the Daughter for a time; and, worryingly, may draw on it again, perhaps accidentally interfering with his plans. It is unlikely she will learn how to harness her power, especially given the logical, mathematical cast to her mind and its associated limits. However unlikely, Husk cannot risk her interference. He must find some way to eliminate her. No elaborate revenge, no desire to inflict pain; he just wants an end to her.
Another question nags at him. Has he any further need for his spikes? Arathé, Conal and Duon have served him well but, unless his new-found power is totally severed, he no longer needs them. In fact, he continues to expend energy to keep hold of them that he could better use to strengthen himself. And it is not as though his spikes are of much use to him. Conal is blinded in one eye and in all his opinions, and his recent possession by the Father has rendered him untrust-worthy. Imagine if the Father seized the lad’s mind while Husk was in possession of it! Arathé is becoming increasingly wary of the voice in her head, and is devising ever-cleverer ways of keeping him out. And Duon is trying to deceive him. A futile attempt—Husk can read the outer layers of the minds of those he has spiked—but it makes the Amaqi captain, of whom he had high hopes, less dependable.
Husk had supposed the huanu stone would aid him in defeating the Destroyer, but now wonders even at this. The stone is now as much a risk to himself as it is to the Destroyer. It could undo the magic keeping him alive, could sever the supply of power from beyond the wall. And it is now beyond his reach, sewn into the lining of a pack left behind on the Conch, which is probably a good thing. Too dangerous to allow his enemies access to something that could do him so much damage.
The same logic can be applied to the immortal blood he had planned to drain from Stella. Not yet in his possession, and just as likely could be used to promote someone else to the ranks of the deathless. With his own conduit to the raw power of the void, Husk need not risk the problematic—and painful—immortality offered by the blood. Maybe he needs to keep the blood and the stone away from Andratan. The only difficulty with this line of thought is his inability to prevent them being brought north regardless. With bravery and intelligence he has set all this in motion, and now it appears he is powerless to stop it.
Husk frowns with newly restored facial muscles. Now there are two ways to become immortal his options have increased, so he ought not to be feeling the anxiety as strongly as he does. Thump, thump, thump goes his heart. His blood hisses through his veins and threatens to erupt from the tips of his fingers. The bubble and fizz of fearful thoughts must be resisted or they will—unman him. But it is so hard, despite the fact he is familiar with despair. Desperation has shaped him over the foggy decades of pain, yet despair is so much sharper now he has real hope.
But he will resist the temptation to give up, to crawl away to some dark corner of the Destroyer’s dungeon and die. He reminds himself that, due to his new power, he is Husk no longer. He will put his self-imposed name aside and take his old name back. Deorc of Jasweyah. No; he reconsiders: Deorc the Great. Far more suitable.
Husk laughs at himself, at the caricature of evil he seems about to become. All he needs is the cackle and he’d be the legendary Jasweyan Witch-Hag reborn. No matter: whatever his name, the common people will make fireside tales about him, and he will be around to hear them. He’ll make them forget about their folk villains, the Witch-Hag and the Undying Man both. The commoners will have no need to fear anything but him. And, oh, he will work hard to ensure they fear him.
He licks his lips, tasting the victory about to be his; and, though he knows it to be a cliché, cannot resist the laughter bubbling up from within him. The thick walls of Andratan ring with the sound, and the denizens of the fortress pause in sudden fright.