Again, Cutter said nothing, and the woman sighed. “Your brother, Prince Feledias. He hasn’t come to help, has he?”
Cutter shook his head. “No.”
“He’s come for you.”
“Yes.”
“And as for us? Us lowly non-royal peasants? What sort of greeting might we expect from this royal brother of yours?”
Instead of answering, Cutter turned to the others, meeting Maeve’s eyes in particular. “Best get them moving, Maeve. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”
“Sounds great,” the woman said dryly. “Only, where exactly might we be moving to?”
“Let’s start with ‘away.’ We’ll head west, toward the capital. I’ll meet you in just a moment.”
“Come on, lad,” Maeve said gently, putting a hand on Matt’s shoulder, “better be on our way.”
Matt hesitated, looking at the innkeeper, the woman watching Cutter with hard eyes. There was something, some terrible knowledge looming in his mind like some great monolithic figure in the mist, indistinct yet threatening and full of some unnatural menace. It was a knowledge, a truth, that he thought he could see in the innkeeper’s gaze as well. Yet that knowledge, that truth was too obscured by the fog of his own fear, his own desire to run and get as far away as possible from those hunting him for him to understand it.
Swallowing, he turned and allowed himself to be led out of the inn.
***
Cutter watched Maeve and the others leave then turned back to the innkeeper, the woman staring at him with undisguised anger.
“Gettin’ the boy to leave. Clever,” the woman said dryly. “Don’t want any folks hanging around watchin’ when you commit murder.”
“I have offered none of your people harm.”
“Thing is, Prince, that ain’t exactly true, is it? Cend would certainly disagree, and I think his bruised face and bruised pride are just about the least of our worries right now, considerin’ your brother is knockin’ on our door.”
There was nothing to be said, no way to make it better, for he knew what would happen now, they both did. What must happen. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Her face worked for a moment, a flurry of emotions chasing their way across her features. Then, finally, she scowled. “Damn your sorry,” she said. “These are good people here. People that don’t deserve what they’re gettin’.”
No one ever did, but Cutter didn’t think now was the time to say that, so instead he nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” she asked, watching him closely. “Are you really? Seems to me you’re just as heartless as the stories say. A beast, they call you, and I think they call it right. But what do you think, Prince?”
Once more he said nothing, for he did not have the words to make it right, to make it okay, even if such words existed. And even if they did, even if he did have them, there was no time to speak them, not now. He turned to go, and she reached out, snatching his arm.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you monster,” she growled, nearly shouting it, and he turned back to see her glaring at him, to see that many of the caretakers seeing to the wounded had paused in their labors and their excited whispering to look over, their good moods clearly giving way to confusion at their de facto leader’s anger.
He looked past her, and she snarled, turning and following his gaze. “Everything’s alright,” she said, forcing a false joviality into her tone, “this big fella here just turned down my proposition for a drink, that’s all. Why don’t you all mind your business, maybe get ready.” She turned back to glance at Cutter as she finished. “Got us a prince visitin’,” she said loudly. “Reckon we’ll want to look our best.”
They all grinned, wounded and caretaker alike, and soon they were ensconced in hurried, whispered conversation again, excited as they had a right to be, about a visit from their royal prince. They had no way of knowing, save some rumors which, while they reached far, might not have reached so far as this out of the way village, that their princes were not worthy of their love or their excitement.
“They love you,” Cutter said, wondering how such a thing might feel, to engender anything in those you met besides hate or fear and knowing that he would never know.
“Helps that I don’t get them all butchered by a revenge-mad prince,” she said.
He wanted to say sorry again, to tell her that he had not intended this, but he had said it already, and his feelings would do nothing to save them from the dark fate visiting their village. So he nodded instead, deciding to leave it there. Not a good place to leave it, perhaps, but then when you had just single-handedly spelled the death of an entire village, there wasn’t a good way. Another weight, then, to add to that already accumulated on his back, a weight of regret and shame that he had carried with him for as long as he could remember, dragging it behind him.
He turned, heading toward the door.
“He’ll find out, you know,” the woman said.
He paused, glancing back at the innkeeper.
“The boy,” she said. “He’ll find out who you are. What you are.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “He’s finding out already.” And with that, he turned and walked into the darkness, leaving his victims—still living, still breathing and walking around, but not for long—behind him.
***
They were waiting for him outside, Maeve and Chall and Priest watching him with the knowledge of what was coming in their eyes. After all, there had been other villages in the past, other massacres, some which they had fled, others which they had perpetrated. They knew this, for they, like he, still bore the scars of those slaughters, carried them as constant, daily reminders of how fragile human life could really be. It was as if everything—society, the idea of civilization and
