“It’s extremely disconcerting that you use that as a curse,” Solmir muttered.
But Neve wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes had gone to the cottage, to the slow creep of the opening door.
Pushed by something that was decidedly not a human hand.
Chapter Five
Neve
Instinct told her to back away, to run into the inverted trees they’d left behind. Instead, Neve planted her feet, pulled the edges of Solmir’s coat around herself as if it could be armor.
Solmir looked at her with one knife-slash brow arched. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Who says I’m afraid?”
“Every single thing about you right now says you’re afraid.”
She didn’t like that, didn’t like the idea that he could read her easily. “Concerned and afraid are not the same thing.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Neverah.”
The door continued to press implacably forward, pushed by something that looked almost like… like spider legs. Three of them at least, moving in tandem like a hand might. Spiky dark fur studded the legs’ lengths, and though the gloom inside the cottage hid whatever torso they attached to, the legs alone looked nearly as long as Neve was tall.
“What is that?” Neve did her best to keep her voice even, though it was a challenge. She hated spiders. Always had. Of course there’d be a giant spider here.
“She,” Solmir said, with emphasis on the pronoun, “is the Seamstress. And you have nothing to fear from her. She only eats insects.”
It wasn’t exactly comforting, seeing as Neve hadn’t yet seen any insects in the Shadowlands.
The door stood fully open now, a rectangular maw in the cottage’s side. The legs—the Seamstress—had disappeared back into the gloom of her hovel. Apparently, the opening of the door was as much welcome as they’d get. Undeterred, Solmir started toward the door, unslinging the bag from his shoulder as he went.
For a moment, Neve considered staying out here, waiting for Solmir to finish whatever business he had with the Seamstress alone. But that three-eyed goat looked at her again, letting out another strange bleat—it sounded like a ship’s horn, as if the thing was running through a remembered list of noises every time it opened its mouth—and that was enough to send her hurrying to catch up.
Right before the threshold, Solmir stopped. He inclined his head toward the dark, not quite a bow but a show of deference. “Beloved of an Old One, I cede my power as I cross into your holding, and follow no law but your own as long as I abide by your hearth.” He set the bag down before the door.
A low chuckle from inside the cottage, unexpectedly melodious. “It smells like you don’t have much power to cede, once-King. Your well is near run dry. But I do appreciate the gesture.” Another one of those spider legs curved out of the dark, hooked the bag, and pulled it inside. The sound of a deep sniff, then a pleased click, like teeth snapping together. “Your offering is accepted. Be welcome, you and your guest.”
Solmir looked at Neve, smirked. “Last chance to stay out here. You could make friends with the goat.”
Neve didn’t give him the dignity of a response. She strode forward and crossed the threshold before he did, fighting down fear until it was nothing but a cold twinge in her middle. Her hand flexed as she passed him, itching to scratch his skin and steal another jolt of magic, but she closed it to a fist.
The inside of the cottage was just as disconcertingly normal as the outside, once her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Spiny things hung from the ceiling the way herbs might; a closer look revealed that they were insect legs, spike-haired and segmented. They looked exactly like whatever Solmir had stuffed into the bag back at the tower, what he’d given the Seamstress as an offering.
Her mouth pulled down. It seemed like most of the things in the Shadowlands were dead, but apparently that hadn’t always been the case, and Solmir had a stockpile of insect carcasses to offer in exchange for information. It made a nervous laugh itch at the back of her throat. She’d received so much training on trade, but she’d never considered bargaining with insect parts. Always something new to learn, apparently.
The small space was warmed by a crackling, colorless fire in a small hearth. A large wooden block sat in the center of the room—a table, maybe, though there were no chairs. Dark stains marred the block’s surface, studded with pieces of torn iridescence, like wing remnants. A plain cupboard was pushed against the wall.
And when her eyes couldn’t focus on the slightly twisted normalcy anymore, they had to turn to the cottage’s occupant.