Her mind raced with the mounting threats she had to face, both within the city and without. They were no closer to solving the mystery of Wren’s attacker, and Luck’s murderers were still unidentified. The Weir were changing. The regular guardsmen had never shown up. Not a single one. Discipline had crumbled. No doubt that too would change, come morning. Morning. The whole way back, Cass couldn’t help but wonder what new terror the dawn would bring.
SIX
Something had changed. And it was very, very wrong.
Wren could feel a heaviness about him, an impenetrable grey quietness that seemed to descend from the sky and envelop him as he sat on his mother’s bed. It was an almost violent stillness, and full of dread. It reminded him of being woken in the night by a sound that he couldn’t be sure if he’d heard or just dreamt. Reminded him of those long, sweaty moments, lying in darkness, straining to hear, and being met by nothing but an oppressive silence. It was almost a living thing, beyond hearing.
The Weir had changed. Wren had felt it the previous night, in the cold morning hours, before Mama had gone running from her room. Remembering it now, he wished he’d warned her earlier. But even now, in the light of day, it was still such a distant feeling and hard to put into words; like the hour before the fever comes when you know you’re going to be sick, even though nothing hurts yet.
He couldn’t just ignore it, though. Something was definitely different about the Weir, something dangerous and terrible. But Wren had no idea what that difference was. Not exactly. There was no doubt they had coordinated during last night’s attack. And not just in the way they’d scaled the wall. The others near the gate had been a distraction, and Wren couldn’t escape the feeling that it had been deliberate; an organized misdirection, to enable the others’ assault.
Then there was the call, or chant, or whatever it had been. Even as young as he was, Wren had spent more time than most out in the open, and had heard the usual cries of the Weir. As frightening and unnatural as they were, still they were not so unearthly as the sound they’d made last night.
A knock sounded at the door, with a gentle familiarity. Wren knew it was Able, so instead of saying “Come in,” he just slid off the bed and opened the door himself.
“Hi, Able,” Wren said.
Hello, Wren, Able signed. You have a visitor.
“Does my mom know?”
Able nodded. She’s with him now. It’s Painter.
Without knowing why, Wren felt a little jolt of anxiety, an unusual reluctance to see his friend. He found himself hoping to find an excuse to delay the meeting. “How long until the address?” he asked.
Half an hour, Able signed, and then added a shake of his hand afterwards to indicate the uncertainty… could be sooner, could be later.
Wren was already dreading facing the crowds. And he really did want more time to prepare. “Maybe I should tell him to come back another time?”
From Able’s expression, Wren could tell he must’ve picked up on his own uneasiness. Able gave a slow shake of the head.
You should see him now.
Wren sighed before he could catch himself, and felt bad about it. “OK.”
He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door to his mother’s room behind him; their room, at least for the past few nights. Able turned and walked down the hall, and Wren followed behind with a flutter in his stomach. Why was he so reluctant to see Painter? Maybe it was just that he hadn’t been prepared. An unexpected situation, while his mind was busy with other things. An unwanted interruption. And, he realized, he’d kind of forgotten about Painter. Just for the time being. He was still sorry for his friend, but he’d wanted to deal with it before. Now there were other things to worry about. Wren felt bad for thinking that way. But it didn’t change the fact that he was annoyed by Painter’s selfishness.
Able led the way to the eastern side of the building, down a flight of stairs, which suggested that Painter had probably come in through a side entrance. They found him in a side room, a sort of sitting room that had mostly gone unused. Cass was there as well, evidently keeping him company. Wren gasped when he saw him.
Wren asked, “Painter, what happened to your face?” His right eye was puffy and mottled with bruises, his upper lip split and swollen.
“Hey, I cuh-can’t help it if, if, if – I was born uh-ugly,” Painter said with a shrug and a strained smile. It made Wren feel terrible for being annoyed at him.
“No, really, are you OK?”
Painter nodded. “Took a tum – a tumble in the street. Caught myself with mmmm- my fuh- with my face.” He held up his hands like it was no big deal, but behind it all his eyes seemed sad, even with their moonlight glow. Maybe a little angry.