“He’s fine,” she said.
He grunted, glancing past her to where the boy still lay where he had fallen, his face pale with fear and shock. Cutter let the axe handle go, flexed his hand where he had gripped it so tightly that it ached, then he started toward the boy. “You alright, lad?”
Matt scooted away from him, his eyes wide, and Cutter frowned. “You’re okay, boy. They’re not going to hurt—”
“You were going to kill those men,” the boy said, his voice thick with emotion and accusation, and Cutter realized it was not the men he feared. It was him.
He froze, making no more move to the boy and finally he nodded. “Yes.”
“But…why?”
Cutter stood there, wondering how many times he had asked himself that same question, wondering, too, how many times he had come up empty without an answer to give.
In the silence, Maeve walked forward, offering the boy her hand, and he did not shy away, taking it and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. She glanced at Cutter, a world of meaning in her gaze, then looked back to the boy. “Come on, Matt,” she said. “How about you help an old lady to her room, eh? I think we could both use the rest.”
The boy seemed stunned as she led him up the stairs, watching Cutter worriedly, as if at any moment he might attack him. Cutter wanted to tell him that he would never do that, that out of the many crimes he had committed, the many atrocities, that was one even he would not do. He wanted to tell the boy he was sorry, to somehow make him understand, but he could not find the words, and in another moment they were disappearing up the stairs, Chall following behind, and Cutter was left standing alone in the common room.
“One night.”
He turned to see the innkeeper, Netty, standing beside him. “One night,” she repeated. “And then you’re gone, do you understand?”
“I understand.”
She studied him for several seconds then grunted. “Cend and the others are fools, but normally harmless enough ones. They don’t deserve to die.”
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t expect they do.”
She nodded. “Alright then,” she said, then turned back to those others in the room, those men and women who, minutes ago, had been busy tending to the wounded but who were, as one, watching him. “Well?” she demanded. “Did a miracle happen and all those wounds healed themselves and somehow I missed it?”
That got them back to work, but Cutter couldn’t help but notice the sidelong, fearful glances they kept shooting his way. How often had he suffered such looks before? Suffered, yes, but deserved them nonetheless. Suddenly, the air felt thick, claustrophobic, and he turned and walked—fled—out of the inn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
How can one explain, to those so young, the cruelty of war?
How can one prepare them, with their hopeful eyes, their excitement at being soldiers, for the inevitable losses and pain that wait for them?
You cannot, that’s all, and there is no reason to try.
After all, they will learn the truth soon enough.
—General Malex regarding new recruits during the Fey Wars
Maeve unlocked the door, motioning the boy in. He shambled inside and sat on the bed, a dazed expression on his face, one that she understood. She glanced back at the mage standing in the hallway, still wearing the ridiculous purple trousers. She’d thought those trousers were funny when she’d first seen them, but they did not seem so funny now. But then, nothing did. The mage looked anxious, and he fidgeted nervously as if unsure of what he should be doing.
He glanced past her at the boy then met her eyes again. “Should I…I mean…”
Maeve sighed. “Go and get some rest, Chall,” she said softly. “I’ll talk to him.”
He winced, obviously feeling guilty but just as obviously relieved. “Okay…goodnight, Mae.”
“Goodnight.”
She watched the mage walk down the hall to the other room, where he would find his bed and, if he were lucky, get some rest. It was what she wanted as well, some rest, some sleep, the only thing that might put some distance between herself and their circumstances, which would allow her, at least for a few hours, to dream that she was someone else, anyone else. But there were some, like Cutter, whose seemingly only purpose in life was destruction and others whose job it was to pick up what remained when the destruction was finished, to try to piece something back together from the debris they left in their wake. She had never thought herself a good candidate for such a job, but it was a role she was familiar with nonetheless.
The boy still sat on the bed, his eyes unfocused, as she stepped into the room. He didn’t look up until she closed the door behind her, a bit louder than she needed to, truth be told. “How we doing, lad?” she asked, moving to sit beside him, feeling, in that moment, very old and very tired.
“He…he was going to kill them, Maeve.” He turned, meeting her eyes, and she could see tears gathering there. “Wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “He was going to kill them.”
“But…why?”
Maeve had asked herself that question often following one of her prince’s killing sprees and now, like then, she had no answer. She doubted, in truth, if even Cutter knew. Still, the youth was watching her, needing something from her, some answer, some way to understand, so she sighed, thinking. “Prince Ber…that is, Cutter, is not like you and me. He’s…well, he’s not like anyone, really.”
“But you follow him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another question without an answer, or at least, if it had
