Phaed raises the knife.
In her mind, flashes, scene after scene, the sordid list of this old woman’s constant slights, each one belittling Phaed, each one revealing to all nearby too many of Phaed’s secret terrors-no-one has the right to do that, no-one has the right to then laugh-laugh in the eyes if not out loud. All those insults, well, the time has come to pay them back. Here, with one hard thrust of the knife.
She lifts the knife still higher, draws in her breath and holds it.
And stabs down.
Nimander’s hand snaps out, catches her wrist, hard, tightening as she twists round, lips peeled back, eyes blazing with rage and fear. Her wrist is a tiny thing, like a bony snake, caught, frenzied, seeking to turn the knife, to set the edge against Nimander’s hand. He twists again and bones break, an awful crunching, grinding sound.
The knife clunks on the wooden floor.
Nimander bears down on her, using his weight to crumple Phaed onto the floor beside the bed. She tries to scratch at his eyes and he releases the broken limb to grasp the other one. He breaks that one too.
She has not screamed. Amazing, that. Not a sound but her panting breath.
Nimander pins her down and takes her neck in his hands. He begins to squeeze.
No more, Phaed. I now do as would Anomander Rake. As would Silchas Ruin. As would Sandalath herself were she awake. I do this, because I know you-yes, even now, there, in your bulging eyes where all your awareness now gathers in a flood, I can see the truth of you.
The emptiness inside.
Your mother stares in horror. At what she has spawned. She stares, disbelieving, clinging desperately to the possibility that she has got it wrong, that we all have, that you are not as you are. But that is no help. Not to her. Not to you.
Yes, stare up into my eyes, Phaed, and know that I see you.
I see you-
He was being dragged away. Off Phaed. His hands were being pried loose, twisted painfully to break his grip-and he falls back, muscled arms wrapped about him now, and is dragged from Phaed, from her bloated face and the dreadful gasping-poor Phaed’s throat hurts, maybe is torn, even. To breathe is to know agony.
But she lives. He has lost his chance, and now they will kill him.
Sandalath screams at him-she has been screaming at him for some time, he realizes. She first screamed when he broke Phaed’s second wrist-awakened by Phaed’s own screams-oh, of course she had not stayed quiet. Snapping bones would never permit that, not even from a soulless creature as was Phaed. She had screamed, and he’d heard nothing, not even echoes-hands on the oar and squeeze!
Now what would happen? Now what would they do?
‘Nimander!’