“You remind me of her.”
Those words unraveled the last of her resolve. Skyweaver heard the longing in his voice. She felt it echoed in her own heart. She might know who he was and what he’d done, but her curiosity outweighed her caution. She wanted more.
So when the monster reached to touch her, she let him. More than let him.
Night after night, she went to him. Over and over, he showed her. He was kind and gentle and tender—all of the things that monsters weren’t.
And then one day, Skyweaver felt herself changed. Surprised, she looked down to find her belly swollen and something growing within her.
His child.
Thirty-Eight
The first thing she did when she got across was destroy Safire’s door.
Just in case she was tempted.
The second thing she did was pack: her spindle, her dart shooter, and some dried scarp thistles in a jar by the bed. She kept a small stash of coins in the chest full of clothes and just as she was lifting the lid to take them, the ghost arrived.
“I can help you.”
Eris dug below the layers of woven cloth and found the leather purse.
“Trust me,” she said, pulling it out and shoving it in her pack. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the shadowy shape of him. “No one can help me.”
The ghost moved closer, closing the gap.
“You will never be safe, no matter how fast or far you run. You know this.”
Eris’s eyes prickled. “I have to try,” she whispered. She was out of options. Shouldering the pack, she turned and found the dark shadow before her, its chilling gaze on her face. “Please. Move out of my way.”
He was shifting again, from shadow to man. “They took something from both of us.”
Eris frowned at him. “What did they take from you?”
“Something precious.”
It was no longer the ghost standing before her now, but Crow. Human again: strong jaw, black hair, gray eyes staring down into hers.
“Your enemies are my enemies,” he said. “Help me, and I will destroy the one you call empress, then hunt down those who do her bidding. They will never hurt you again, Eris.”
Eris glanced up. He’d never spoken her name before. She didn’t think he knew it.
“Help me,” he said, his eyes shifting from gray to silver and back, “and you will never have to run again.”
As she studied the man before her, Eris thought of the way Kadenze drew back in fear of him. She’d never seen Kadenze afraid of anything before.
“What are you?” she asked him.
“Nothing good,” he said simply.
If Eris ran, Kadenze would find her. But if Crow was telling the truth, if he really could help her, she wouldn’t just ensure her own safety. She would ensure that the one who’d burned the scrin and taken the lives of everyone she loved was stopped from doing the same thing again.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
“Climb the Skyweaver’s tower. Take back my soul. Then bring it here, to me.”
“Your soul?” Eris shivered. Is that what they took from you?
“I cannot escape this prison without it.” He looked around him at the labyrinth walls. “It’s the condition of the curse she placed on me.”
“But how do I find such a thing?”
He seemed to flicker before her, as if straining to keep his solid form. Very softly, he said, “Skye was an expert weaver.”
Eris frowned. Skye? It was the name on the spindle Day gave her. She’d asked about it once, but all Day would say was that it belonged to someone he loved.
“She was good at taking things and turning them into something else.” His silver eyes flashed as they met Eris’s. “Just like you.”
Like me?
He meant the tapestries, she realized. The ones she turned into doors.
But I just weave them. The labyrinth changes them . . . doesn’t it?
“She will have disguised it,” said Crow. “And she will have kept it close.” Turning, he headed deeper into the maze. “Come. We must act quickly.”
Eris followed, gripping the straps of her pack. Crow seemed to glide rather than walk as he led her down a hallway Eris had trained herself never to go down—because it always turned her about, sending her back to the beginning. She followed him now into a part of the labyrinth where she’d never been before, to a door she’d never seen. It was the blue-black of midnight, its handle carved of ivory, and there were familiar words inscribed into the wood.
When the night descends . . .
I look to those who’ve gone before me
lighting my path through the dark.
It was part of Day’s prayer. She could almost hear him speaking the words over her bed every night.
What would she find on the other side?
She forced herself to reach for the knob. Her skin sparked at the contact. Despite the chill of the labyrinth’s air, the smooth curve of it was warm against her palm. Almost comforting.
“Where does it lead?”
“To her,” said Crow. “You’ll need to hurry.”
Nodding, she turned the knob. The moment she pulled it open, silvery mist flooded in.
Eris didn’t look back. Just stepped across the threshold and into the mist beyond.
Remembered
Dreams are for mortals, not gods. And yet, as the child grew within her, Skyweaver dreamed.
They were insubstantial, fleeting things at first. Like flashes of fish underwater. But the bigger the baby grew, the clearer they became. Dreams of a blustery cove. Of a father’s weathered hands and nets of flickering fish. Of a boy who stood at the edge of things. A boy made of shadows.
Why did it feel so familiar?
As her belly swelled, Skyweaver struggled to weave. Souls slipped through her fingers. The night sky refused to bend to her will.
What’s happening to me?
Fearful of being found out, she dismissed all but one loyal servant: a devout man named Day, who swore to keep her secrets.
The dreams began to come in the daytime. Vivid, insistent. Until Skyweaver could smell the piney scent of juniper berries and taste the tender flesh of cod and feel the sting of the northeast wind on her cheeks.
The more she dreamed, the more the baby grew, and the more she changed. Until one day she looked to find that her hands were not those of a god but of a human. Callused and coarse.
Skyweaver locked herself in her tower until Skye’s Night. On that night, Skyweaver had no choice but to descend the steps and join the empress of the Star Isles for Leandra’s yearly celebration of her defeat of the Shadow God.
Skyweaver wove herself a flowing gray gown for the occasion. One that would hide the bump of her belly.
The Shadow God was supposed to be dead. She wasn’t supposed to be carrying his child.
Skyweaver descended her tower and entered the citadel. She sat at the queen’s table and smiled when they toasted her. She clapped when they reenacted her defeat of the Shadow God. But on the inside, she wondered: Can they see my lie?
It started when they brought out the wine: a sharp pain in her belly that came like the tide. Ebbing and flowing. Contracting, releasing.
She knew what it meant.
The baby was coming.
Pain stabbed her like knife. She reached for the table to steady herself, gripping it hard, waiting for the ache to subside.