stop Crowkisser. And because I’m tired.’ He stops, looks down. His voice soft, fracturing. ‘I can’t carry it anymore.’
She holds him at arm’s length. ‘That’s the most honest you’ve been in decades. Fine. I guess I’m stupid enough to do this.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, meaning it.
She smiles. ‘One last thing Shroud, if you come back, treat me like a person. Not an asset. Not a fucking … a fuckingresource, OK?’
‘Yes,’ he says, his voice tight, ‘I promise, Smoke.’
She rolls her shoulders, loosens the tension.
‘Right, nip outside and tell Fallon you’re going to be a while. He wouldn’t know good magic if it bit him on the nose.’
A moment later, he re-enters, eyes squinting from the light.
‘Ready?’ she asks.
He nods tersely. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Hours, at most, breaking’s always easier than making.’ The sadness hangs in her voice, before it sifts aways into the half-light.
Those hours pass in a ritual of fingers and lines, counting the fade into twilight. Magic measured, calculated and twined with precision in red and silver thread. Eventually, Smokesister makes the final knot on his hand, letting her fingers linger only briefly.
A shadow on her eyes. She sounds tired when she speaks. ‘There you go. It’s all tied to this red thread. Keep it wound around your right wrist. Let it fall when you can see the mountain. The whole damn thing will come down. And you better be ready for it.’
‘I will be,’ he says.
‘I’d like to believe you,’ she says, ‘but that’s cost me before.’
