‘How about neither?’ Skintick said.
Although she walked behind them, Nimander could see in his mind’s eye his sister’s face, and the contempt in it as she no doubt sneered at Skintick.
Clip walked somewhere ahead, visible only occasionally; whenever they strode into another half-overgrown clearing, they would see him waiting at the far end, as if impatient with lagging, wayward children.
Behind Nimander, Skintick and Desra walked the others, Nenanda electing to guard the rear as if this was some sort of raid into enemy territory. Surrounded by suspicious songbirds, nervous rodents, irritated insects, Nenanda padded along with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a glower for every shadow. He would be like that all day, Nimander knew, storing up his disgust and anger for when tbey all sat by the fire at night, a fire Nenanda deemed careless and dangerous and would only tolerate because Clip said nothing, Clip with his half-smile and spinning rings who fed Nenanda morsels of approval until the young warrior was consumed by an addict’s need, desperate for the next paltry feeding.
Without it, he might crumble, collapse inward like a deflated bladder. Or lash out, yes, at every one of his kin. At Desra, who had been his lover. At Kedeviss and Aranatha who were useless. At Skintick who mocked to hide his cowardice. And at Nimander, who was to blame for — well, no need to go into that, was there?
‘Do not fret, beloved. I wait for you. For ever. Be strong and know this: you are stronger than you know. Think-’
And all at once another voice sounded in his mind, harder, sour with venom, ‘She knows nothing. She lies to you.’
Phaed.
‘Yes, you cannot be rid of me, brother. Not when your hands still burn. Still feel the heat of my throat. Not when my bulging eyes stay fixed on you, like nails, yes? The iron tips slowly pushing into your own eyes, so cold, such pain, and you cannot pull loose, can never escape.’
Do I deny my guilt? Do I even flinch from such truths?
‘That is not courage, brother. That is despair. Pathetic surrender. Remember Withal? How he took upon himself what needed doing! He picked me up like a rag doll — impressive strength, yes! The memory heats me, Nimander! Would you lick my lips?’ and she laughed. ‘Withal, yes, he knew what to do, because you left him no choice. Because you failed. So weak you could not murder your sister. I saw as much in your eyes; at that last moment, I saw it!’
Some sound must have risen from Nimander, for Skintick turned with brows raised.
‘What is wrong?’
Nimander shook his head.
They walked round pale-barked trees, on soft loam between splayed roots. Dappled sunlight and the chattering alarm of a flying squirrel on a bony branch overhead. Leaves making voices — yes, that was all it was, whispering leaves and his overwrought imagination-
Phaed snorted. ‘“Sometimes being bad feels good. Sometimes dark lust burns like parched wood. Sometimes, my love, you awaken desire in someone else’s pain.” Recall that poet, Nimander? That woman of Kharkanas! Andarist was reluctant to speak of her, but I found in the Old Scrolls all her writings. “And with the tips of your fingers, all this you can train.” Hah! She knew! And they all feared her, and now they will not speak her name, a name forbidden, but I know it — shall I-’
No!
And Nimander’s hands clutched, as if once more crushing Phaed’s throat. And he saw her eyes, yes, round and swollen huge and ready to burst. In his mind, yes, once more he choked the life from her.
And from the leaves came the whisper of dark pleasure.
Suddenly cold, suddenly terrified, he heard Phaed’s knowing laugh.
‘You look ill,’ Skintick said. ‘Should we halt for a rest?’
Nimander shook his head. ‘No, let Clip’s impatience drag us ever onward, Skintick. The sooner we are done. .’ But he could not go on, would not finish that thought.
‘See ahead,’ Desra said. ‘Clip has reached the forest edge, and not a moment too soon.’
There was no cause for her impatience, merely a distorted, murky reflection of Clip’s own. This was how she seduced men, by giving back to them versions of themselves, promising her protean self like a precious gift to feed their narcissistic pleasures. She seemed able to steal hearts almost without effort, but Nimander suspected that Clip’s self-obsession would prove too powerful, too well armoured against any incursions. He would not let her into his places of weakness. No, he would simply use her, as she had so often used men, and from this would be born a most deadly venom.
Nimander had no thought to warn Clip. Leave them their games, and all the wounds to come.
‘Yes, leave them to it, brother. We have our own, after all.’
Must I choke you silent once more, Phaed?
‘If it pleases you.’
The clearing ahead stretched out, rolling downward towards a distant river or stream. The fields on the opposite bank had been planted with rows of some strange, purplish, broad-leafed crop. Scarecrows hung from crosses in such profusion that it seemed they stood like a cohort of soldiers in ranks. Motionless, rag-bound figures in each row, only a few paces apart. The effect was chilling.
Clip’s eyes thinned as he studied the distant field and its tattered sentinels. Chain snapped out, rings spun in a gleaming blur.
‘There’s a track, I think,’ Skintick said, ‘up and over the far side.’
‘What plants are those?’ Aranatha asked.
No one had an answer.
‘Why are there so many scarecrows?’
Again, no suggestions were forthcoming.
Clip once more in the lead, they set out.
The water of the stream was dark green, almost black, so sickly in appearance that none stopped for a drink, and each found stones to step on rather than simply splash across the shallow span. They ascended towards the field where clouds of insects hovered round the centre stalk of each plant, swarming the pale green flowers before rising in a gust to plunge down on to the next.
As they drew closer, their steps slowed. Even Clip finally halted.
The scarecrows had once been living people. The rags were bound tightly, cov shy;ering the entire bodies, arms, legs, necks, faces, all swathed in rough cloth that seemed to drip black fluids, soaking the earth. As the wrapped heads were forward slung, threads of the thick dark substance stretched down from the gauze covering the victims’ noses.
‘Feeding the plants, I think,’ Skintick said quietly.
‘Blood?’ Nimander asked.
‘Doesn’t look like blood, although there maybe blood in it.’
‘Then they’re still alive.’
Yet that seemed unlikely. None of the forms moved, none lifted a bound head at the sound of their voices. The air itself stank of death.
‘They are not still alive,’ Clip said. He had stopped spinning the chain.
‘Then what leaks from them?’
Clip moved on to the narrow track running up through the field. Nimander forced himself to follow, and heard the others fall in behind him. Once they were in the field, surrounded by the corpses and the man-high plants, the pungent air was suddenly thick with the tiny, wrinkle-winged insects, slithering wet and cool against their faces.
They hurried forward, gagging, coughing.
The furrows were sodden underfoot, black mud clinging to their moccasins, a growing weight that made them stumble and slip as they scrambled upslope. Reaching the ridge at last, out from the rows, down into a ditch and then on to a road. Beyond it, more fields to either side of a track, and, rising from them like an army, more corpses. A thousand hung heads, a ceaseless flow of black tears.
‘Mother bless us,’ Kedeviss whispered, ‘who could do such a thing?’
‘“All possible cruelties are inevitable,”’ Nimander said, ‘“every conceivable crime has been committed.”‘ Quoting Andarist yet again.