There was a long pause.
“Oh,” said Fern and Breadlee both.
“Yeah, I like Bridgewrecker better,”murmured the knife out the side of his nonexistent mouth.
Fern pursed her lips, then blurted the question that had been plaguing her off and on, in moments when she wasn’t so exhausted she couldn’t entertain it.
“Why are you still here?”
Zyll tilted her head.
Fern sighed. “I mean, I know whyIwouldn’t flee alone into the snow, but I don’t get the impression that would bother you very much. Frankly, I think you could have left at any time if you wanted.”
Stretching out a paw, Fern tapped the wire bracelet. “Even if this really does work, you’ve got enough table-knives in that coat. You could have stabbed her when she was out cold. That aside, I’m pretty sure you could disappear, and she’d never catch up to you once she finally recovers. So. Why are youhere?”
Not dropping her gaze, the goblin patted a few pockets, stuffed a hand into one, and withdrew a knife that was very muchnottableware. It was slim and wicked and designed for killing, not cookery.
Fern jumped at the sight of it, and Breadlee made a pained noise where she held him loosely in one paw.
With remarkable dexterity, Zyll used the tip of the dirk to excavate something between her teeth, which looked a bit like a feather. She blew it off the end of the blade, then tucked the knife away again.
“We goes when is time to be somewhere else,” said Zyll.
Like bottling smoke,Fern thought.
A rumble issued unexpectedly from her belly. She’d declined breakfast before visiting Astryx, and now Fern’s guts had apparently mounted a protest.
The goblin’s grin widened, and she seized Fern’s paw in both hands. “Come. We knowsallabout the kitch-lings.”
In the days that followed, Fern understood better why the Tarimites had such an extensive library. As Astryx slowly recovered, the erstwhile bookseller found there was little else to do for those who didn’t need to spend a goodly portion of their day engaged in penitent acts to deflect Tarim’s not-so-benevolent regard.
Zyll’s appearances were erratic at best. Fern was mostly left to her own devices, and now that she’d borne the abbess’s keen interrogation, Bluebriar didn’t call on her again. She ate amongst the monks in the rectory at mealtimes—which were signaled with a bell—but any attempts at striking up a conversation were met with polite, but unsatisfyingly brief replies.
She kept expecting a pointed question about when they’d be leaving, or at the very least a judgmental gaze when she was handed her meal, but none of that happened.
For worshippers of an evil deity beyond mortal conception, they were very hospitable.
So, she wandered, perused the library, and made excursions to keep Bucket company and sneak him handfuls of oats.
And she visited Astryx daily, where she read to her.
Fern wasn’t sure exactly what prompted the idea, but on the third day, she remembered the fancy volume ofTen Links in the Chainshe’d hauled around in her satchel until she’d sold it in Bycross. The monastery had their own copy, although it was a cheap printing, much-battered and well-read.
She didn’t ask, but simply took it with her on her visit to Astryx in the infirmary. The elf was sleeping and, although Fern was hardly a physician, she thought her color was continuing to improve.
Burdock had finally succeeded in moving Nigel off the bed and had leaned him in a corner.
She drew up a stool, cracked the book to the first page, and nervously cleared her throat.
“I don’t know if you can hear this, but it seems like exactly the sort of thing you’d dream about.”
Flicking her gaze to the elf’s face, she detected no motion.
Then she read aloud, “‘Chapter One. In which I dismember a man.’”
Astryx’s chest rose and fell evenly as Fern continued. “‘When I first tell you that I was wrongfully imprisoned, you may have some sympathy. But when I also relay even a few of the dire things I’ve done, your sympathy will, perhaps, become strained beyond its limit. I can only ask that you hear me out, dear reader.’”
She chanced a cautious glance to make sure she wasn’t disturbing the elf’s rest. “‘Indeed, because I cut the man’s head off and then his legs and his arms and stuffed them into three barrels of brine to survive the voyage, I mayseema monster. But by the end of my tale, I think you may again consider me worthy of your regard. Besides. He was a bastard.’”
