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And some things harder, I’m guessing.
Lily didn’t need to answer.
* * *
Carrick killed the spider very slowly, pulling off one leg at a time. He knew, if no one else did, that the moments just before death were the only pure moments in life. That’s why when he killed he tried to make it last. Dying was the most important thing a body could do besides being born, and in a way Carrick saw himself as a mother—a mother who pulled her babies back into her warm self rather than pushing them out into the cold world. The only difference between dying and being born was that babies don’t remember their births. But if souls live on, Carrick was sure that any one of them would remember their deaths, especially if he had been their death-mother.
Carrick was good at making death memorable. It was the one skill he’d been trained for since he was a small boy. He’d learned how to hurt things from his father, Anoki, who was the bait man for their small tribe. It was Anoki’s job to lay trails of wounded animals away from the group. The blood and the cries of distress from the wounded animals led the Woven away from the tribe, and kept people safe.
Anoki was very good at his job. The best. He could make one sheep squeal until dawn, as it dragged itself, walleyed with pain, in any direction Anoki chose. He knew just how to break a dove’s wing so that it fluttered helplessly for hours inside the scrub, or hamstring a wolf so it howled for help, until the whole pack came to share in its death by the Woven. Anoki was a feared man—the tribe could hear the echoes of his handiwork all night long as one tortured animal after another screamed its way to death. He was an important man—he kept his tribe safe. He was a loathed man—because everyone knew he liked it.
Carrick’s mother, Mary, couldn’t have been more different. She was a gentle soul, full of laughs and flashing smiles. Fair skin, light red hair, and blue eyes, like a city woman’s. She was the bride that Anoki demanded for his services to the tribe, but she was too valuable for him to ever keep. Everyone said Mary could have been a witch if she’d been raised in one of the cities.
Mary’s freedom from Anoki was helped along by River Fall. Some say because River had grown heartsick from mending her broken bones and stitching together that smooth white skin of hers. He pleaded with the elders to release Mary from her bond with Anoki. If they did not, he warned, Anoki would eventually kill her. The elders agreed, and freed Mary. But Carrick was not part of the deal. If the tribe wanted to keep their bait man, Anoki had to be allowed to keep his son. And in tribal law, sons belong to the fathers, while daughters belong to the mothers.
Mary left Carrick behind. She took River Fall for her next husband, even though she could have had any man in the tribe. She had magic in her blood, and everyone wanted a child with magic. Carrick could still remember how Mary looked at River. How the two of them fawned over that squalling baby boy.
Rowan.
Rowan was loved from the moment he was born. And when Mary took fever and died, it only made River love Rowan even more. Carrick had no memory of love. But pain—that was something he understood. Suffering had more meaning to him than any kiss or any caress ever could.
Love left. But death was forever.
Carrick saw light flashing down at the end of the cell block. He was the only inmate on this level, and since being imprisoned by Lillian for his involvement in Lily’s torture in the oubliette, he’d been kept mostly in the dark as punishment. Much better than what had happened to Gideon for conspiring against her. Lillian sent him into battle, and the fool got his head chopped off in the first few seconds of fighting. By Rowan, no less, Carrick had heard. The dark, the cold, and the thin rations didn’t bother Carrick. In fact, he applauded the witch’s attempt to discipline him. He stowed his half-dead spider carefully under the metal cup chained to the faucet in his cell, smiling. No one knew more about discipline than Carrick.
“On your feet,” growled a guard.
Carrick stood, blinking against the torchlight in the man’s hand. Next to the guard he made out the slim shape of a small woman. Tiny though she was, he could feel her strength coming at him in waves.
/> “My Lady of Salem,” Carrick said, soaking her in. He’d gone weeks without feeling that level of power, and he’d craved Lily’s willstones more than anything else since—more than food, water, or light. “It’s a pleasure.”
His eyes adjusted, and he saw Lillian looking at him through the bars of his cell. Carrick was very good at reading faces, even a face that was still healing from burns as hers was. Lillian kept her expression blank, but he could still see loathing behind her calm eyes. And something odd that he couldn’t quite place. Her eyes were turned in on herself. She barely took him in at all.
“You have talent,” she said dully. “A lot of talent.”
“Runs in the family,” he replied in his deep, quiet voice.
Lillian nodded, her eyes wandering away from him, like she barely cared that he had hurt another version of her and would have hurt her if it had been her willstone he’d held in his hand.
“Can you spirit walk?” Her eyes flicked back to his and narrowed in warning. “And don’t lie to me.”
“No,” he replied, stunning himself with his own honesty. “But I was told by the shaman that I had the ability.”
“What happened?”
“He refused to train me.” Carrick tried to hold her detached and puzzling gaze, but he couldn’t. He didn’t understand her, and he didn’t like that. Carrick was used to understanding what people wanted and gaining the advantage by manipulating their desires. With Lillian, he didn’t have the foggiest idea what she intended.
“Can you feel Rowan?” she said, cocking her head to the side.
Carrick searched inside himself. “He’s very far away. Farther than he’s ever been before. But I don’t think he’s dead.”
“Come closer,” Lillian said. “Right up against the bars.” Carrick did as she said. “Has any other witch claimed you?”
“No,” Carrick replied, still confused. He caught a flash of resignation in her eyes, and understanding dawned on him in an instant. “It’s not me you loathe. It’s you.”
“Get down on your knees.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Carrick said, sinking down in front of her.
