Chapter Text
The silk remembered.
In the beginning was Grand Mother Silk, Pale-born, Higher Being, goddess of Pharloom and progenitor of the holy thread. Like many of her kin, she was afflicted by a paradox. The Pale Ones sat at the apex of all creatures and were often lonesome there, but their power would only accept domination, enthrallment, which often made a poor salve for their loneliness. Some were able to overcome their instincts and form a more equitable partnership. Grand Mother Silk was not one of them.
With her threads, the divine instrument of her will, she reached down to a cloister of lesser bugs and granted them mind and might far beyond what they could have ever known otherwise, and yet still far beneath herself. She called them her daughters, exalted them, and was ultimately undone by them, for in sharing her power she had unwittingly shared her ambition. Those children, the Weavers, took poorly to learning of their ersatz divinity, and in revenge they crafted their mother’s demesne into a new sort of instrument, vast and unceasing, that would lull her to sleep, so they could rule over this mechanism in her stead. Then she stirred, her threads and her wrath snaking out through the music. The Weavers were left with no choice but to flee.
This was how the world learned of Soul-spinning, its frightful potency. The Weavers’ thread could bind souls and ensnare memories; more than that, it could lend them substance, pull the fanciful into the corporeal. Unbreakably strong, infinitely flexible, the thread could bear up any weight or fuel any engine. There seemed to be no end to its use, and so the Weavers were pursued greedily and fought ferociously – and they were victorious more often than not, which only added to their legend. But defeat had humbled them. They settled quietly in whatever shelters they could find and their powers passed into myth, and then the Weavers’ settlements grew quieter still as Grand Mother Silk’s own threads found them, seized them, and pulled them back to her, where they were flensed and divested of her gifts. She did not share their newfound humility, and the kingdom was transformed once again, from instrument to web, slumber to seduction, luring in pilgrims whose minds would be seized by the silk and toil for her endlessly.
Gods fall easily to hubris. The final two children of Grand Mother Silk – one the last descendent of her rebellious line, the other hand-crafted by her in yet another attempt to ease her solitude – deposed her for good and all, casting her down to the Void Sea. The Void fed well and the threads were cut. Yet the silk remembered.
The souls bound in Grand Mother Silk’s web had been freed, even if that meant they were free only to die, but the web itself retained some of what it had captured. An imprint, a stippling along its fibers. For ages the silk had compelled its thralls to work, worship, and kill in service to its spinner, and while it now lacked that sort of power, it had not gone completely inert. Nowhere was that clearer than in Whiteward, the medical wing of Pharloom’s grand Citadel, where its finest doctors and most ardent clerics had worked to banish death itself – this was in the time of the Weavers, for the perpetuation of their design, so that the music that kept their mother dormant would continue without pause. The silk was cinched tight around the souls of Pharloom, and those whose bodies couldn’t accept it were burned along with the soiled threads. It piled in caliginous mounds in Whiteward’s corners, draped around its equipment, wormed into the old tapestries, and writhed with the memories of what transpired in those operating theaters. The Weavers and their creator had all gone, but even now, the silk here would scream if it had a voice.
The days passed and the severed strands brooded. Few disturbed these halls – Whiteward had been left to fester since Grand Mother Silk reclaimed her dominion, leaving it in the care of its Haunted husks, and the hardscrabble community that had sprung up in the wake of her demise had little reason to venture here. But now another silhouette tottered amidst the operating tables, its shadow stretching long over the ranks of spoiled medicine. It was accompanied by the sound of a chime.
Sherma, the newly elected caretaker of Songclave, had become a minor legend in his own right. The bugs under his charge would sometimes quietly discuss how exactly this diminutive and unarmed pilgrim had made it to the Citadel’s highest reaches and through its most lethal depths unscathed. The usual answer would have been that the power of his faith protected him, but to these refugees, who’d endured Pharloom’s deceptions and the downfall of its goddess, faith had become a great deal more questionable. Sherma’s prayers couldn’t have possibly been heard by Grand Mother Silk, they reasoned, so either someone else had been listening to them or Sherma himself had some kind of power he wasn’t keen on showing off. A few had asked him directly, and his answers were cheerful, polite, and maddeningly vague.
In truth, he sometimes wondered himself how he’d still lived through much of it – he was fortunate to be alive, of course, but it was a mystery to him whether that fortune had anything to do with his prayers. It was here, in Whiteward, that his faith had been most sorely tested. As he ambled through its corridors again, with a close eye on the shadows, he breathed deep and began to recite:
Restless spirits bound in silk
With your woe and wrathful will
Hear my music and lie still
Please suffer no longer…
He was practiced enough with his chime to keep a steady rhythm no matter how much his hands trembled, but his voice was querulous and so low that the chime nearly drowned him out. He stopped walking, raised his head, and tried to sing louder:
If this song can reach your souls
May it grant you your repose
Or if… if there’s another toll…
Then t-tell me… I’ll be stro-stronger…
Again his voice failed him. The memories, and the dreams, still weighed it down.
He stopped to rest near one of the sickbeds. Like so much else in this place, it cut a sinister figure – buckled straps dangled from its sides like strips of flesh, and suspended over it was some dome-shaped contrivance bristling with needles. When he’d first gone here, in search of medical supplies for the other ailing pilgrims, he’d struggled to find any positive intent in all this machinery. Those musings had ended when he’d heard something else in the shadows, a dry and fibrous slithering. Sometimes he still flinched when he pulled on his robes in the morning, if the cloth rubbed against itself.
But the goddess had fallen, the worst was over, and he had a whole host of new responsibilities. He took up his chime again and began to ring it out, hesitantly at first, then stronger, humming under his breath as he found the melody. And he was so focused on that sound that he didn’t see the knot of silk snaking around the hospital bed, pale as fungus against Whiteward’s steel floor.
* * *
Hornet had quickly learned that scavenging for medicine was a thankless task. She had little medical knowledge herself, as most wounds could be quickly bound with her silk, and for untold years the Citadel had apparently pursued a similar philosophy; in the time of the Weavers, the scholars of Pharloom had foregone mundane medicine in their pursuit of immortality, and then the Haunting had struck and pulled most of these bugs into an affliction beyond healing. The storage rooms in Whiteward and the shelves therein were seemingly endless, but the vials and bottles they held were older than she was. Most of their labels had been eaten away by time, leaving the precise nature of the fluids and powders they held up to guesswork. Even the gauze here was sometimes questionable. On her last supply run, she’d found to her dismay that a few threads of haunted silk had wriggled into the bandages she’d scavenged. The infested gauze had leapt out of her pack and attempted to strangle her – ineffectually, but it had given her quite the startle.
That incident had been enough for her to swear off future trips down here and instead turn to local remedies. The fleas surely had a few ideas. But then Sherma had made this request, and Hornet saw no compelling reason to turn him down, so she’d taken up her pack once more and accompanied him here with her usual escort.
The Second Sentinel stood by the storage room’s entrance, their bronze carapace agleam in the scant light. Their pins were sheathed and they instead held Hornet’s pack in their claws with an odd daintiness, like a coinpurse. They were motionless, but the soft click and whirr of their interior machinery still permeated this room.
“You appear d-d-dejected,” they said. “Unsuccessful, was your errand?”
“No more than usual.” She gave one bottle a shake, then shook her head and replaced it. “I apologize for asking this of you again.”
“It is of no concern. Cleansed, is the Citadel. A new pur-purpose must be f-found. This sentinel only wishes it could be of more use.”
“There are none more useful than you for this task. Apart from Sherma, everyone else I have met shuns this place.”
There was a sealed case of needles here that looked to have been preserved against rust, and she took them and deposited them in the bag the Second Sentinel held. Their haul was unimpressive – more gauze, some stitching thread, a few bottles of what Hornet could reasonably confirm was antiseptic. Strictly speaking, she was more than capable of doing all of this on her own, but she had crossed paths with the Second Sentinel when she’d set off on her first supply run and decided that another pair of eyes would be beneficial as she pored over the medicines. The lookout hadn’t been necessary, but she didn’t mind the company.
“We should be off,” she said. “I assume you will remain in the Citadel?”
“Confirmed. Familiar environs. Location of ne-necessary maintenance equipment. Self-repair is taboo, but t-t-taboos are being re-evaluated. Enforcing authority not detected.”
“I suspect there are many others who would share your view. Your presence is a comfort to them, from what I have gathered.”
“Kind, your words.” Rotors clicked as they peered down at her. “And what of you, scar-car-scarlet one? Your presence, no less comforting.”
“I still have work left to do here,” she said. “Then I may contemplate what comes next. For now, we should return to Sherma.”
“Surprising that you would permit-t-t him to wa-wander so. Evaluation of his defensive capability was la-la-lacking.”
“His last foray to Whiteward ended badly. I believed he wishes to find closure. If he was brave enough to return here, then I won’t contest how he finds it. He should be in little danger regardless.”
She stepped past the Second Sentinel and into the main halls. Despite everything, it was a relief to get out of that storage closet – the air in those chambers was always acrid with expired chemicals. Sherma’s chime could be heard in the distance.
“This sentinel has a p-p-proposition,” they said from behind her. “Would it not be optimal to re-repurpose this ward for the sleeping ones? A heavy task it would be, but t-time, we have in abundance.”
“I considered it. The beds would be useful if we stripped away certain components.” She gave one of those spiny protrusions a harsh rap with her needle. “But ventilation is poor, and the silk is still restless. Even if we scoured every corner—”
Sherma was screaming.
In the time it took for the Second Sentinel to turn in the direction of that sound, Hornet was already sprinting halfway down the corridor. She skidded down a corner, then another, vaulted over a heap of broken wheelchairs, and saw Shema holding onto the edge of a sickbed as a tendril of silk pulled at its ankle. It was far too weak to dislodge him but it wouldn’t let him go no matter how he struggled against it. An instant later it was severed. Hornet’s needle cut through ground and thread alike and the fading sparks from its cut lit up the still-thrashing filaments.
Sherma staggered away and fell to his knees, panting. In the corner was a larger mound of silk from where that tendril had emerged, and it quivered and throbbed under Hornet’s gaze. She decided not to bring it to his attention. Instead she picked up his chime and ringer where they’d fallen and knelt beside him until his breathing slowed.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I’m fine.” His hatbrim had come askew and he tried to correct it, not meeting her eyes. “Forgive me. It would appear I’m no less foolish than before.”
“There is nothing to forgive. We were preparing to leave regardless.” She glanced behind her and saw the Second Sentinel there, contriving to look sympathetic. “I believe we’ve taken all we can from this place. Here.”
She proffered Sherma’s instruments. He tried to take them only for the chime to slip through his fingers, and he snatched it up again, clutching it to his chest. Hornet waited for him to rise, but he didn’t move.
“We should return to Songclave,” she said.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Of course.”
Hornet sensed that some more commiseration was required here, but her experience was still limited in these matters, and she doubted the Sentinel would fare any better. She hoped that she could come up with something else to say by the time they returned to Songclave’s halls. They got up and made for the elevator, Hornet up front and the Sentinel in the rear, with Sherma walking silently, head bowed, like someone in a funeral procession.
* * *
Songclave encountered a host of new challenges after all major threats to Pharloom had passed. The settlement had started as a refugee camp for the few who’d made it to the Citadel’s peak with their minds and bodies intact. It was exposed to the elements, but the weather up here was temperate enough. The Haunted avoided it, but in case they ever were puppeteered to assault the place then there was only one easy point of entry for invaders but several escape routes. The other warriors making their way through Pharloom also took an interest in the settlement and defended its borders when they could, particularly the Second Sentinel, whose guardianship had begun when Hornet first awakened them and persisted even now. But the space was cramped and supplies were few; no soil to grow food here, the Citadel’s stores were limited and often cumbersome to reach, and courier runs from Bellhart were a major undertaking for all but the most seasoned deliverers. In the first days after Hornet had returned from the Abyss, she’d escorted a few residents back down to Bellhart where they could either try to find other homes or depart Pharloom entirely – the Bell Beast had rankled a bit at multiple passengers, but she’d soothed it into compliance – but most of them stayed here, cleaned the rubble, expanded their lean-tos and stitched their scavenged cloth into ever-larger shelters. It seemed to her they were trying to do something similar with their faith. Gathering together whatever scraps of it remained in hopes it could be knit into something new.
Amidst the cleanup and the recovery had been the search for the sleeping Haunted. Grand Mother Silk’s demise had also snapped the threads she used to control most of the luckless inhabitants of this kingdom, and most of them had been released from this mortal coil, especially those who’d been tainted by the Void surging through that thread. But some lived, albeit unconscious, and the first time a sleeper had been discovered, Sherma had spurred his followers to recover whoever else they could find. Hornet had first come here a few days after the threads’ dissolution and found perhaps a dozen such dubious survivors clustered at Songclave’s entrance. Since then, that number had increased almost threefold, enough so they’d had turn the once-grand outer corridor into a makeshift infirmary. The sleepers lay on rough pallets of cloth and cushions, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of their chests. A rota had been drawn up for Songclave’s residents to check up on their health and feed them a thin gruel. Standing here alone, one could hear the dry rattle of their breath.
Hornet, Sherma, and the Second Sentinel walked through those ranks now. Hornet had recovered her pack and hitched it up on one shoulder as she eyed the sleepers. It didn’t appear they had gained or lost any patients since her last visit. Several of them wore the veils of Pharloom’s soldiery.
“Red maiden, could you possibly assist with another run to the High Halls soon?” Sherma asked. He went to one sleeper’s side, laid the back of his hand against their forehead. “Our water supplies are dwindling again.”
“That would be no trouble. When might you need me?”
“Not for another few days at least. Lucky for us the water there is drinkable, ha ha.” The laugh was brittle.
Sherma’s efforts hadn’t been entirely fruitless. Four sleepers had awoken since he’d begun caring for them, and Songclave had taken them in and explained what happened as gently as they could. The first, an elderly bug whose Choir shawl was yellowed at the edges, had thanked them for their kindness and passed away two days later. The next two fared better and were still with the settlement, though they slept little and spoke less. The final had been one of the veiled. Sherma had tried to attend to this one personally, though Hornet had kept an eye on things; the veiled bugs had been Pharloom’s most zealous adherents, and they might have reacted violently even without their weapons. But this bug had taken the news with no obvious emotion and set aside his veil. That night, some pilgrims spied him at the settlement’s edge, turning one of his pauldrons over thoughtfully in his claws.
He was gone that morning. His body was found later, having apparently thrown himself from the Citadel’s balconies. Sherma had made this request to revisit Whiteward not long after that, and Hornet, who could see clearly how wan he’d become and heard some troubling gossip from Jubilana over his own sleeping habits, had little choice but to accept.
The Second Sentinel maintained a polite distance, mechanical hands folded at their waist. They’d had scant cause to draw their weapons in these recent days.
“Awaiting further commandment, is this Sentinel,” they said. “Do you re-re-require further labor?”
“If you could continue to search for anyone who might still awaken, I’d be most indebted,” said Sherma.
“Inaccurate. No d-debt is owed. This Sentinel’s duty remains unchanged.” They bowed. “For glory of Cit-t-tadel eternal. Young c-c-caretaker, your efforts have been most ad-adequate.”
Sherma bowed back. “You are too kind. Please, be well.”
“Scarlet one, a word-d-d for you also. With apologies, no progress has been made on your assigned er-errand.”
“I expected as much,” said Hornet. Sherma straightened up and glanced between them. “If you happen to see anything, please let me know.”
“Acknowledged.”
They walked off, the clink of their footfalls echoing. Sherma toyed with his chime, clearly hesitant to ask the question at the front of his mind. Hornet could relieve him of that burden, at least.
“I asked them to search for someone,” she said. “No danger to anyone here. No guarantee she’ll be found, either.”
“Oh. A friend of yours?”
“She would certainly dispute it. Still, I feel watched, every so often.” She lightly touched the back of her neck. “Perhaps some closure is needed there as well.”
“I see.” He stared off in the direction the Sentinel had left. “I can’t help but envy them a bit. Their clarity of purpose. Mine has felt obscure, of late.”
“I have been in a similar predicament. Continue as you are, Sherma. Clarity comes with time.”
“I hope so.”
Something more needed to be said, but the encouraging words she’d been hoping would occur to her were still frustratingly elusive.
“It is not foolish to confront that which you fear,” she said. “Nevertheless, I believe your talents would be better spent on the living. It is unfortunate, but some of the damage Pharloom wrought is beyond our ability to mend. Whiteward included.”
“Of course. That should have been clear to me from the start.” He looked down to his chime, gave it a forlorn shake. “That first time… my prayers availed me little then, too.”
“That is incorrect. Your music helped guide me to you.” Hornet had in fact torn through Whiteward like a sawblade after discovering Sherma had ventured there alone. Her tracking experience had been sufficient to find his trail, but the clink of his bell had confirmed it. That sound had probably also attracted some of the husks to his location, but she chose not to point that out for now.
“Faith works in mysterious ways.” He chuckled, but there was a rueful edge to it. “In all honesty, I’m not sure the living benefit much from my recent efforts either. Our food stores are stretched thin enough without these poor souls to look after. But the thought of leaving them there… and those souls down below…”
“Have any in Songclave spoken out about this?”
“No, they haven’t. But they must—”
“There is nothing to gain from chasing phantoms, Sherma. Up here or down there. If there were indeed discontent among the pilgrims, then at the very least, Jubilana would have informed one of us. She does not impress me as the type to keep secrets.” Hornet paused, then clarified. “Not without a fee.”
That got another laugh out of him. “That is true. She’s taken over most of our daily operations regardless. If I am overthrown, then Songclave should be in good hands.”
“Put those worries out of your mind,” she said. “I’ll deliver these and you can go and rest. I will see about delivering another courier package when next I return.”
“Thank you, red maiden.”
Sherma had been told her name repeatedly at this point, but insisted on using that appellation instead. It was one of the few things he did insist upon, so she humored him. They walked side by side, the sleepers unstirring as always.
“I have been meaning to ask,” he said. “Will you be staying with us? Making a home here, I mean. I keep expecting you to move on. You must be very well-traveled.”
“Less than you think.”
“I shall respect your decision whatever it may be. It’s only that I… you have been a steadfast guardian. So I try to prepare myself.”
“I have no intention of leaving yet.” Songclave was visible in the distance, pewter light against pale cloth. “There is far too much to do.”
* * *
After the black threads were banished, the Shellwood quickly became invaluable to whatever remained of civilization. Even when the Haunting had still held dominion over the kingdom and compelled its beasts to attack anyone who still possessed their senses, the Shellwood’s bounty had sustained Bellhart, and now that the flora and fauna weren’t so vicious, the region provided enough in forage to feed everyone from Songclave to Bone Bottom. The handful of surviving pondcatchers passed on their craft. Plans for the restoration of agriculture were underway. Frey the Merchant was now a one-woman trading hub, and could have been considered the wealthiest bug in Pharloom if the concept of “wealth” weren’t still being redefined. She’d thrown her hoard of rosaries to the wind and drawn up trade routes with a quiet fervor, noting down what each region had to offer in return, tallying up favors and debts. Hornet would have been concerned by her growing power base, but for the time being, Frey and Jubilana’s prudence tempered their greed. Better the likes of them manage Pharloom’s burgeoning commerce than the snitchflies.
Shakra and Zaza also spent most of their time in the Shellwood, with the occasional foray to Hunter’s March. Hunting was the closest thing to combat Shakra could experience these days, part from the occasional sparring match, and Zaza had become inseparable from her. When Hornet and Lace had emerged from the Abyss, they had both passed out from exhaustion, and it had been Zaza who’d alerted Shakra to their plight and helped track them down. Shakra had retrieved them both and returned them to Bellhart. By the time Hornet had awoken, Lace was already gone, with a parting message that she did not wish to be found. None had seen her since. Hornet had asked all of her acquaintances to keep an eye out regardless, though for several reasons, this had mostly become a formality.
“A pity we have not had more fortune in the search,” said Shakra, holding out her cup. “To encounter a warrior your equal! One of the few fascinations this land still has to offer.”
Hornet uncorked her Fleabrew flask and poured carefully. “I have my suspicions where she may have gone. The fact that a tracker of your caliber has not located her is its own sort of answer.”
“Keeping the discovery a secret? Bakelo. Your business is your own.”
There was a small hideaway in the Shellwood’s upper branches, concealed by thick curtains of lichen. The smell of the marshlands below didn’t travel up here, and while the branches joined closely enough to keep out any wood-wasps that might have still felt territorial after the Haunting’s end, they weren’t so dense as to block the light. Shakra had remained closer to Bellhart for a time, charting the bellmines with Zaza to ensure they wouldn’t collapse on the town, but after that task was done she kept to the wilderness. She and Hornet had met here several times already.
Zaza had discovered a broken bellhead that he used as a makeshift bowl, and he meaningfully nosed it closed to Hornet. She obliged with another splash of Fleabrew and he drank eagerly. Shakra raised her cup.
“Good health,” she said, and drank along with Hornet. The brew had to be imbibed carefully even for those with hardy constitutions – the stuff fizzed in one’s blood, and the sensation could be uncomfortable if the drinker stayed idle – but Hornet had to admit the flavor was pleasant. She had also begun to experiment with Pharloom’s flora for tea-brewing, but in this company, Fleabrew was the toast of choice. Shakra drained half her cup at a draught, shuddered briefly, and thumped it to the ground.
“A bracing brew,” she said. “Would that I had discovered it sooner.”
“If you visited the fleas, I’m sure they would share the recipe. They are just beyond the Citadel’s ductwork. An inhospitable region, even now, but of little threat to you and Sir Zaza.”
“A tempting offer, but I shall decline. In my nest-plains there was a most fragrant liquor. It is said the fruit they fermented for it can be found nowhere else. I shall be wary for it in future travels, but if it is not found? Then that flavor is lost forever. So be it!” She took another defiant swig. “It is loss that gives memories… dandatnaa. Weight. Significance.”
“Substance.”
“Just so.”
“There are some who may not find that preferable,” said Hornet. “Weighty memories. The shadows they cast.”
“Better for them to be like gauze? Like glass? Well, perhaps. But not, I think, for the likes of us.”
“Maybe.” She drummed her claws against her flask. “I take this to mean you will be leaving soon?”
“Tasks are done, battles ended. Pharloom stands! Thanks to your efforts.” Zaza chirruped indignantly. “And those of your allies, of course. It seems Zaza Wielding Insight shall accompany me. He has proven his gallantry and mettle both since we met.” Shakra leaned forward. “You are also welcome, you know. It shall be a directionless journey. But no less eventful, I expect.”
Hornet had anticipated this conversation and this offer for some time – Shakra wasn’t one to stay idle – but still took longer than expected to mull over her offer.
It was unclear what, if anything, still bound her to Pharloom. Its safety certainly wasn’t guaranteed – some other usurper could cross its borders, the food supply could dry up (the heart of Shellwood’s goddess had been sacrificed as part of her efforts to calm the Void, and the consequences of that sacrifice were still unknown), one of the numerous punctures and fractures inflicted by the black threads could cause any part of the kingdom to collapse. But none of these warranted staying on guard indefinitely. Her hesitation came somewhere deeper than reason. Protectiveness stirring in her old blood.
“I must also decline,” she said at last. “My reasons are…that is, there is still much to—”
“Reasons, reasons.” Shakra waved a claw dismissively. “This is not something to be justified. With every greeting a parting must follow. And perhaps another greeting, hm? The world is vast but the years are long. Time enough for paths diverged to cross again.”
“It is a comforting thought. Will you keep your maps? As mementoes.”
“For a time, perhaps. Until the memories settle.” She glanced over to her pack, the rolls of parchment nestled inside. “I may journey far before finding another land such as this. Though some of its corners were distasteful.”
“The Citadel, I know.” She didn’t want this conversation to end. “Did you ever explore that place in earnest?”
“Only in service to your request, Hornet Wielding Needle. I did not find the pale pin-wielder, but there is yet an eeriness in that structure beyond the Haunting’s thrall.”
“The Whiteward, yes. We may have to seal it off.”
“Not only there,” said Shakra. “That performance-stage as well. Wretched! I did not linger.”
“Ah. That place.”
Hornet had given the performer Trobbio’s theatre a wide berth. She had no reason to revisit the place, and as long as he hadn’t decided to terrorize the population again then she didn’t intend to cross his path. Trobbio was a madman, but a surprisingly adept fighter, and unlike Shakra she tended not to seek out battles for their own sake.
“I can only assume you did not encounter its maestro,” said Hornet. “I’d hoped he had left the kingdom for a more willing audience.”
“None living I could see. But there must have been someone to light those lanterns.”
“Lanterns?”
Shakra nodded. “A most unnerving flame. I shall confess, Hornet Wielding Needle, that your cloak set me on edge when I glimpsed it here. The hue was not dissimilar.”
Zaza pawed the ground affirmatively, then gave Hornet an odd look. She had gone quite still, long enough for him and Shakra to notice.
“Hornet Wielding Needle? Is this familiar to you?”
“It might be,” she said slowly. “I shall have to investigate.”
“Aha. So we have set you on the trail! Would you have further need of us?”
“I don’t believe so.” She replaced her flask, stood, bowed. “Do not let me bind you to this place, Shakra. You and Sir Zaza have been most reliable allies. I shall keep you in my own memories.”
“Yakkanesh! Let it be so!” She drained her cup, stood, and clanged her rings. Zaza also contrived to bow. “I know not when I may leave, Hornet Wielding Needle, but it is not my people’s way to make ceremonies of departure. You would simply discover an absence in the spaces we have been. If this is the last we see each other in this land, then may we be found again in other lands, other roads. Other battles!”
“Be well,” said Hornet. “Both of you.”
She left, parting the lichen, and was well away before it finished swaying shut behind her. At this point she’d frequented Shellwood’s tangle more times than she could easily count – its branches and hives, the lurking Splinters and occasionally carnivorous plantlife. No part of Pharloom had become as familiar to her as Hallownest, but there was a similar intuition.
Once she was certain that she wouldn’t glimpse Shakra and Zaza again, Hornet rested against a trunk and took a moment to recall them both. Zaza with his companion Garmond, the first time she’d heard Shakra’s music, the duels, the battles against Haunted hordes. Then she set those memories aside and made for the bellway. There was some other part of her past that may have refused to lie still.
* * *
Pharloom’s stage, like Whiteward, had been largely cast aside when the silk constricted everyone’s souls. The Haunted had no need for theatre. If it had been constructed in the Weavers’ time, then its use was a mystery – the Weavers were known for many kinds of artistry, but none of the existing documentation on them mentioned a fondness for thespianism. Its latest maestro, Trobbio, was equally mysterious. The butterfly must have been an outsider to Pharloom, but his fascination with the kingdom, his obsession with its legacy and his violently dramatic means of sustaining it, was less clear. Hornet had struck him down twice, first in his mania for Pharloom and then in his mourning over it. Now the mural that adorned the theatre’s foyer had been blackened and repainted yet again.
The hand that guided this paintbrush had been guided by uncanny inspiration. While the first two paintings showed Trobbio resplendent from ruff to wings, even if the second had depicted him hunched over and morose, this one was more impressionistic. What could be seen of his coloration was red once again, a darker, more sanguinary hue, but the blackness of the mural had been subtly layered such that it seemed less a painting than an open maw, Trobbio hunched within its throat. He extended a hand as if in invitation, rendered such that, if one stepped too close, it might seize them and pull them into the pigment. And in the blackness of the painting, and in the silent dark of the theatre beyond, was a glint, a flicker, of scarlet flames.