“Then we get back to work. Nothing’s changed,” Slag said. The look on his face betrayed him, but he remained adamant. “Nothing’s fucking changed. You going to kill her now?” he asked.
Malden studied Balint’s face. There was no fear there-as if she already knew he couldn’t kill her. That he wouldn’t. Was he really that predictable? “I wouldn’t kill the child-murderer. I wouldn’t kill the priest of the Lady, or even Pritchard Hood. No. I don’t kill anyone except in self-defense.”
“Good,” Slag said. “Because I can use her.”
“On your secret project?” Malden asked. “Why would she help with that?”
“Because she’s an arsing dwarf, that’s why.”
“Fuck you,” Balint said. For once it seemed the limit of her crudity.
It was Slag’s turn to smile. “Oh, milady, you’ll sing a different tune when you’re in on the game. I know our kind. You won’t be able to resist when you see what I’m building. It’s just that clever.”
Malden stared at the two of them. “You seriously believe she’ll work nicely with you?” he asked.
“Oh, I do, lad,” Slag said. There was something funny in his eye. A certain twinkle. Balint must have seen it, too, because she started giving the one-armed dwarf a shrewd look that on a human face would have meant only one thing. If Malden didn’t know better, he’d have thought Never mind. It didn’t concern him. “Take her, then. Er, lead her where you will. I have a million and one things I need to attend to, if tomorrow’s the day we face the enemy.”
Chapter One Hundred Seven
In her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair was full of yellow-edged leaves and one of her arms was made of wrinkled wood. She lived. Cythera was relatively certain that she would survive. Yet she had so overextended herself, pushed herself so far past her limits, that she could not have defended herself against a pesky fly, much less a horde of barbarians.
Probably for the best, Cythera thought. When she told her mother what she’d done, Coruth would want to kill her.
Cythera licked her lips and forced herself to keep her hands at her sides. It still had to be done. She owed her mother that much. “I’ve done…” she said, and found she couldn’t go on. It was past human endurance to have to make this confession.
Then again, she was a witch now. A witch and something more. “I’ve done something you’ll find unforgivable,” she said. She forced herself not to lower her eyes.
In the bed, Coruth’s mouth opened a little wider, and Cythera expected her to start cursing, to castigate her daughter most severely. She deserved it, after all. Yet no sound came from those dry lips.
“I used sorcery,” Cythera said, forcing herself not to falter over the words. To speak them clearly, out loud. A witch accepted her responsibilities. She acknowledged when she’d made a mistake, and she took what was coming to her. “I know better than to make excuses to you. But it was for the right reason, I am sure of it. It was to save a friend.”
Coruth’s eyes couldn’t quite focus, but they moved in their sockets.
Cythera nodded as if her mother had spoken, because she knew exactly what she would have said. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I am still clutching to my attachments. I should renounce the bonds of my prior life. That was part of my initiation-to force me to let go of old desires and old bonds. Slag was going to die, and I couldn’t just watch it happen. But I know I should have. If it was his time, then it wasn’t my right to stop what was meant to happen. There may be some reason why he was supposed to die. This project he’s working on, the thing that nearly killed him, by all accounts it’s some miraculous weapon. By saving him maybe I’m introducing something terrible to the world, something that will cause untold suffering. And I let that happen because I cared for him. Perhaps I cared too much.”
Coruth closed her mouth. Her body shifted in the bed as if she were struggling to sit up, or perhaps to speak. She lacked the strength to do either.
“A witch can’t afford to favor one life over hundreds, maybe thousands of others. That’s why I can’t be Malden’s lover anymore. I know this-you taught me well. I can only say I’ve learned from my mistake. I paid for what I did.” She reached up and touched her hair. The white streaks would always be there. They would be a permanent reminder of what power cost. “You said that when… when I did it, Malden would never look me in the eye again. But you were wrong, Mother! He looked right into me, right down to my soul, and he saw no corruption there. I made a bad mistake. But not as bad as the one you saw in my future. Your training was enough-it gave me the discipline to use only a little sorcery, just enough to do a good thing.”
She closed her eyes.
“Mother, I promise now, on my life, on my vows as a witch. I promise I will never make this mistake again. I’ve learned my lesson and I assure you I know just how badly I’ve transgressed. Witchcraft may not be as powerful as sorcery, but it’s clean. It is the only right way to use magic. I know this in my bones. I will die before I make contact with the pit again.”
She opened her eyes again and found Coruth staring right at her. She couldn’t help herself-she flinched back, away from that gaze.
“Some,” Coruth said, and then swallowed and squinted as if just saying the word had caused her unbearable pain. “Some demons,” she went on, forcing the words out, “are smaller than others.”
Cythera reeled backward as surely as if she’d been slapped. “No,” she said, “no. I opened a way between the worlds, yes. But only a tiny crack-not enough to let anything come through. I watched like a hawk for it. I bound the demons I drew power from. There is no way anything could have come through-Mother, I would never allow a demon to come into this world! Even in my moment of weakness, even when I was stupid enough to do this thing, I was strong enough to make sure that didn’t happen!”
Coruth’s chin bobbed up and down. She was nodding.
“That’s true,” she wheezed. “It… didn’t. Nothing came through.”
Relief flooded through Cythera’s veins. If she’d failed, if something had come into the world, she would never have been able to forgive herself. She turned to leave the room, to let Coruth rest peacefully. If she stayed, she knew, her mother would feel forced to admonish her further.
“Not… this time,” Coruth said, and Cythera’s shoulders slumped as she stepped out of the room.
Chapter One Hundred Eight
On the march, it is far too easy to slip into a kind of trance. At first every mile is marked. But there are so many, and each when conquered seems so little, so in time there is only the automatic motion, the necessary action bred into the bone. Croy kept his horse on the road, and kept his pace, and saw little while his mind roamed freely. In his inner vision he saw Cythera, and what might become of her. What might already have happened, and that was all.
Yet it is the nature of a warrior to be silent much of the time but always ready. When something happens to break the routine, response is instant.
Ahead on the road a horse reared, and another screamed in panic. Croy fought to keep his own seat. He shot looks around in every direction, trying to see what had happened to break the road’s spell. At first he saw only his own retinue. The Skilfinger knights around him broke ranks to spread out, not waiting for the order to protect the flanks. Drums beat to arms, and Sir Hew galloped forward to stand his horse next to Croy, waving behind him for his standard-bearer to bring up the colors of Skrae.
Then Croy saw the threat, and he drew Ghostcutter from its sheath in a practiced, effortless motion.
On every side of them, massed in neat ranks and pike squares, an army of men on foot came across the fields. There were thousands of them. Moving as one they encircled the Skilfinger column and dropped to one knee, setting their polearms as if to receive a cavalry charge. Croy very nearly ordered such a charge, thinking he’d been caught by an ambush of barbarians.
