They'd come to her for salvation. And they died for it.
And if I had sacrificed myself then? Cast my Warren's defences on to Being alive, Tattersail concluded as she approached her tent, isn't the same as feeling good about it. She entered her tent and closed the flap behind her, then stood surveying her worldly possessions. Scant few, after two hundred and nineteen years of life. The oak chest containing her book of Thyr sorcery remained sealed by warding spells; the small collection of alchemical devices lay scattered on the tabletop beside her cot, like a child's toys abandoned in mid-game.
Amid the clutter sat her Deck of Dragons. Her gaze lingered on the reading cards before continuing its round. Everything looked different now, as if the chest, the alchemy, and her clothes all belonged to someone else: someone younger, someone still possessing a shred of vanity.
Only the Deck-the Fatid-called out to her like an old friend.
Tattersail walked over to stand before it. With an absent gesture she set down the package given her by Kalam, then pulled out a stool from under the table. Sitting down, she reached for the Deck. She hesitated.
It had been months. Something had kept her away. Maybe Calot's death could have been foretold, and maybe that suspicion had been pacing in the darkness of her thoughts all this time. Pain and fear had been shaping her soul all her life, but her time with Calot had been another kind of shaping, something light, happy, pleasantly floating.
She'd called it mere diversion.
«How's that for wilful denial?» She heard the bitterness in her tone and hated herself for it. Her old demons were back, laughing at the death of her illusions. You refused the Deck once before, the night before Mock's throat was opened, the night before Dancer and the man who would one day rule an Empire stole into your master's-your lover's-Hold. Would you deny that a pattern exists, woman?
Her vision blurry with memories she'd thought buried for ever, she looked down at the Deck, blinking rapidly. «Do I want you to talk to me, old friend? Do I need your reminders, your wry confirmation that faith is for fools?»
A motion caught the corner of her eye. Whatever was inside the bound hide had moved. Lumps rose here and there, pushing against the seams.
Tattersail stared. Then, her breath catching, she reached to it and set it in front of her. She withdrew a small dagger from her belt and began to cut the seams. The object within went still, as if awaiting the result of her efforts. She peeled back a sliced flap of hide.
«Sail,» said a familiar voice.
Her eyes widened as a wooden marionette, wearing bright yellow silk clothing, climbed out of the bag. Painted on its round face were features she recognized.
«Hairlock.»
«Good to see you again,» the marionette said, rising to its feet. It wobbled and held out artfully carved hands to regain balance. «And the soul did shift,» he said, doffing his floppy hat and managing an unsteady bow.
Soul shifting. «But that's been lost for centuries. Not even Tayschrenn-» She stopped, pursing her lips. Her thoughts raced.
«Later,» Hairlock said. He took a few steps, then bent his head forward to study his new body. «Well,» he sighed, «one mustn't quibble, must one?»
He looked up and fixed painted eyes on the sorceress. «You have to go to my tent before the thought occurs to Tayschrenn, I need my Book. You're part of this now. There's no turning back.»
«Part of what?»
Hairlock made no reply, having broken his uncanny stare. He lowered himself down to his knees. «Thought I smelled a Deck,» he said.
Sweat ran in cold rivulets under Tattersail's arms. Hairlock had made her uneasy at the best of times, but this: She could smell her own fear.
That he'd swung his gaze from her made her grateful for small mercies.
This was Elder Magic, Kurald Galain, if the legends were true, and it was deadly, vicious, raw and primal. The Bridgeburners had a reputation for being a mean crowd, but to walk the Warrens closest to Chaos was pure madness. Or desperation.
Almost of its own accord, her Thyr Warren opened and a surge of power filled her weary body. Her eyes snapped to the Deck.
Hairlock must have sensed it. «Tattersail,» he whispered, amusement it his tone. «Come. The Fatid calls to you. Read what is to be read.»
Profoundly disturbed by her own answering flush of excitement, Tattersail reluctantly reached for the Deck of Dragons. She saw her hand tremble as it closed on it. She shuffled slowly, feeling the chill of the lacquered wooden cards seep into her fingers and then her arms. «I feel a storm raging in them already,» she said, trimming the Deck and setting it down on the tabletop.
Hairlock's answering laugh was eager and mean. «First House sets the course. Quickly!»
She turned over the top card. Her breath caught. «Knight of Dark.»
Hairlock sighed. «The Lord of Night rules this game. Of course.»
Tattersail studied the painted figure. The face remained blurred as always did; the Knight was naked, his skin jet black. From the hips up he was human, heavily muscled, holding aloft a black two-handed sword that trailed smoky, ethereal chains drifting off into the background's empty darkness. His lower body was draconian, its armoured scales black, paling to grey at the belly. As always, she saw something new, something she had never seen before that pertained to the moment.
There was a shape suspended in the darkness above the Knight's head: she could only detect it on the edge of her vision, a vague hint that vanished when she focused on the place itself. Of course, you never give up the truth so easily, do you?
«Second card,» Hairlock urged, crouching close to the playing field inscribed on the tabletop.
She flipped the second card. «Oponn.» The two-faced jester of Chance.
«Hood's Curse on their meddling ways,» Hairlock growled.
The Lady held the upright position, her male twin's bemused stare upside down at the card's foot. Thus the thread of luck that pulled back rather than pushed forward-the thread of success. The Lady's expression seemed soft, almost tender, a new facet marking how things now balanced. A second heretofore unseen detail caught Tattersail's intense study. Where the Lord's right hand reached up to touch the Lady's left a tiny silver disc spanned the space between them. The sorceress leaned forward, squinting. A coin, and on the face a male head.
She blinked. No, female. Then male, then female. She sat back suddenly.
The coin was spinning.
«Next!» Hairlock demanded. «You are too slow!»
Tattersail saw that the marionette was paying no attention to the card Oponn, and had in fact probably given it only sufficient notice to identify it. She drew a deep breath. Hairlock and the Bridgeburners were tied up in this, she knew that instinctively, but her own role was as yet undecided. With these two cards, she already knew more than they did. It still wasn't much, but it might be enough to keep her alive in what was to come. She released her breath all at once, reached forward and slammed a palm down on the Deck.
Hairlock jumped, then whirled to her. «You hold on this?» he raged. «You hold on the Fool? The second card? Absurd! Play on, woman!»
«No,» Tattersail replied, sweeping the two cards into her hands and returning them to the Deck. «I've chosen to hold. And there's nothing you can do about it.» She rose.
«Bitch! I can kill you in the blink of an eye! Here and now!»