Too late. He cuts in among the trees to a clearing hollowed out by dense growth shading away bracken. Old needles give him spring as he jumps, tucks, rolls in the air and out onto safe ground just as Second Son blunders into the clearing and roars triumph …
… and the ground shudders beneath him as ropes slither up on all sides, tugged into the trees by ten slaves hidden in the branches. The trap closes, a net sewn with fishhooks, and Second Son is tumbled into it. He writhes, howling in fury.
As he fights to free himself from the net, fishhooks bound along the rope catch against his skin with each twist and turn Each barb finds purchase under the finely-layered scales that protect his hide. As he fights, more catch and tug and tear, yet it is not the pain that makes Second Son howl but the knowledge of defeat. He thrashes helplessly, gets a claw loose, and begins to rip at the rope, woven of kelp and flax and strips of bark and hair blessed by the Soft Ones’ deacon. But his arm catches on more fishhooks; as each one sinks in, it sticks stubbornly, and he must rip his skin free in order to begin again.
For one moment Fifth Son allows himself to watch the shuddering of the net in the air. Through the branches he sees his slaves straining to hold it taut while the net convulses around Second Son. Struggling in a net woven of ropes sewn with fish hooks is like struggling against fate: Resistance only sinks the barbs in more deeply.
He steps forward onto ground churned and disordered by the sudden hoisting of the net. Second Son spits curses at him but has no power to make those curses stick. He is helpless, and in moments he will be dead. Fifth Son steps close and unsheathes his claws.
Alain blinked, dizzy, and came abruptly awake out of an uncomfortable doze. He heard clerics singing the service of Nones, but the music rang in his ears like a dirge for the forgotten dead and he was pierced with such a vivid memory of Lackling joyfully feeding the sparrows that he thought his heart would rend in two from sorrow. Afternoon light splashed across the chamber. Ardent lay still beneath his hands, and he moved to shift her gently off his legs—only to bruise himself, crushed beneath her weight. She might have been stone.
“Son.” Lavastine stood at the window and now hurried over to brush a finger against Alain’s cheek. “Don’t fight her weight. I didn’t want to disturb you before. She’s rested so peacefully because she lay with you. There, you see. She’s almost gone.”