Chapter 52

white-faced, staring at the dark mirror. It has gone black, just dead steel now. Nothing moves inside it.

a hand on her shoulder, gentle.

She closes her eyes, breathes once, and opens them. Hard again. A blade's worth of hard.

The crew and Vaka's Lucid regroup, battered. Drekk's mast-axe is chipped. The troll in the nightgown is asleep standing up.

staring at the distant glow of the village on the horizon.

handing him a little glowing ember from her lantern, warm in his palm.

Vigolas walks alone across the snowfield into the burning village. The snow stops falling up. Here it falls down, grey. Ash.

Small log houses on fire. A Trisdel banner snapping in the hot wind, white with gold. Sentinels in white armour stand frozen mid-stride between the houses like statues, collars glowing. Everything is very quiet.

A boy, eight years old: golden-tan skin, a too-big hoodie, a hunting knife clutched in his hand. Young Kompis. He's running toward a burning house.

In the doorway of the house stands a smaller boy, five years old, in a burned shirt. Holding out his hand. He has no face, just smooth skin where a face should be, like a doll with its features rubbed away.

reaching for him.

The roof of the house comes down. The doorway goes black.

frozen mid-stride. His eyes go grey. The whole world goes grey around him, a colourless instant. Subtick.

The scene jumps back. Young Kompis is running toward the house again. The smaller boy is in the doorway again, holding out his hand. The same seven seconds.

Each one is the same seven seconds with one thing different:

He runs faster. The roof comes down.

He goes round the back. The roof comes down.

He throws the knife at the beam. The roof comes down.

He shouts a warning earlier. The roof comes down.

He doesn't run at all, and the roof still comes down.

He runs faster. The roof comes down.

…

In every panel the little brother's featureless face is a fraction smoother, a fraction more gone.

at the edge of the street, understanding.

On the roof of the burning house, sitting with her legs crossed, sits Mörda: thin, grey-skinned, black hair floating as if underwater, wide red-rimmed eyes that never close. Below her, the shadow-horse grazes on smoke.

chin in her hand, watching the loop like someone watching a fire on a cold night.

turning her red eyes on Vigolas.

very calm. The ember in his palm glows.

Vigolas leaps, green lightning (dream-weak, but real) on both fists, straight at her.

Mörda doesn't move. He passes through her like smoke and crashes into the burning roof beam beyond. Sparks and ash explode around him.

Vigolas spins and throws his open hand at her.

The space around Mörda folds, crumpling into corners… and folds around nothing. She's still sitting there. There's no shape to grip.

laughing softly.

panting. His other hand rises, palm open, and the air around his fingers goes black, the colour of nothing. ERASE, gathering.

staring at his own hand. The black flickers.

the black going out.

tilting her head, curious, almost respectful.

She raises one hand, and the shadow-horse rears. Its hooves come down on the street, and the whole burning village lurches, like a sleeper rolling over. Vigolas is thrown off his feet.

studying him.

her eyes widening, delighted.

The ember from Vaka's lantern flares, burning into his skin. He's forgetting.

rolling up, grey creeping into the green.

The burning village is gone. Vigolas is standing on the deck of a black-sailed ship, soaked, in the roaring dark of a storm. Gold coins spill across the planks at his feet. And in front of him, rising out of the sea taller than any mountain, curling, white-crested, is the wave.