“What’s this all about, Kile? What happened that night in Merredydd? How did we survive? How did you escape without a scratch? How did Mawyndulë get away? And what’s all this about a prophecy? I know you know. You’re supposed to be my friend. A friend would tell me.”

Kile bit his lip. “That’s just it. I’m not your friend. I’m not anyone’s friend.”

He walked toward the door.

“Kile,” she said. “Kile! Don’t leave me!”

He stepped around the venison and left the room.

Her attention settled on the broken plate of food.

No one screamed when it fell. We’re all doomed.

Chapter 18: Birthday

Chapter Eighteen
Birthday

The rug shop wasn’t the worst place Mawyndulë had lived. Urlineus, that trash heap in the Erbon jungles, was worse: the heat, the damp, and the bugs. No amount of Art was capable of compensating. Yet even Urlineus wasn’t the worst. That award went to the decaying fortress of Borappathin. Bran was right. That blackened ruin on that ravaged seacoast was a nightmare. Never once atop that precipice did Mawyndulë experience a good night’s sleep, never once did he feel at ease. Something wasn’t right about that place—a lot of things, as it turned out. By contrast, the basement of Wegan Weaving was a cozy paradise. At that moment, however, it was far too crowded.

Few things irritated Mawyndulë as much as being neck-deep in humans, yet for the last few years, he’d been forced to swim in a sea of them. Setting up shop in Percepliquis made sense, but it also made his skin crawl. That he was eating, sleeping, and breathing inside a slithering hive of humans—and the very worst sort at that—taxed his sanity. He kept his faculties by keeping his distance. Carving out a sanctuary beneath the rug shop, he endeavored to minimize his interactions by working through a few subordinates. He chose the most loyal, which invariably meant the worst: the stupid, the weak, the frightened, and the most desperate. Those yearning for a change that they had no means to bring about on their own pledged their very souls to him. Being worshipped ought to have brought some satisfaction, but what joy could be had in the adoration of insects?