“Don’t mind us,” called Agnes. “We’re coming.”
Marra took a deep breath and led them forward into the dark.
* * *
It was a much shorter route than the one from in the quarry, or perhaps that route had seemed longer because they had gotten turned around and gone so slowly and down so many dead ends. Once they reached a tomb that seemed to have no exits and Marra began to wonder if she had misread, until Bonedog ran snuffling to a tapestry that moved in an unseen breeze. Behind it, half-hidden, was the next door. And then, practically before she had time to comprehend it, there was a bright outline at the end of the hall and Fenris pushed open the door and stepped through, sword at the ready … into the godmother’s temple.
It was a small room, but Marra could see the main hall through a carved screen. Perhaps priests had once prepared for their sermons here. The godmother sat on a little raised platform, still in that perfect dark triangle of skull and robe and shoulders. She did not move her head when she spoke. “Stay your sword, warrior,” she said. “I suspect that I will die very soon in any event.”
“I wasn’t going to…” Fenris lowered his sword and looked abashed. “Forgive me, madam.”
She laughed. “There is nothing to forgive. You did not free me, though. Nor did you.” Her eyes moved to the door as Agnes came through. “And you are powerful, for all you try to hide it, but not in a way that could compel the dead. So it must be … ah. Of course. It must have been you.”
The dust-wife inclined her head.
“I could have died when the spell broke,” said the godmother. “I thought about it. But I was curious as to who had finally set me free.” She searched the dust-wife’s face, took in the coat full of pockets and the brown hen hunkered down on the staff. “Why? I have never done you a kindness. And we are a long, long way from your own beloved dead.”
“A friend asked me to,” said the dust-wife.
“Ah.” The godmother smiled then, and cracks ran across her skin from the motion, like a plaster wall falling apart. As Marra watched in horror, a chip of skin fell from her cheekbone. There was no blood under it, nothing but cool, brown bone. “Yes. Agnes, will you pass me my teacup? It seems that I am about to die, and I would like a little more tea.”
Agnes rushed forward and poured the tea with trembling hands. She tried to press it into the godmother’s hands, but they were only bone, folded politely in a pile of dust. “Oh no,” she said softly. “Oh dear.” She knelt, held the teacup to the ancient lips and tipped it up.
“Thank you,” said the godmother against the rim of the teacup, and then she fell apart. Marra took a step back but there was something oddly peaceful about it, about bones sinking down into the robes and the dust pattering down around them. There had been very little flesh left to the godmother, only skin and skeleton and iron will. Her robes stayed in their perfect triangle, stiff with gold brocade.
Agnes wiped her eyes. “Dammit,” she whispered. “I have to go be impressive. I have to go be the wicked godmother. I can’t cry.”
“She’s at peace now,” said Fenris.
Agnes gave him an ironic glance. “She’s been at peace for centuries, I think. I still get to cry about it.”
She rose and wiped her hands on her dress. She looked small and bedraggled in her shapeless dress, scarf around her neck with a sleeping chicken in it. Her hair was in flyaway wisps and there were lines around her eyes from worried smiling.
And then she took a deep breath and shook herself and her eyes flickered green as poison. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The front door of the godmother’s temple was locked from the inside, but Marra could hear frantic pounding. The guard. Yes, of course there was a guard. A merely human guard seemed so banal now. The metal door rang like a gong, and when Fenris opened it, the guard was so shocked that he fell back a step, his mouth hanging open. “The godmother,” he said. “They’ve summoned the godmother and she was supposed to come and she always does but she didn’t. Where is she? She’s going to be late!” His voice cracked on the word late, panic rendering him much younger than his years.
Agnes patted his hand kindly. Marra stayed well back in the shadow of the door, wondering if they were going to have to hit the guard over the head, but Agnes said, “She’s coming. Don’t worry.”
“Yes,” said the dust-wife. “We apologize. We were consulting her on a matter of wizardly importance.”