Threadbare Volume 2

by Andrew Seiple

  Cecelia hurried after, lips compressed in a thin line. She didn’t trust her alone here. Didn’t trust her, period.

  That was pretty much how things had been for the last few years, it’s just that there had never been anything Cecelia could do about it beyond tread as cautiously as she could around Anise. And even then, the daemon had a way about her, something that let her slip things into conversations that you caught later, and winced at.

  But she was literally the devil Cecelia knew.

  So for now that would have to do.

  Then they were up and moving through the trees, each of them six times as tall as she remembered. But the details were off here, subtly off. Trees that she knew by heart were different, sketchy, foggy.

  “Getting senile, Grandfather?” she whispered. She paused by one that he’d used to measure her every year, carved notches into as she grew. The bark was bare, and the wrong type for its species. “Birch,” she murmured and remembered Mordecai, and flashed to the image of the old scout in his cell, scarred and broken, and almost lost it then.

  But Anise didn’t stop, and Cecelia couldn’t leave her be. So she followed, and Graves kept pace alongside her.

  Her house was huge, as was the workshop to the wide. She swallowed hard as she saw the black cat in the window of the shop, glowering out at her. “Pulsivar,” she said, and turned her back on him. He’d lain on her back sometimes, when it rained in the night. A heavy purring weight, warm in the cold. They’d slept there that way sometimes and she’d nodded off to dreams, lulled by raindrops and the smell of his fur.

  “That handle’s pretty far up there,” Graves said.

  “It’s still a door,” Cecelia said, her voice raw. “Animus. Invite door.” It opened, and she kicked it from the party, running mostly on force of habit.

  The front room was empty, a simple dinner set on the table. Venison and porridge, she could smell it, and the smell hit her harder than the sight of the place did. Hurt in a way she hadn’t expected.

  “Pretty nice place,” Graves said. “But... where are all the monsters? This is a dungeon, right?”

  Cecelia looked toward Emmet, huge as two Reasons put together, and shook her head. “Wait for it.”

  But the giant suit of armor didn’t animate as they crossed the floor, or as they passed the cheerful fireplace, with the logs popping in their merry blaze, but oddly cold.

  There was no temperature differential between here and outside, she realized suddenly. It all just sort of was.

  That struck her as odd, more than anything else she’d encountered so far. Doubts gnawed at her mind, for the first time.

  “This might not be Caradon,” she said, stopping abruptly before the stairs. “This... something’s not right, here.”

  “If not him, then who?” Anise asked.

  “This isn’t an old man’s house,” she said, as she sheathed her sword and slung her shield on her back, and scrambled up the stairs, grabbing each one and boosting herself up. “It’s the house as seen from a very small person’s perspective. Which means...”

  She got to the top, and peered down the hallway. There, at the very end, was her grandfather’s room. Light spilled from under the door, and she could hear the old man humming, as he did when he sat up and worked before he went to bed every night. An old familiar melody, but she knew it for the ruse it was now. “He left you behind, didn’t he, Threadbare?” She said, looking instead to her own room, darkness beneath the crack under the door. “Left you behind to stall me, while he escaped. Come on. It’s me, Cecelia, all gr-grown up now,” she said, tears spilling from her eyes. “Come... come out and we’ll talk about this. I’ll get you some paper to write on or s-s-something.” Oh, the tears came freely now, and she tugged off her helm, shook her head. Her hair bounced, short but frizzy as it had ever been.

  And for a second, everything flickered. For a second, there was nothing there but darkness and green light, and Anise gasped.

  “What is this?” Graves said, pushing in to put his back to Cecelia’s.

  “The master just stepped out of his slot,” Anise said, and for once her voice wasn’t tainted with cool malice. “But someone else stepped in before the dungeon could close.”

  “Dungeons close?” Graves narrowed his eyes.

  “How do you think we seal them?” Anise said, looking around.

  “Come out!” Cecelia shouted. “You have no idea how much I’ve m-m-missed you all these years! It’s not too late, we can talk this over!”

  And after a moment, from under the door to her room, a light flickered on.

  “Perhaps you’d better come in,” An even, calm voice said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Anise started forward, then hissed in anger as Cecelia’s gauntlet fell on her shoulder. “Listen, and listen well, daemon,” Cecelia said. “You don’t touch Threadbare. I just want you to know that if you try to harm him in any way, shape, or form, I WILL kill you or see that you spend all eternity with the worst punishment I can inflict upon you.”

  “As you like,” Anise shrugged her hand off, staring at her like a lion watching a housecat strut and hiss. “But I will keep my promise to you. By the time we leave this place, you’ll be well on your way to being the person you need to be. With or without your permission. To be honest, I loathe your weakness and I want it gone so I can move on to more important matters.”

  Cecelia digested that, and the anger and disgust helped her focus her mind a bit. “I think this is the most honesty you’ve ever shown me.”

  “Part of me DID love you once.” Anise smiled. “It took years to grind away that weakness. Then you turned into a teenager and it got much easier. Shall we?”

  Pushing the arrogance of the woman-thing from her mind, Cecelia approached her room. The door swung open as she went to push it open.

  And there, in a cluttered room, with her old drawings on the walls, and her old bed looming giant to the side, with toys strewn about and rendered exactly like she remembered them, was a table.

  And around it, sat toys having a tea party.

  “Beanarella,” she said, staring at the little stuffed doll. “D-dracosnack,” Cecelia managed, looking at the little green plush dragon that had survived so many battles. “Loopy,” she sighed, at the fuzzy giraffe, much larger proportionately now, in this dungeon of memories and sweet pain.

  “Threadbare,” she finished, staring at the toy, the smallest one in the room.

  He wore a red coat with mismatched buttons, and an apron under it, and baggy pants that looked ridiculous on him. But she recognized the scepter and the toy top hat, the very same one she’d given him here, in this room, at this table, so long ago. And Cecelia wailed then, overcome as she sank to the floor and sobbed, arms open wide as the little bear ran to her and hugged her, hugged her tightly. Golden light flared, and her minor injuries closed, and she picked him up and cried into his fur, cried for everything she’d lost and everything she’d done, and sobbed until she couldn’t anymore.

  Purring at her side then, and she looked up through a veil of tears, to a black feline face and yellow eyes. The ears were wrong somehow, but that purr...

  “Pulsivar?” She whispered.

  And then he was licking her tears away, and rubbing his face all over hers, and she laughed and held him to her breastplate, held them both, and the anger and sorrow and bitterness that had filled her and buoyed her to this point drained away like pus from an infected wound.

  “I’m going to vomit,” Anise announced behind her.

  “No Inquisitor, you’re going to shut the hell up and let her have this,” Graves said, and Cecelia giggled, absurdly, breaking her sobs as they wound down.

  She had friends now. New and old. She’d been so lonely, for so long... but now everything could be fixed.

  “I missed you, Celia,” Threadbare said. “I was so worried for you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m... I thought you were dead. The sword... I looked up and you were pinned and yo
u weren’t moving, and then they backed me into a corner and I couldn’t see. I wondered, later. I thought you had more hit points, but they told me the house burned, and I didn’t know if you made it out, and I tried Wind’s Whisper a few times just in case, but I didn’t have much range—”

  “Shh.” he said, patting her lips with the teacup he still held in his left hand.

  She giggled, as she remembered how he’d done that, long ago. Then, collecting herself, she put him down.

  “Hm,” he said, looking down at his snot and tearstained coat. “Clean and Press.”

  “Your grandfather left behind a toy teddy tailor to... do what, exactly?” Graves asked. “Forgive me, I’m honestly a little confused by this whole situation.

  “He’s more than that,” Cecelia whispered. “Much more. We ran dungeons together. Well, a dungeon, anyway. Which... how?” She gestured at the house-shaped world around them.

  “It’s a very long story. Would you all care for some tea? It’s mostly real.” He pointed to the table.

  “Erm.” Graves said, glancing at her.

  “Appraise,” Cecelia said, looking the setup over. She didn’t think he’d poison her, but this place was strange, and golems might not be used to things like the vagaries of human digestive systems. “It’s tea. It’ll restore a little sanity, that’s all.”

  “Tea parties are good for that, I find,” Threadbare said, settling into his chair and laying his scepter on the table. “You taught me that one early on.”

  “They are,” she giggled, as Pulsivar licked her face again, then gently nudged him away. “Gods you’ve gotten big. Wait, you’re a bobcat?” She blinked. “You weren’t a bobcat before.”

  “He ranked up in the years after everything went bad,” Threadbare said. “I did too. My head’s bigger now. Evidently that’s a cave bear thing.”

  She shook her head as she took her seat. Graves settled in next to her.

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” Anise shook her head. “I’m really here for one thing only.”

  “Which is?” Threadbare asked.

  “I’ll tell you if it comes up.”

  “Fair enough, I suppose.”

  “It never is.” Cecelia drank her tea. “So. You can talk now.”

  “It took a lot of work and tailoring. I figured out how to make voices. My chest is full of strings and other things. And then once I could speak I could say things like Status, and all of my skills and spells, and life got a bit easier. In some ways.” The little bear took off his hat, and rubbed his head. “I guess it’s more complicated now, too. So it’s not much easier. It’s just that I’ve got more ways to handle problems, if that makes sense.”

  “That’s how life goes, I’m afraid,” Cecelia said. “We all have to grow up, and do things we don’t like.”

  “Oh. I don’t know about that,” Threadbare said. “I like helping people, and saving them. And that’s mostly what we did tonight.”

  Graves frowned. “Helping people like old ones cultists? Saving innocents by feeding them to blasphemous gods?”

  “Graves—”

  “No, listen, I know he’s a teddy bear, but those cultists were feeding kids to whatever was in that stone circle. Still are, maybe. How’s that jive with your helping people thing, Mister Threadbare?”

  “Oh, that. That’s a misunderstanding. They’re not feeding the children to the old one, they’re taking the ones with his bloodline home so the soldiers don’t kill them all.”

  “They’re not being eaten?” Cecelia blinked.

  “No. They’re all half fishpeople, the ones that are going to wherever the old one is. They’ll meet their distant relatives and swim forever in lightless seas. It sounds a bit damp to me, but they seemed eager enough. Well, considering the alternatives...”

  Graves and Cecelia looked at Anise. “You left out the fact the kids were fishmen,” Cecelia said.

  Anise scowled. “They were all wearing robes and I couldn’t get close. For the love of Cron, I’m not always trying to fuck you over. Although it’s rare, I can make mistakes too.”

  Threadbare continued. “That’s all the old one wanted. He was never going to come here. Too weak to do it. But the last high priest of the cult lied, and manipulated the villagers into thinking he was. Which is why they rose up against the Crown.” Threadbare considered his tea, pretended to sip it. “We killed the high priest and showed everybody the truth, but the army was on the way and it was too late.”

  “You could have explained it,” Cecelia said.

  “Could we really?” Threadbare lifted his button eyes to look up at her. “The King’s laws are clear. Death to any settlement that embraces the old ones or other unsanctioned cults. He destroyed Taylor’s Delve for less than that., and there wasn’t even a cult there. Why would the army stop and listen? They never have before.”

  “That was rebels, who wiped out Taylor’s Delve.” Graves snapped. “They only blamed the Crown for...” he stopped, at Cecelia’s expression. “Ma’am?”

  “It’s true,” Cecelia said.

  Graves chewed on that. Swallowed hard. “We’re only at war with the dwarves because of Taylor’s Delve. Now you’re telling me that they’re not lying? That they do have just cause? That we’ve seen thousands of our own die in this war because we started it?”

  “It’s... complicated,” Cecelia said, avoiding his eyes. “My Father... he had to...”

  “Why?” Threadbare said. “He got everything he wanted. He got Emmet and he got you. That was why he moved everyone in to fight Caradon. Well, not everything.” Threadbare put his hat back on, and put the teacup down. “He didn’t get the golemist job.”

  “Right,” Cecelia said. “Which is why he needed grandfather alive, which is why I bargained for his life! It was the only way!” She said, and the teacup shook in her hand. “I had to be good, I had to do what he say, and be who he needed me to be, so Caradon would live! I had to... I had to.” She finished, her voice breaking. “I still have to.”

  Threadbare looked at her. Then he looked down. “You don’t know.”

  And slow horror filled her. She knew, she knew, in the back of her mind she knew what he was going to say, and she knew that it would unmake her. That her life would come tumbling down, and nothing would ever be the same again. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Threadbare took a breath. “Celia, Caradon’s dead. Your father killed him.”

  The teacup shattered in her gauntlet.

  Warm tea spilled over the table, and she stared, feeling her eyes burn, but no more tears came. She stared over Threadbare’s head, and the last hope that she’d had died with the little bear’s calm, even words.

  “Mrrow?” Pulsivar pushed his head against her again, insisting, and she put her arm over him, hugged the cat tight.

  “He lied to me,” Cecelia said.

  “He twisted his words,” Threadbare said. “I’m smart enough to see that now. He promised he wouldn’t hurt him, and that you’d see him again. He fed him numbing powder so he didn’t feel pain, and figured you’d end up in the same afterlife. Then he killed Caradon, and used a cultist trick to try and steal Caradon’s jobs. But he didn’t realize I was still alive. And that I was in Caradon’s party.”

  “Ah, is that what happened?” Anise said. “My my, how unfortunate.”

  “You knew. Of course you knew,” Cecelia said, Pulsivar freezing motionless below her as the girl’s voice filled with hatred. “And he DID lie to me. He said Grandfather had escaped custody, two years ago.”

  “Oh. No, he was with me then. Very dead.” Threadbare said. “I was busy getting myself free from that sword. And the rubble of the house.”

  “I didn’t know, precisely,” Anise said, hands behind her back as she paced around the room. “But it was one of the plans we discussed, if the old man proved reluctant to give up his secrets. Really, we couldn’t leave him as a loose end, Cecelia, surely you see that. For the good of the kingdom, the King cannot tolerate treason. Even
from his relatives.”

  “He lied to me!” Celia shouted, rising, drawing her sword. Pulsivar growled and backed away, and Threadbare stood as well, putting his teacup to the side and picking up his scepter. Graves looked to the both of them, and glanced back to the skeletons.

  “And? What does it change?” Said Anise, turning to stare at her with those black, black eyes. “This kingdom burns, Cecelia. It burns with chaos and anarchy, slipping out of control with every day that rises while our enemies still live. Enemies like this one, standing before you.” Anise gestured to Threadbare.

  “I... you’re right...” Cecelia whispered. “I’ve seen...”

  “I haven’t seen much,” Threadbare interrupted. “But I talked to people who have. It seems to me that the King creates the enemies he goes to war against. The war with the dwarves happened because he killed everyone in Taylor’s Delve, when he didn’t have to at all. And the only reason the cult rose up against him here is because they were sick of heavy taxes and their children all being conscripted.”

  “It... we do good. We do good things. The Crown does,” Cecelia said. “We brought down a corrupt nobleman.”

  “You brought down a corrupt nobleman, ma’am,” Graves said. “Point of fact.”

  “Watch your words, little man,” Anise murmured, smiling at him.

  He blanched, then rallied. “Well, speaking my mind got me kicked out of one job. What’s one more?”

  “Shut up,” Cecelia told her. “You tried to get me to kill Mordecai.”

  “And you set him free instead. By all rights you should be rotting in his cell as a traitor,” Anise sighed. “But Melos has a blind spot when it comes to you. You’re his perfect little angel. The good queen-to-come, who will fix everything that he’s turned to blood and shit. The untarnished successor, who will bring honor and truth and peace back to the kingdom.” Anise laughed, and her scorn rang from the walls. “He doesn’t see just how much he’s screwed things up. No, it’ll be all you can ever do to keep afloat, my dear. You’ll scrabble and you’ll fight and watch your subjects die and writhe in torment over and over again, for the rest of your life, because the alternative is a dead valley, and corpses stacked to the skies. This is your destiny, Cecelia.” Anise extended her hand, nails gleaming red in the dungeon’s off-kilter light. “Are you strong enough to take it?”