by DAVID B. COE
“By this time next year, I expect you’ll be dead,” she had told him on the Deceiver’s Night, her words carrying the weight of prophecy. After Mertesse, and his narrow escape in the tavern corridor, he had allowed himself to believe that the girl’s wraith had been wrong. But no.
In a sense he did it because of all his wraiths. How many spirits could one man face on the Night of the Dead? How many kills was too many? He felt no sympathy for the boy, but he didn’t want to stand before Brienne and Tavis together, not after what he had endured this past year.
Slowly, he eased his grip on the young lord, pushing himself off the boy’s back until he was kneeling on the rock rather than on Tavis. The boy made no move to leave the water and so Cadel grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him out of the pool and onto the slick stone. Immediately Tavis began to cough and sputter, and his eyes fluttered open briefly before closing again.
“Thank you,” Kalida said.
Cadel looked up at her. Perhaps he had been wrong a moment before. Perhaps he did do this for her. Their time together had been brief, but it had been the longest romance of his life. Such was the life of an assassin, the life he had tried so hard to leave, the life that had clung to him as Kalida’s wet hair clung to her forehead.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “About my name, about who and what I was. As you say, I had hoped to change.”
“I understand.”
She smiled at him, and his chest began to ache.
“I have gold,” he said, standing. “I’ve made a good deal over the years. I carry a bit of it with me, but there’s far more of it hidden away.”
He glanced down at Tavis. The boy was coughing less and had opened his eyes again, although he still looked dazed.
“I don’t care about your gold, Cor—” She stopped, looking embarrassed. “I’m not sure what to call you.”
“It doesn’t matter, Kalida. Just listen a moment. The gold is in Cestaar’s Hills, near Noltierre.”
“All right, we can go there.”
He shook his head. “No, listen to me. There’s a pass just north of the city that leads into a narrow, grassy valley. A river flows through it, and there are a few trees, though it’s fairly open. At the south end of the ravine there’s a pair of oak trees—they’re the tallest by far in the entire valley and easy to spot. The gold is there, buried between them.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”
“Do you understand what I just told you?”
“Yes, but I—”
“Repeat it to me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tavis staring up at him. His color had returned and he seemed far more aware of his surroundings. In another moment, he would remember the thing he’d seen, the thing Cadel had seen as well, but had ignored.
“The . . . the pass north of Noltierre,” she said, her brow creased. “A narrow valley with two tall oaks at the south end. The gold is between them.”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”
“But surely you want the gold, too. It’s for both of us.”
Only someone who had never killed for hire could think as she did. She was strong-willed, and she possessed a fire, a passion, that her sister lacked. But she was far more innocent than she could ever know. That was the only way to explain the hope he heard in her voice, the belief that they might actually have a life together. Had she spent the last several turns as he had, trying to escape from all he had done over the past eighteen years, she would have known better.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, seeing Tavis plunge his hand into the icy water.
Kalida said nothing. By this time she too had taken notice of the young lord. But she seemed unable to do more than just stare, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening in horror, as Tavis retrieved his lost sword from the water.
Even knowing the attack would come, even having resigned himself to his own death, Cadel was caught off guard by the speed with which the boy struck at him, the grace with which Tavis stood and spun. He held himself perfectly still, wondering that he should feel so calm, noting the way water ran off the gleaming steel, like small rivers flowing off the steppe. He saw rage and hate and bloodlust in Tavis’s eyes, in the fierce, feral grin on his face. And he watched the blade accelerate until it became little more than an arc of silver light, like a ghost sweeping through the rain.
Only then, marking the trajectory of the young lord’s sword, knowing where it would meet his flesh, did Cadel Nistaad close his eyes. At the end, he was aware only of the storm around him, and of Kalida’s anguished cry.
The first blow sliced into the assassin’s neck, nearly severing his head. Blood spouted from the wound, darkening Tavis’s blade and pouring down Cadel’s shirt. The assassin toppled to the rock, landing on his side and then rolling lifelessly onto his back.
Cadel made no sound, no movement, but still Tavis didn’t hesitate. Drawing back his weapon a second time, he drove the point of his steel into the man’s heart. Lifting his arm to strike again, he heard the woman cry out, saw her rush at him, her fists raised, her face contorted with fury and grief.
“Stop, you bastard! Stop it! Stop it!”
He dropped the sword rather than level a blow at her, and as she started to beat at his face and chest, he caught her wrists in his hands.
“Let me go!” she said wrenching herself from his grasp and falling to her knees.
For a moment he thought she might take up the sword, but instead she crawled to where the assassin lay, his blood flowing over the rock and mingling with the sea foam. She was sobbing, one trembling hand held to her mouth, the other reaching for Cadel’s cheek.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded.
At first Tavis couldn’t tell if she had asked the question of him or of the dead man. But a moment later, she turned to glare at him over her shoulder. “Why?”
“Because he killed Brienne, and too many others to count. Because he destroyed my life.”
“He didn’t want to kill anymore.”
“I don’t believe that,” Tavis said. He was starting to shake, whether from the cold or the memory of how close he had come to dying, or the realization of what he had done, he couldn’t say. “You know what he was. Even if you didn’t believe us, you heard him admit it himself.”
“He let you live. He didn’t have to—a moment more and you would have died. But he gave you your life. And then when you attacked him, he didn’t even try to defend himself.”
The young lord looked away, rubbing his hands together. It was so damned cold. “That was his choice.”
She didn’t answer, but still Tavis felt her eyes upon him. After a moment he stooped to retrieve his sword. Xaver’s sword. Returning it to its sheath, he glanced about, looking for his dagger. Spotting it near Cadel’s body, he hesitated, then picked it up as well.
“You’re a coward,” she said. “You butchered a man who spared your life and allowed himself to be killed. You may have avenged Lady Brienne, and rid the Forelands of a hired blade, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a coward.”
He made himself face her. “I know.”
She stared back at him, as if unsure of how to respond.
He glanced at the assassin one last time, then started back toward the moor.
Before he had gone far, Tavis spotted Grinsa hurrying in his direction. He moved awkwardly, favoring one leg, and he held his left arm to his chest, as though it pained him. His face was the color of ash.
“Tavis!” the gleaner called, sounding relieved.
“You’re hurt! What happened?”
“I was attacked by a Qirsi, a man working with Cadel. I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not,” Tavis said, reaching him at last and immediately draping the gleaner’s good arm over his shoulder so that he could help him walk. “You need a healer. We’ll go to the castle.”
“Cadel?” Grinsa asked, as they began to make their way across the grasses.
>
“He’s dead.”
“How . . . How did you manage it?”
Tavis shook his head. “Not now. I’ll tell you eventually, but I need time.”
“Of course,” Grinsa said, concern written on his face. After a few moments he said, “I saw a third person with you.”
“Yes. The woman from Duvenry.”
Grinsa glanced at him. “Did you? . . .”
“Of course not,” Tavis said with a frown. “She chose to remain behind. It seems she loved him more than she let on.”
The gleaner nodded, and they walked for a time in silence, rain soaking them, wind whipping their clothes and faces.
“So you’ve done it, then,” Grinsa finally said. “You’ve gotten your revenge.”
Tavis swallowed, staring straight ahead. “Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
He shrugged, uncertain of how to answer.
How long had he hungered for the assassin’s blood? How many nights had he lain awake, tormented by the memory of waking to find his dead queen lying beside him on the bed? One needed only look at his face and body to see how he had suffered for Cadel’s crime.
He should have been pleased. The weight he had been carrying for nearly a year had been lifted from his shoulders. Or at least it should have been. But still he felt the world pressing down upon him. He should have been thinking of how it would feel to face Brienne’s spirit once more, to tell her that her murderer was dead, killed by Tavis’s own hand. He should have been looking forward to the day when he could relate to his mother and father how he had struck back at the conspiracy, repaying the Qirsi in small measure for all they had stolen from the House of Curgh.
Instead, he found himself remembering a trivial incident that occurred in the ward of Curgh Castle. It had been a bright, warm day—the day of his Fating, as it happened. The day when all of this first began. He had been training, testing his skills with a wooden sword against a trio of probationers. And in the midst of their mock battle, he had used his weapon on a defenseless man, nearly killing him.
You’re a coward, the woman told him this day, kneeling beside the man he had killed. And he had agreed. It seemed he had always been a coward, and always would be.
What kind of man raised his sword against helpless foes? What kind of noble allowed pride and vengeance to guide his actions?
“Tavis? Are you all right?”
“I feel nothing, Grinsa. And I don’t know why.” He looked at the gleaner, feeling tears on his face, hoping his friend would think them drops of rain. “I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? What’s wrong with me?”
“You killed a man, Tavis. If you were pleased, I’d be concerned for you.”
He knew Grinsa was right, but still he had to fight to keep from bawling like a child. “At least it’s over,” he whispered.
“No, it’s not,” the gleaner said. “It’s only just begun. We’ve a war to fight and you’ve drawn your first blood. But I fear we’ll need your sword again before long.”
What kind of man, indeed?
Chapter
Thirty
Glyndwr, Eibithar
The healers in Helke Castle mended his shoulder and eased what remained of the pain in his leg. They healed the cuts on Tavis’s arm, neck, and face as well, though the boy seemed to have suffered other wounds that lay beyond the reach of any healer. The duke of Helke clearly was not pleased to have Tavis of Curgh as a guest in his castle, but, perhaps as a way of honoring Wethyrn’s longstanding friendship with Eibithar, he offered to let them remain for as long as they wished. They stayed only for the one night.
Grinsa was desperate to return to the City of Kings. He wanted to see his daughter once more, to hold Cresenne in his arms and protect her from the Weaver. He could tell that Tavis was nearly as eager as he to be leaving, though he sensed that the young lord’s urgency had little to do with a desire to be back in Eibithar. He simply wished to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Crown.
The morning following their encounter with Cadel and the Qirsi who had attacked Grinsa, they secured passage on a merchant ship bound for Rennach. By the time darkness fell they were back in Eibithar. They slept that night outside the city, knowing that the duke of Rennach had allied himself with Aindreas of Kentigern, and would imprison Tavis if given the chance. Half a turn earlier, before leaving for Wethyrn, they had left their mounts with a farrier in a small village just north of Rennach. They reclaimed them the next morning, paying the man handsomely for his care of the beasts, and began the long journey back to the City of Kings.
Tavis had yet to tell Grinsa about his battle with the assassin, and the gleaner didn’t feel that it was his place to ask questions. He could see that killing the man had left its mark on the boy. He was at once both more at peace than Grinsa had ever seen him, and more withdrawn. During their brief stay in Helke Castle, he had carried himself with the confidence and purpose of a noble, calling for healers immediately upon their arrival and insisting that they attend to Grinsa’s injuries before allowing them even to look at his own gashes. When the duke asked why they had come to the Crown and who had inflicted their wounds, Tavis explained that they had killed two men who had been party to the Qirsi conspiracy, and cautioned the older noble to be wary lest he believe that Wethyrn was too remote to be of interest to the renegades and their movement.
It seemed to Grinsa that with Cadel dead, Tavis had been released at last from the haunting memory of his captivity in Kentigern and whatever guilt he felt for Lady Brienne’s death. He no longer flinched when people stared at his scars, and except for the few hours they spent in and around Rennach, he made no effort to conceal his identity. But while he seemed to have matured five years in the span of a few days, he remained somber and distant. Indeed, if anything, killing the assassin had only served to deepen the darkness that had lurked within him for so long.
On the second night after their departure from Rennach, as they sat beside a low burning fire near Silver Falls, where the Thorald River flowed off the Caerissan Steppe, Grinsa asked the young lord whether he intended to ride with the gleaner back to the City of Kings.
“If you wish to return to Curgh instead, I’ll understand,” he said, eyeing the boy across the fire. “No doubt you wish to tell your mother and father that the assassin is dead.”
“If I tell them that,” Tavis answered, his voice low, “they’ll want to know how I killed him. At least my father will. And I’ve no stomach for that conversation just now.”
Grinsa nearly asked him then, but seeing the pained expression in Tavis’s eyes, he decided against it. As it was, this was the closest the boy had come to telling Grinsa anything about what had happened on the Wethy coast. He doubted that Tavis would tell him more.
Three days after their conversation near the falls, the two riders reached Glyndwr Castle, where they thought to rest their mounts and enjoy for one night the comfort of real beds. Immediately upon riding into the city, however, Grinsa sensed that something was amiss. The marketplace was nearly empty of peddlers and buyers alike, and the few people they did see eyed the two riders warily, as if thinking them the vanguard of some invading force. On the other hand, soldiers were everywhere. The city bristled with them.
“Does this seem strange to you?” Grinsa asked quietly as they steered their mounts toward the gates of Glyndwr Castle.
“The guards, you mean?”
“The guards, the fact that there’s no one in the marketplace. It’s as if . . .”
“As if they’re expecting a war?” Tavis said.
Grinsa stared at him, knowing instantly that this was precisely what he had meant to say. He felt an icy hand take hold of his heart.
The young duke of Glyndwr, Kearney’s son, stood waiting for them just inside the castle gates. He looked small and lonely, as might a child whose playfellows had all abandoned him.
Tavis dismounted and bowed to the boy, as did the gleaner.
“Rise, Lord
Curgh, and be welcome.”
“Thank you, my lord duke,” Tavis said, straightening.
“You bring tidings from the City of Kings?”
“No, my lord. We’ve been . . . elsewhere. You await word from the king?”
“Yes. I received word not long ago that I was to have the men prepare to march. We’ve been gathering weapons and provisioning for several days.
“Are we at war, then?”
“Not yet, but we will be soon. It’s simply a matter of where the men will be sent.”
Something in the way he said it caught the gleaner’s attention. It seemed the duke wouldn’t be riding with his men, and so wouldn’t be fighting alongside his father. Kearney was still two years shy of his Fating, younger than any soldier in his army. Nevertheless, it couldn’t be easy for him to watch his men prepare for war, knowing that he wouldn’t be fighting by his father’s side.
“Won’t they go north?” Tavis asked.
“It’s hard to say. The empire’s fleet menaces us from the north, but the Aneirans are massing on the Tarbin. That’s the shorter march. My father may send Glyndwr’s men there.”
“Do you know yet where the king will be going?” Grinsa asked.
“Not for certain, no. But I should think he’ll go north.”
Tavis glanced at the gleaner, his scarred face grim. “That’s where Curgh’s men will go, as well.”
Grinsa nodded. Of course. The empire was the greater threat. No doubt Keziah would ride with Kearney, which meant that Cresenne and Bryntelle would be left alone in the City of Kings, with no one there to guard them from the Weaver’s next assault. He could barely swallow for the tightness in his throat.
Tavis shook his head. “Aneira to the south and Braedon to the north. They’ve succeeded in dividing us.”
“More than you know, Lord Curgh,” the duke said. “My father expects that several of the houses will refuse to join the fight.”
