Chapter 7: A Skein of Red YarnThe world stopped making sense after that.
Tarquin was aware of very little beyond how much everything hurt, and of the cold like being buried in ice, or of heat that seared the flesh off his bones.
He called for help, shouting through his snapped hinge of a jaw until his throat gave out, certain he was in the clutches of the haldur. Sometimes he knew the haldur had killed Faladir, or Ainya or Prea, and he would cry for them and for Prea’s unborn baby, inconsolable until he heard singing and could sleep again. Sometimes he’d dream of an army of golems; being forced to watch as the gleaming metal phalanx methodically killed everyone he ever knew. He would beg to be taken to the Kawj, insisting he could save the Realm if they’d only let him. But they wouldn’t,
