Page 72 of The Salvation

“Careful, child of scars,” Necrosyne warns as Quintessa embarks into the room. “If the weaver catches you, it will be your end.”

Oh, savage hell.By Shade, please give my sister light and quiet steps,I send a prayer to the Unseen, hoping he may hear. I can already pinpoint the objects Quintessa needs. One is obvious, but it rests in the weaver’s hand. She must choose the other first or the weaver will catch her. That other is a tiny point, and the rest is hidden.

The room seems to breathe with life as Quintessa steps inside, her feet slow, cautious, and quiet. Good girl. The weaver doesn’t notice her, and that’s when I narrow my eyes upon the figure spun of silk. How her eyes are pale and milky without pupils. She’s blind.

Quintessa’s eyes zero in on the needle.

Holding my breath, I send another prayer that she slows down and considers the consequences. My heart pounds a thousand battering beats in the few moments it takes her to approach the weaver. But it stops altogether when she does. My lungs squeeze, robbed of all breath as my sister’s fingers twitch, slowly lifting toward the needle in the weaver’s hand.No. Dammit, Quintessa, don’t!

Panic shoots through me. I have to do something. I don’t care if I’m caught. I slam my foot down hard, knowing the vibration will pulse into her body. I can only hope her form will cause it to rebound so it won’t reach Necrosyne on the other side. At the telltale pulse surging into her, Quintessa’s fingers stop inches short of claiming the needle. The weaver doesn’t stop spinning, but she does turn her chin.

Now, it’s Quinn’s turn to hold her breath. Mine is about to explode.

Ever so slowly, the weaver resumes her weaving. Slowly, ever so slowly, Quintessa backs away from the spindle, and I take adeep but quiet gust of breath, silently praising the Unseen while my sister takes stock of her surroundings. Good fucking girl.

It takes her some searching. Contemplating. I don’t blame her. Quintessa doesn’t see patterns or make associations like me. She’s always been better at knowing souls and charming hearts. Quintessa could make the grumpiest troll living under a bridge fall in love with her. And she could love the slimiest of wart-covered toads.

It’s only when she searches the bed and shifts aside the pillows that Quinn finds the blade.

Thank Shade! I marvel at how it’s the only object in the room, including the needle, that is not made of spider silk. No, it’s formed of obsidian with a bloodstone jewel lodged in its hilt.

After snatching, Quintessa makes her way back to the weaver. Staccato clicks echo all through the room from Necrosyne’s mandibles, betraying her frustration, knowing how close Quinn is to finishing the first challenge. Aggressive tapping of her leg follows the clicking.

Quintessa shivers and clenches her eyes, the sounds interfering with her concentration. A throb pushes past my ribcage the moment that she snatches up the needle...and tries to scurry away. I clamp my hand over my mouth, choking back a gasp from the weaver lashing out and grabbing a handful of my sister’s strands.

Quinn’s instincts kick in. Driven by her need to survive, her maternal love, and even her innate desire to never do harm, she raises the knife and swipes it through the air in a clean arc, slicing off a few inches of hair at the ends. Where I would have stabbed the weaver and sheared as much silk as I could, Quintessa leaves the weaver holding fragments of her hair...and escapes to Necrosyne with both objects clutched in her hand.

Breathless, she falls to her knees before the aged spider. And I shake my head, marveling.

The repeated clicks fade. The spider blinks slowly in measured calculation. And she slowly swings her body into a sleek arch to proclaim, “Well done, child of scars. You have claimed the first object.” She gestures to the blade, and pride engulfs my chest. “And you have won my approval by sparing the illusion of my past.”

Quinn flicks her head back and parts her lips. “Oh...she’s—you were very beautiful...”

Fuck, Quinn!I shout internally as the spider’s abdomen pulsates right before my sister straightens to finish, “...in a different way than you are now, Your Highness. Both forms are quite beautiful.”

I breathe a sigh. Why in the Hollows was I worried?

The next scenethe spider spins is one of a royal courtroom. One filled with illusions of revelry on one side of the court with naked forms tangled in an orgy of gaiety and life. On the other, the court is riddled with spun figures in battle, a scene of death and destruction.

And Quintessa must navigate through each side to claim the object—without touching the bodies and disrupting the scene.

“And here is my riddle...” Necrosyne presents the second obstacle. “In shadows, it echoed with each sip divine, a relic of power, a vessel so malign. A conduit of contrasts, where blood or wine intertwine, what am I, a relic of the divine?”

Please, Quinn, connect the dots.Sip, vessel, blood, and wine are the keywords. It’s the chalice resting on the damn throne in the center of the room—right on the edge of all those battling and fucking figures.

Quintessa’s eyes go right for the chalice, but then she takes in the scene before her. While the battling figures are closer to the throne, she judges rightly how the ones having sex would be easier to navigate.

Ugh! I cage a silent groan because, of course, my mad little sister approaches the battling ones!

“Excuse me?”

My heart lurches in my chest from her confronting the two figures locked in combat. A few paces behind her, Necrosyne blinks rapidly, her excitement palpable. But her antennae are straight as rods with her heightened alertness.

The figures snap their heads to Quinn, and she folds her hands in front of her, anxiously threading them while continuing, “Would you like to hear a story?”

They tilt their heads. Others all around them do, and the battle slows. I grin wryly because, as with everything, the illusions are bound to their master. And she is intrigued. I imagine she hasn’t heard too many in her time. And if there’s one thing Quinn is exceptional at, it’s storytelling.

“The story begins with a mother in labor with her twins, and both were dying...”

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