Perhaps even managing to, for a time. But the veil would slip—it always did—and what it hid was ugly and cruel and without virtue.
“It’s time to go,” Cutter said, starting forward.
The others followed, saying nothing, their expressions etched with agony at the knowledge of the villager’s fates. Cutter understood, but he understood, too, that to stay would be to condemn all of them to torture and death. He did not mind that for himself so much, for he knew that he had earned such a fate long ago, had bought and paid for it a thousand times over. But he would not, could not let the boy suffer for his sins. And so they would run, leaving a bloody trail of the innocent behind them. It wasn’t as if they, as if he, had not done it before.
They moved quickly and quietly, Cutter’s eyes roaming the corners of the burned-out shells that had once been the homes of the villagers before he had brought their first doom upon them. But there were no soldiers lurking around corners waiting in ambush as he expected, proving that Feledias and his men had not yet surrounded the village.
“What will they do to them, Maeve?” a voice asked, breaking the silence, and Cutter turned back to see Matt staring at the woman. Tears were running down his face, tears which meant that he knew, deep down, the answer to the question he asked. Instead of answering, Maeve only turned to look at Cutter, meeting his gaze.
They were all looking at him, regret and self-loathing clear on their features, one that served to accentuate his own. “Best keep moving,” he said, his voice harsh.
And on they walked. The boy did not ask the question again, likely fearing that this time, if he did, he would receive an answer. They were in sight of the village edge when the silence was broken by distant screams. Cutter turned back and saw light bloom in the darkness, the orange, ruddy glow of a flame. Feledias beginning his work then, meaning to finish what the Fey had begun and destroy the village completely.
“Prince,” Priest began, his own face twisted with grief as if he felt the pain and fear of the one who had screamed, and even as he spoke more screams echoed in the darkness. Not screams of pain, not yet, but of fear and sudden understanding as those villagers of Ferrimore who remained after the Fey attack began to realize that those men they had supposed to be their saviors would be, instead, their executioners.
Cutter stared back at the older man, shaking his head. “We can’t, Priest,” he managed through gritted teeth. “You know that. There are too many.”
The man glanced at the boy, standing there with tears still streaming down his face, then back at Cutter. “You are wrong, Prince. You can’t, and I understand your reasons. Truly, I do. But I can.”
The older man moved to Maeve, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Goodbye, Maeve.”
There were tears shimmering in her eyes as well, but she pulled him close. “Are…are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said, offering her a smile as he stepped back. “Good luck, Maeve. It has been a pleasure knowing you.”
The woman opened her mouth as if she would say something, but she seemed unable to find the words, and the man smiled, nodding his head to her before moving to Chall. The heavy-set mage shook his head desperately as the man walked to him. “No,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, “Priest, it isn’t…I mean, you can’t…”
“It is okay, Challadius,” Priest said, pulling him into a tight embrace. The mage hesitated for a moment, then hugged him back. “It’s okay. All men have their journey, and they can do naught but travel it as best they may. May the gods be with you.”
“Oh gods, Priest,” Chall said. “I…I’m sorry. Sorry for all the things I said—”
“There is nothing to forgive,” the man said, smiling. “But if there is, then you were forgiven the moment you said them. Live well, Challadius. You are a better man than you know.”
“Live well,” Chall repeated as if the words were in some other language, some language he did not understand. “How?”
Priest smiled at that but said nothing, stepping away. He glanced at Matt, the boy’s face covered in tears. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Matt. I wish only that I could have known you better, but, it seems, it is not the goddess’s will.”
Matt’s mouth worked, as if he were trying to speak, but in the end it seemed the words would not come and a moment later Priest stepped past him, meeting Cutter’s gaze.
“You will die,” Cutter said.
“Yes,” Priest said, smiling once more. “But all men die, Prince. It is what gives our lives worth.”
Cutter grunted, nodding. “Good luck, old friend.”
The man winked. “And to you.”
They watched him start away at a jog then, his bow slung across his back, and Cutter felt some great emotion writhing within him, threatening to be unleashed. But he choked it down, that emotion, that feeling, for he could not afford it, not now. Later, perhaps, he would grieve but not now. There was the boy to think about. There was, there could be, nothing else.
He was still watching the man’s form vanish into the darkness heading back in the direction they’d come when Maeve stepped up to stand beside him. “How long, Prince?” she asked.
He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.
“How long,” she repeated in a whisper, “before our poor tortured souls are turned black, before they become twisted, pathetic things inside of us?” She glanced at Matt,
