Spiderlight

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

“Like a bloody cave,” was Lief’s assessment, “and it stinks of magic.” Penthos gave him an arch look. “And you’d have a sensitivity for magic?” “It has floating lights, and that bloke over in the corner is wearing a crown of glowing ice, and his mate’s got the head of a parrot. I don’t think you need to be Grand Archmage Woddleflot to pick up the delicate scent of magic.”

What was building a web but a gustatory expression of hope?

Were all beings just a thin skin of volition floating on a sea of drives and directives they could not control?