A Handful of Slack

The second impression moved before anyone touched it.

A pale ridge lifted beneath Istren’s sternum. The crack above it widened by the width of a hair, then stopped. Something inside pressed against the opening, withdrew, and pressed again.

Tarrow’s fire brightened along the rigid length of his arm. The seam beneath his jaw tightened as if the stone there had been pulled from both ends.

Pell shifted between him and the chest. “We close it.”

“Then close it,” I said. “After we know what it has hold of.”

Pell looked at my palm. I had kept the marked hand tucked against my coat since the last test. The fissure through the stone had reached my cuff. I could feel every little movement in it, a dry pressure without pain. Pain would have been more courteous.

The inner strand hung from the crack in Istren’s chest, a silver line finer than the crew’s tether. It turned toward Tarrow’s fire. At the far end, Oda was still behind the three-notched door, holding it shut against the rising black-salt shore and the voice that wanted Tarrow.

We had tested words. Words had brought the fire awake. This time, I wanted to know what the strand did when the fire answered without anyone speaking.

“Tarrow,” I said. “You choose when your hand touches the impression. Pell holds the outer line. I’ll take the inner strand. If either line goes taut, we stop.”

“And if the fire pulls me past stopping?”

“Pell stops you.”

“I’ll stop him,” Pell said. “You can stop the rest.”

Tarrow glanced at his dead arm. It lay against his side, fingers curled inward, the fire shining in the seams between stone plates. “I’ll try it once.”

Pell wound the silver tether around Tarrow’s waist and braced the line around a rib of Istren’s remains. The setup was ugly, which made it more trustworthy than most plans. I touched my marked palm to the sternum beside the second impression. The stone answered with a faint, deep vibration.

The inner strand stirred.

Oda’s voice came thinly along it. “It’s pushing again.”

“Can you step away from the door?” I asked.

A pause. “I’m holding the latch with both hands.”

I looked at Tarrow. He had already started moving. Pell caught the tether, and Tarrow stopped with his rigid fingers a hand’s breadth from the impression.

The fire tugged at him. He leaned into it, then planted his boots. His good hand closed around the tether at his waist. He watched the crack, keeping his eyes on the thing he meant to touch rather than the dark below it.