Nettle & Bone(75)

She unrolled the frayed bit of tapestry in her pack, running her fingers along the weave. Three lines of thread. The middle one a single continuous line, the two flanking a combination of split weaves and weft locks. Six split weaves in a row. At the time she’d thought it was absurd, ugly, fiddly stuff, but it wasn’t. It was marking the openings on the walls of the tombs. Six corridors, and then a weft lock to mark … to mark the place where you go through? Yes! That’s it!

She laughed again. Fenris looked over her shoulder. “Is it a map? It doesn’t look right.”

“No, no, it’s not a map. It’s directions. The godmother couldn’t help us, not really, because of the spell on her, so she couldn’t have given me directions if I knew what they were. But I thought it was just an ugly tapestry, so she could.” Possibly this was not the clearest explanation. Fenris looked baffled. She tried to explain about split weaves and weft locks and Fenris held up his hands. “Can you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s good enough for me. Lead the way.”

“I have to figure out where we are,” she said. “The gold knot … Is that the king or … No, no, the weave doesn’t match. I think that’s the way out. The palace, maybe, or another exit. I just have to find where we are on the tapestry.” She ran her fingers over the thick threads, letting touch work where eyesight failed. Three split weaves on one side, two on the other, and a weft lock in the middle of the center row, indicating that you’d reached your destination—there it was, yes!

Marra flipped the ragged cloth around and walked forward. Fenris held the candle aloft. Bonedog bounced around Agnes, and the dust-wife grimly brought up the rear, her footsteps uneven on the stone.

“Weft lock…” she muttered to herself. “Split weave, split weave … weft lock here.” She took the indicated turn, then the next.

“This is the way we came,” said Fenris. “So far so good.”

Suddenly confident, Marra hurried onward. The tapestry came alive under her fingertips and she knew where she was going. She did not realize that she was practically running until Fenris called ahead to her. “Wait a moment, Marra.”

“Right.” She stopped, letting the dust-wife and Agnes catch up. “Right. I’m sorry. I just…” She waved aimlessly overhead. What time is it up there? It can’t have started yet, surely? We must be close. Time suddenly seemed physically present, rushing past her like air through the tunnels. What happens now that the godmother’s gone? Old spells? Agnes thinks she can use her powers if we get to the christening, or maybe the dust-wife was going to cast a spell on Vorling, or raise up the dead, but she can’t do that now … Could she get to her sister before the christening and warn her that something was going to happen? Was there time? Or would spells laid centuries ago, biding their time, already be exploding like fireworks over the palace?

They followed the tapestry path for another half dozen familiar turns, and then it diverged. Fenris looked up. “I think this is not the way we came,” he said. “But I trust your directions.”

“Don’t mind us,” called Agnes. “We’re coming.”

Marra took a deep breath and led them forward into the dark.



* * *



It was a much shorter route than the one from in the quarry, or perhaps that route had seemed longer because they had gotten turned around and gone so slowly and down so many dead ends. Once they reached a tomb that seemed to have no exits and Marra began to wonder if she had misread, until Bonedog ran snuffling to a tapestry that moved in an unseen breeze. Behind it, half-hidden, was the next door. And then, practically before she had time to comprehend it, there was a bright outline at the end of the hall and Fenris pushed open the door and stepped through, sword at the ready … into the godmother’s temple.

It was a small room, but Marra could see the main hall through a carved screen. Perhaps priests had once prepared for their sermons here. The godmother sat on a little raised platform, still in that perfect dark triangle of skull and robe and shoulders. She did not move her head when she spoke. “Stay your sword, warrior,” she said. “I suspect that I will die very soon in any event.”

“I wasn’t going to…” Fenris lowered his sword and looked abashed. “Forgive me, madam.”

She laughed. “There is nothing to forgive. You did not free me, though. Nor did you.” Her eyes moved to the door as Agnes came through. “And you are powerful, for all you try to hide it, but not in a way that could compel the dead. So it must be … ah. Of course. It must have been you.”

The dust-wife inclined her head.

“I could have died when the spell broke,” said the godmother. “I thought about it. But I was curious as to who had finally set me free.” She searched the dust-wife’s face, took in the coat full of pockets and the brown hen hunkered down on the staff. “Why? I have never done you a kindness. And we are a long, long way from your own beloved dead.”

“A friend asked me to,” said the dust-wife.

“Ah.” The godmother smiled then, and cracks ran across her skin from the motion, like a plaster wall falling apart. As Marra watched in horror, a chip of skin fell from her cheekbone. There was no blood under it, nothing but cool, brown bone. “Yes. Agnes, will you pass me my teacup? It seems that I am about to die, and I would like a little more tea.”