by Greg Benage
Chapter 10
Thorn couldn’t recall the faces of his wife and son. He tried every night when he went to sleep, and he always failed. He could remember the smell of his wife’s hair, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her breasts under his hands. He could remember the curve of her neck, the arch of her back and the softness of her skin. He could remember his son’s golden hair, the color of sunlight, and the shape of each of his toes. He could hear his voice the first time he’d said “Da.”
But Thorn couldn’t remember their faces anymore.
One thing he did remember—what he would never be able to forget—was the sense of helplessness he felt as he held his newborn son and watched his wife die, and later, when the spirits took the boy, too. Rage. Despair. His wife and son had been the only things in the world he truly cared about, and he’d been powerless to help them, or even understand what was happening. Why it was happening.
Thorn had known for a long time it had broken something in him. And being broken, it had never troubled him much. The death of his wife and son had left him with nothing, and he’d forged a coat of mail from it. The world couldn’t take anything from a man who had nothing. No family, no ties, no cares or desires—he’d made himself invulnerable.
Coward. Thorn wasn’t afraid to face death himself—at times, he pursued it. He was afraid someone he cared about would die and he’d be responsible for it. The problem was, he was responsible for the people he cared about whether he accepted that responsibility or not. The only question was whether or not he’d be there for them. Sure as the stars, he wasn’t there for them now.
The rain was turning the bottom of the stockade into a fetid swamp, and Thorn finally got tired of sitting in it. He stood and paced to the other side of the cage. Lightning flashed, and in the sudden glare he saw Redmourn standing there, watching him.
Thorn jumped so high he banged his head against the top of the stockade. He scrambled away and pressed his back into the wooden bars, putting as much distance between himself and the wight as he could.
“Good evening, Caleb Thorn.”
“I didn’t know wights could talk,” Thorn said lamely. He was just pleased to discover he hadn’t soiled himself.
Redmourn laughed. “For the longest time, I didn’t realize blunts could, either. I knew they made sounds, of course, but I never thought it was true speech. No more than the noises made by other animals, the lowing of cattle. In my defense, I heard screaming, for the most part. No one ever recites poetry when I come for them.”
“How did you learn to speak our tongue?” Thorn had to admit the wight spoke it better than he did.
“I took a woman. I came to understand later she was some manner of princess—a woman considered extraordinary by virtue of her parentage. Now it sounds absurdly romantic, but at the time I took her only because I found her comely, for a blunt. I have discovered that a life of toil is weak on beauty and strong on disease and disfigurement. So my choosing a princess was perhaps not so romantic after all. I fed on her and used her, but would you believe she fell in love with me? She became quite devoted. In any event, she taught me to speak her crude language. I find it mildly distasteful, but also undeniably useful on occasion.”
“What happened to the woman?”
“She died, tragically. What is it you say, ‘ash and air’?”
“You killed her.”
“Probably. I was, perhaps, not the ideal paramour.”
“What do you want?”
“I find that I want less and less with each passing season. I am quite…melancholy. It is fortunate I so rarely have company, for they would no doubt find me insufferable. You have given me some flicker of passion, however, and for that I am deeply grateful.”
“Your lips are moving and words are coming out, but you ain’t really saying anything. What do you want?”
“Have you ever experienced loss, Caleb Thorn?”
Thorn swallowed. Maybe wights could read minds.
“I mean real loss, the kind that feels like the ending of the world,” Redmourn said. “Well, if you have not, let me tell you that it leaves one with a single fervent desire, and that is for things to be as they were. Such a simple desire! One only wants that withering loss to be undone. And of course this is precisely the thing that cannot be. What do I want? I want the blunts to leave this land and never return. I want this city to be whole, to gleam white and proud in the sun once more. I want the world to rise again from its deathbed and reclaim its old glory.”
“Well, at least you got a list.”
“I want only this—for things to be as they were.” Redmourn was silent for a moment, and then continued in a rush. “But this can never be, and so I content myself with a new desire, one that you have given to me. I want to kill you, Caleb Thorn. I want it very badly.”
“Come on, then. I doubt your teeth can reach me over here, but maybe you can poke that sword through the bars. Then maybe I’ll take it from you and poke you back.”
“I think not. I have no desire to slaughter a caged animal—at least, not you. I will let you know the time and the place. You will hear from me very soon.”
The wight bowed, and in the time it took to blink, he disappeared into the darkness.
Thorn turned around, gripped the wooden bars of the stockade with both hands, and rested his forehead against them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You better hurry if you want to get in line ahead of the hangman.”
