Four Roads Cross (Craft Sequence #5)(55)

“Daphne, I’m sorry.”

She opened her hand. Dust coated her palm, surrounding a small sculpture of a sparrow with wings stretched. Its tiny head revolved. Wings flapped, but the sparrow could not fly.

“It’s the local gods,” Tara said. “They don’t let things fly that they don’t own.”

She held out her palm and Daphne passed her the bird. Tiny talons pricked her skin; it chirped. “I didn’t see what was happening to you until too late,” Tara said. “He was in my head, too. When you collapsed, when they took you home, that shocked me sober. I snapped out of his control. I got revenge, or tried. I burned his lab. They kicked me out. I thought you were gone.”

“I woke up a year ago, in my house, with a headache. I spent weeks in the garden watching flowers. It took a long time to piece myself together. The chance of getting a job was low, but then Ramp came with an offer from Grossman and Mime. They were interested in everyone who worked with Professor Denovo. A lot of our friends ended up there. Ramp is a tough boss, but she has a sense of humor and enjoys her work, which is more than I could say for many Craftswomen.”

“It doesn’t bother you that she used to work with Denovo?”

“He was a good teacher,” she said. “A hard driver, but you’d have to be to get as far as him.”

“He sapped your soul. He bound us to serve him. Our minds pointed where he wanted them to point.”

Something clicked closed behind Daphne’s face. “What did he do that everyone you’ve ever worked with hasn’t? People bind each other. That’s all the Craft is.”

“You went home in a coma.”

“I chose to work hard. If my body couldn’t handle it—”

“That’s what I’m saying, Daphne. You didn’t choose.”

“Fine,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Tara wanted to take her shoulders and shake her, but she didn’t. The bird flapped its wings and sang frustration. “You’re happy where you are?”

“Are you?”

“Of course. I’m helping my friends. I’m protecting my city.”

“Seriously, Tara?” She pointed up. The Sanctum of Kos towered overhead, huge and black, buttressed and bubbled with lifts and turrets and bay windows. “Working for a god? It’s cool you have so much authority, but don’t you see this is a dead-end gig?”

“Alt Coulumb’s an important place, and I’m working for the biggest game in town. Doesn’t seem dead end to me.”

“You can’t even fly here. Working in-house at a church, hells, they’ll never pay you half what you’re worth. What kind of career prospects do you have? Will you take holy orders or something?”

“I don’t plan to.”

“There you go. I mean, I’m sure you think you can do good work here. But did you really leave Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao for this?”

“I saw what my life at the firm would have been. Traveling from city to city without knowing any of them, having clients and colleagues and puppets instead of people. Alt Coulumb’s more than a convention hotel, a handful of boardrooms, and the nice restaurants the firm will pay for. I have friends here. They need me.”

“Friends,” she said, “don’t command gods, or raise the dead, or drink the light of shadows or hunt nightmares or make deals in blood or anything you trained for. I know what you went through to reach the Hidden Schools. Years of wandering the desert working shit jobs, learning whatever hedge magic you could from sun-blind witches and confidence tricksters, all to pass the entrance exams. And once you made it, you worked harder than any of us. Why throw it all away?”

“Because it was rotten. Our teacher was hurting you. Hurting us.”

“That’s not right and that’s not even what I mean.” Her voice rose, and her arms too. Glyphs on her skin glowed and gravel whirled beneath her feet. “You’re so—” But Daphne didn’t say what Tara was. She let her arms fall. The gravel stilled, leaving spiral grooves centered on Daphne’s scuffed shoes. “Damn, I’m sorry. You ran. You were better than all of us, every single one of us, and you ran. I know the in-house rates gods pay, and I know the rent in Alt Coulumb, and the thought of you of all people sitting in a coffin-size studio stressing whether you can pay down your loans this month—it sickens me. If half the stories I heard about what you did last year during Kos’s resurrection are true, you could have written your ticket at Kelethres Albrecht or any other firm. I can’t believe you see your future here, protecting god-botherers from their own dumb mistakes.”

“You want to offer me a job.”

“I want to help my boss. But I asked her, and if you’re looking, we could make room. Not in this matter, of course.”

“I’m not looking for work,” she said. “I know what you’re trying to do. And it’s sweet, Daffy. Tempting, even. I wouldn’t have understood what I’m saying now either, a year ago. I don’t blame you for being who you are, and wanting the things you want. You’re a master of the universe. Congratulations. I thought I wanted that, too. Turns out I didn’t.”

“The schools’ collections department doesn’t care what you want.”