A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

Yancey would have flushed, if she could’ve, but Uther laughed again, and folded her back in. “Morrow’s a good man, in the end,” he told her. “Sometimes a little too prone to give in to lesser evils out of fear of greater ones, but you could do well with him, like he could, with you.” As she stared: “Yes, we know. We see more than we can ever tell, Experiance. And though you’ve got a mighty strong sight in you, you’d better take care never to think you see everything there is to see.”

“‘We’?”

“Me, your father, your mother. Both said to say they love you, by the way.”

Yancey blinked, swallowing. “They — couldn’t be here?”

“They are here. It’s just you can’t . . .” Uther hesitated. “There aren’t really words for it — has to do with you still being alive and all, only grasping one point in Time. And that was your Pa’s attempt at an explanation!” He snorted. “Mala just gave me my marching orders and sent me on my way, to do what I can to help.”

Yancey startled herself with a gulp of laughter. “Sounds like Ma,” she admitted. “But — if you see it all, then you must know what I did — before the wedding, and after.” Her throat hurt to say it. “I brought Chess there, and all that followed down on the Hoard, likewise. Did for Sheriff Love again, too, eventually; murdered him, right in front of his wife and child.”

“Many have, honey.” Uther sighed. “Can’t say it didn’t hurt to learn, either, or to watch. But I don’t begrudge you none.”

Yancey stepped back, breaking the contact. She didn’t deserve even its shallow comfort. “Uther . . . I got you killed.”

Uther shrugged. “Halfway, maybe — rest of it I did myself, and gladly. But that don’t mean I’m unhappy you’re still alive.” More gently: “Stay that way, will you? We don’t need you to think like you gotta hurry up and join us, seein’ we’re with you already. Always will be.”

“I’ll try,” Yancey barely whispered.

“All I ask.”

He took her into his arms again, and she let herself rest there for a while. Did it always hurt, to be forgiven? she wondered. But maybe that was why folks called God merciful and cruel. Some mercies hurt, and probably should, with an ache that was oddly pleasing.

“So you came to help,” she said, presently. “How?”

Uther drew back a little, so’s he could study her face. “You got a lot of clout in this place, honey; more than me, truth be told. But I got one thing you don’t — time. I can take as long as you need to find the man you’re looking for.”

“Problem is, Uther, if he sees you comin’, he’ll think you’re part of those huntin’ him — one of those he did for, in a long and bloody line of such. That’s why it’s got to be me — somebody he knows, and trusts.”

Uther stroked his chin. “Huh. Well, I think I might have another option, come to think.” With a deadpan humour that fair made Yancey’s heart turn over, for sheer familiarity: “Don’t go nowhere, will you?”

And just as suddenly, she was alone again.

Yancey sank to the grey grass and buried her face in her palms, unsure whether to laugh or sob.

When she finally became aware of Uther standing before her again, she looked up — and leaped to her feet, mouth open at the sight of the man beside him. A man she’d only seen once, and only as a ghost, for the most fleeting of seconds through a third man’s memories — but all the same, she knew him.

“Experiance Colder,” said Uther, “this is — ”

“Kloves,” said Yancey, putting out her hand. “Yancey Kloves, Missus. We’ve never met, sir, but I know you through a mutual acquaintance . . . Chess Pargeter.”

Kees Hosteen stiffened — then unlocked, a slow smile splitting his greying beard.

“Shouldn’t surprise me, I guess,” he replied. “Man does get around.”

“True enough.”

“So, what the hell’s the little bastard gotten himself into this time?” Then, holding up a hand: “Actually, don’t bother; take too long to explain anyway, I’m sure. Just tell me what I can do to help.”

Yancey matched his smile, and did.

SEVEN DIALS: FIVE

Here at the bottom, in the underneath. The end of all things, and the beginning.

This is where the root grows down, snaking its way through layer upon layer, ’til it reaches at last the skull-seed of all life. And this is where the tree grows back up, accordingly — widdershins, counterclockwise, winding the world’s watch the wrong way ’til its coils cry out, ’til time itself runs a path so crooked it crosses over itself. ’Til the blood-choked channel between the two breaks, at last, through that crust which separates life and death, sleep and waking, dream and reality.

After which, fuelled by burning bones and sweet decay alike, it stretches up impossibly high, reaching to scar the sky’s very face: crack things apart, score them so badly they can never be mended, never return to what they were before, no matter what sacrifice is made. To birth a new world, whole, complete. Entire.