And true also that Helma was Apt, and her family had been Apt for many generations, though the secret histories suggested that their Inaptitude had survived at least a century beyond the Revolution. There were wonders written there that Helma could not truly understand, just as she could not quite grasp the meaning of the old Moth scrolls in the College library, but that had not stopped her trying. She had steeped herself in Inapt lore from an early age, thus becoming, almost incidentally, one of the College’s great scholars of history. She had even sought to take the chair for Inapt studies, but her Aptitude had shackled her, and even the halfwit Fly they had brought in for the post had that crucial advantage over her.
But she had learned, even if only by rote and in ignorance, and thus been vindicated spectacularly. She had come here to the forest with only the dusty old tatters of understanding and the name of Argastos, a great name from the Days of Lore.
And she had shed Moth blood, and so she had got in. It was her crowning achievement, to mimic Inaptitude with such sincerity that she had crossed the line, that once. She had become a fit servant for her masters.
Rather, for her master. Because whatever the Moths of today had devolved into, Argastos represented that kinden at its height, a man — and such a man! — who had strode a world that knew nothing of Aptitude, a world in which great things were still being done.
And she had come to him here, in his place, and knelt before him, and sworn to be his right hand, his servant, his ambassador, whatever he required of her. This was the culmination of centuries of familial ambition.
And now she stalked through the cramped, buried chambers of his home, the very surface layers of his mind, and experienced discontent.
Yes, she now had what she wanted. No, it was not what she had wanted, after all. She did not mind the darkness, having never much cared for the sun. What irked her was that she had worked so hard and come so far, and yet others were set over her who had done nothing, who had been handed the world on a plate. Others who knew less than she, whose kin had not kept the dark flame burning for so many generations, were valued more than she was.
It was not fair. It ate at her like a grub.
Argastos had gone to play with them again — to woo them, as he termed it. She was here, willing and ready, and he had gone in search of younger flesh to taste. Younger and more ignorant.
She could feel him at the heart of things, and she wanted to go to him, but he had forbidden it. Await my commands, he had told her, and she would be so happy to do just that if only she felt valued and appreciated.
And, as she brooded on that a while, a new wave of thoughts seemed to insinuate itself into her mind. He does not deserve me.
That was a shocking thought. She froze as it came to her, as surprised as if it had issued entirely from outside her. Yet did it not mesh with the gears of her own train of thoughts so perfectly?
This thought of gears, so ugly and inappropriate, threw her. That was why he did not value her, because her Aptitude clung to her like a stench. She was not worthy of Argastos, and yet he had taken her in. .
Because he had no other servants. What sort of a master lives like this?
Again that intrusion into her mind, and yet was it not true?
You are Helma Bartrer, Mistress of the Great College, after all. You are a rare gem, one to be valued, and he does not appreciate you. You have been deceived in him. He is not worthy of a servant such as you.
She shuddered, feeling for a moment that her thoughts were not her own. But surely her own thoughts had been leading her in just such a direction ever since she had come here. It was just the speed and the distance she had travelled that had startled her.
There are other masters, if you must have one, she found herself considering. But Argastos is a broken thing. You must confront him.
Now she was frightened. Confront Argastos? The thought of his wrath was terrifying. He could destroy her, unmake her. He would hang her grimy robes among his trophies and forget her. No, no, she was his servant, and lucky to be that. She could not ask for more. She was not fit to be more.
And for a moment there was a new voice in her head, sharp as the smell of acid, and it said, Oh, give it up. You don’t have the faintest idea how to go about this.
She froze, in that half-place, in that half-light, thinking, Am I going mad now? And this was her own thought, beyond contest. And even after that: Would that make me more what he wanted?
But then the assault of new thoughts resumed, and their tenor had changed. Yes, I am not worthy. I am a slave, Argastos’s slave. Yes, he does not value me, but I’m a slave and he’s my master. It’s not my place to complain. And it was as though there was some other voice inside her mind protesting this, but being overruled. But if I’m unworthy, what about the girl, hm? How much more is she undeserving of the honours he has given her? She doesn’t even want them! That idiot child Cheerwell Maker has done nothing in her entire life to earn his love, and yet he woos her, he offers her the world. More fool her if she won’t take it.
I hate her. She realized this was true. In all the world I hate nothing more than I hate Cheerwell Maker, who has stolen Argastos’s affections from me. It was strange to hear herself lay out her thoughts so clearly, but it was true, so true. That loathsome girl who did not know her own luck, she was the undeserving one.
She had come here to steal Argastos away.
Yes, of course she has. Oh, she plays at being unwilling, but she’s a clever whore, that one. She will lead him on and lead him on, and then she’ll turn on him when she has run him ragged, strip him of his power and destroy him — and then waltz back to Collegium, never caring what she has destroyed. I have to save him from her. I have to make him understand what she is.
She opened her eyes, having realized they had been closed. Everything was so very clear to her now.
Slowly, step by step, she began navigating the buried maze towards Argastos.
That’s it, her mind whispered to her. And when you have shown him what the Maker girl is, that scheming little witch, how he will reward you! How he will finally see you for what you are, for who else will his affections light on, if not you?
A warm feeling suffused her, despite the chill of her surroundings. Argastos, broad-shouldered and brave, warrior-hero of legend, would look on her with his beautiful white eyes and finally know her for what she was. That image of him was strong in her mind, the war leader in his pale mail and dark cloak, the man who had fought back the Worm.
Her feet led her without error, twisting and turning through the root-snarled tunnels of his barrow. She only half-saw the skulls embedded in the walls, eyes and mouths stopped with earth, the bones and rusted shards of armour underfoot. She had eyes only for the visions of her own mind.
And she was suddenly before him, as he sat at the heart of his domain, and she let her eyes feast on him, strong and silent and wise, and then something wrenched within her mind, something seemed to fall from her eyes, and for a brief second she saw him as he really was.
Not merely a corpse, but what a corpse would become if it were buried forever underground and not allowed to rot: a peat-black, bone-hard, withered thing, and yet those eyes, those white and living eyes, rolling in the gaping sockets. .