A pair of donkeys regarded their entrance with skepticism as the murmuring gaggle of monks led them indoors. A hiss escaped Fern as her frozen toes prickled in the sudden heat. Zyll immediately slipped off their animal’s back and disappeared amidst the confusion of black and brown habits.
Then Rhubarb was helping Fern gingerly dismount. She became suddenly and painfully aware of the stiffness in her joints and the ache in her tail. Her knees nearly buckled under her own weight.
Using his arm to regain her balance, she watched anxiously over the monk’s shoulder as they set up two stools and a step-ladder next to Bucket. With a Tarimite tottering on each, they began delicately maneuvering Astryx off his back.
“We’ll do our best for her,” said Rhubarb, patting her paw with his own. “I’m no man of medicine, so I won’t pretend to know her chances, but there’s no better place to be spared Tarim’s ill-regard. As for you, let’s get something hot in both your bellies to warm you up before you meet the abbess. Your friend should—” His brow creased as he peered over the heads of his brethren. “Now where did she get off to?”
“She tends to turn up again,” mumbled Fern, whiskers shivering.
“Mmm,” he replied, frowning, then turning his attention back to her. “Now, what was that you were saying before about a bridge?”
26
Fern waited in the refectory, seated on a bench at one of three long dining tables, all rattkin-scale. The dark wood was much-scarred, but well-polished by the elbows of generations of Tarimites. Tall windows of cloudy glass allowed in reflected moonlight from the snow outside. Flakes pittered against the panes like anxious moths. Rafters ascended into shadowy peaks above, and the wind had withdrawn to whisper mournfully along the eaves. The whole place was surprisingly devoid of tentacular decoration.
She was belted into a loaner habit while her sodden cloak dried on a peg along the hearth’s lintel, her satchel dangling beside it. At the last moment, Fern had remembered to transfer Breadlee to her new outerwear. The habit’s fabric was heavy, softened from a thousand washings, and enfolded her in a soporific shadow that tugged her toward sleep.
Rhubarb had ensconced her blessedly close to the hearthfire before hustling out of the room to fetch her a meal. Of Zyll, there was no sign. Fern couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. She sat alone in the cavernous space, although murmured prayers filtered in from the passageway at the opposite end. They did nothing to help keep her eyelids open, despite the yawning hole in her belly. She reminded herself that these were worshippers of a mad god of destruction and horror, but it was challenging to hold on to that fear at the moment.
Just as she was nodding off, a mumbling from the vicinity of her middle brought her back to wakefulness. She patted around the unfamiliar clothes until she withdrew the Elder Blade from a pocket and laid him on the table before her.
“Hey,” said Breadlee. Fern had the sense that he was fidgeting. “So, is she gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I’m too tired to consider thatImight be the bad luck that ended her after a thousand years.”
“Yeah,” said the knife, with obvious relief. “You’re right. You’re not that important. But in, like, a good way.”
“Obviously, it’d be the cursed magical object that’s responsible.”
“Wait, when did we get one of those? What did I miss?”
There was a long pause during which Fern was pretty sure Breadlee narrowed his nonexistent eyes at her.
“Um,” he eventually continued. “Thanks for not mentioning my part in the whole bridge thing. Really great job making it sound like an accident we had nothing to do with.”
Fern sighed. “You didn’t see the look on that monk’s face. We probably cut them off from all civilization for the next six months. If I told him everything, they’d be sacrificing us to Tarim come morning.”
“Oh, is he one of those blood-and-fire gods? Gotta confess, I never paid much attention because of the whole immortality-of-the-blade thing. Didn’t seem personally relevant.”
“Just your garden variety cosmic being that might fucking swallow the world if he gets around to noticing it. Not sure the immortality of your blade would do a lot of good.”
“And theyprayto that?”
She laid her nose on her crossed forearms atop the table, burying it in the warm folds of the habit. “You’ve got a whole abbeyful of credulous idiots here that I’m sure would be happy to explain it to you. I don’t know why you’re asking me,” she muttered crossly.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Fern jumped at an amused voice, slapping a hand over Breadlee and staring guiltily toward the small wooden door Rhubarb had disappeared through.
The piebald brother was nowhere to be found, though. Instead, an older rattkin stood in the open doorway with a tray in her paws and a curious tilt to her head. She was plump and silver and wore the same simple habit as the rest of the abbey’s denizens.
“Um,” said Fern.
The woman approached without waiting for an answer. She slid the tray onto the table and unloaded it in front of Fern with crisp movements—an enormous porcelain bowl of steaming stew, a round of sourdough sharing a chipped plate with a generous knob of yellow butter, and a mug of fragrant mulled wine.
The stew was crowded with parsnips and other root vegetables, rich with the savory scent of beef and pepper, and edged with a hint of thyme. A hungry moan escaped Fern’s lips in chorus with her stomach.
The rattkin placed a spoon beside the bowl and cocked a brow at the knife under Fern’s paw. “You travel with your own tableware?”
