“Begone, skyrat,” the forest-dweller said. “You are not welcome here.”
Arall was behind us, already walking out of the room, her toes releasing a door handle. She was muttering, “I keep telling her that, and she’s still here.” When released, that stone door paused, about to shut us inside, like a trap soon to snap closed.
At least I wouldn’t be trapped here alone; besides that forest-dweller — “her unholiness” — who right now was raining her ire down on me, there was Mawla, slinking around, half unseen.
We’d come to a resident’s room. And now, not six breaths inside, the plain-dweller wiver was — quietly, stealthily — plopping herself down on the bed. It was the bed of the forest-dweller. The bed of the forest-dweller who was still wearing that necklace of bones — the forest-dweller who had no less than seven knives strapped to her side, and had no less menace than poison with scales. It was the bed of the lady who was known as her unholiness.