Nettle & Bone(58)

“You could really see that blessing?” whispered Marra.

“Oh yes. Normally you can’t go too far back, but the ones about what kind of children you have leave marks on the child. They have to or they wouldn’t work. It doesn’t last forever, though. I tried with mice.” She shook her head. “By the third or fourth generation, even if you wish that all their descendants be healthy, it’s just too faint. Magic spreads itself thin after a while. It has to, I think. To keep itself going past that, it’d be constantly drawing on the person who cast the spell, and that’s no good. One litter of mice isn’t much, but a hundred or so, having litter after litter? You saw what happened making the magic stick to Finder. I don’t want to find out how many healthy baby mice it takes to make me drop dead of exhaustion.”

The guard opened the door again. “The royal godmother will see you,” he said, his face impassive once more.

“Thank you,” said Agnes, beaming at him. Marra gave him a wry look as she passed, aware of the effect that dealing with magic could have on ordinary souls. She thought that she caught the trace of a smile around his eyes, but perhaps that was only her imagination.

The godmother’s dwelling was also a temple.

It was strange to see. Marra had expected doors, apartments, the trappings of normal living. Instead it was a long, narrow hall, hung with tapestries. The godmother sat on a dais at the far end, her robe forming a triangle with her pale skull at the apex. Bowl candles with a dozen wicks flickered, casting deep shadows on the ceiling, and the room smelled of scented wax.

Does she sit here all day? Marra wondered. Is this how she receives visitors, or does she simply sit here and wait to be called to the palace?

It was somehow easy to believe the latter. There was an immobility to the godmother in this pose, as if she had been crafted from leather and layered fabric, a doll that had never been made to move. She looked like the god of the temple, not like a person in her own home.

When she moved, it was a visceral shock. Marra took a step back as if she’d suffered a blow. It seemed as if that ancient skin should crack apart instead of stretching.

“Come closer,” said the godmother in a voice like an echo from the bottom of the bone pit.

“Hello!” said Agnes. “I’m a godmother, too.”

“Yessss…” The sibilants drew out and faded away. The godmother’s eyes flicked over Marra, dismissed her, and settled on Agnes. Marra wondered if, having said that, the godmother was about to throw them out again.

And then the godmother smiled, her almost lipless mouth pulling tight across bone. “Come in and have some tea.”



* * *



Marra’s hands ached, and the little numb patch of skin had flared as if brushed with the ghosts of nettles. Nothing bad had happened, though. Had it? The godmother had made tea. Hadn’t she? Marra couldn’t quite summon the memory of the water boiling, only the long, withered hands on a black iron teapot, pouring it into little lacquer cups.

Marra concentrated on breathing in and out. The room was not spinning or anything so dramatic, but something was happening inside her ears, a queasy, dizzy feeling. She felt as if she were standing just behind her own shoulder, watching herself breathe.

The godmothers seemed very far away. She could hear them talking and understand the words, but only if she concentrated. It was as if they spoke in a language that she was not fluent in, and had to focus on every word.

“… a curse? Heh. Yes, of course there is a curse…”

Is there something in the tea? Or the candles? No, Agnes was obviously unbothered, and Marra had barely drunk the tea.

She stood up. Neither Agnes nor the godmother seemed to notice. When Marra glanced over at them, she was struck by how similar they looked, which made no sense. The godmother was very tall, wasn’t she? But Agnes was as well, somehow. Had she been wearing black? Marra couldn’t remember. Of course she must have been. It’s not like she could have changed clothes without you noticing.

“… that’s very clever. I couldn’t have done that…”

The godmothers did not seem very interesting. The hangings, though—the hangings were very strange. Tapestry weave, Marra thought absently, but what on earth was the weaver doing? It seemed as if they were switching back and forth between styles with no sense of pattern or structure.

She drifted over to one of them while Agnes and the godmother continued talking. Up close, it was even more complicated and less aesthetic. Blocks of color interlocked or failed utterly to do so. Marra had never been much of a weaver, preferring embroidery. Tapestry weaving required a great deal of advance planning, and she could never get her head around it well. Still, even her worst efforts were neater and more regular than these.

This bit is a weft lock … and this is split weaving here … but why? Weft locks interwove two threads; split weaves left a small but perceptible gap between them. Neither was terribly unusual, but weavers usually picked a style and stuck to it. This followed no discernable pattern. Six splits would be close together, followed by a run of weft locks and then straight runs of a single color. The effect was disorientating. At the bottom right corner, for no apparent reason, the weaver had used golden embroidery thread to make a kind of knot, as if tying off the tapestry, except that was certainly not how you did it—you’d need to tie off the warp ends and this looked more like a child had stabbed thread into the weaving, over and over, leaving ugly loops. Is this a signature?