“Priest,” he said, as the others started working their way toward the next building, meaning to loop around to the inn’s back.
The man turned back, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d speak with you, for a moment.”
Maeve shot one more suspicious glance at him before she, Chall, and the boy started away. Priest walked up to him. “Yes, Prince?”
Cutter frowned. He had not expected his plan to work, for it to have gone so easily. Now that it had, he was having difficulty saying what he needed to. “Priest,” he said quietly, “Valden…do you think…” He paused, clearing his throat. “Do you think that the gods, seeing a man’s evil, his sins, might give up on him?”
The man watched him carefully. Maeve was clever, it was true, but so was Valden. “You do not mean to meet us in the forest.”
He could have lied, but he saw no point in it. He had never been good with lies. Had never been much good with the truth either, come to it. Some people wielded words the way others wielded blades. His brother had been one such, long ago, but Cutter had never possessed such a gift. So instead of lying, he shook his head. “No.”
“You mean to sacrifice yourself.”
It was not really a question but Cutter answered it anyway. “Yes. He will not stop, Valden. Not ever. You know that as well as I do. He will not stop until he has killed me.”
“And so you travel to your death so that others might be saved.”
Cutter shrugged. “I’ve been traveling to my death for a long time now, Priest. But please…you won’t tell the others?”
The man watched him for several seconds then finally shook his head. “I will not tell them. But they will discover it soon enough when you do not arrive. They will be angry.”
“I know. Let them be angry. Just let them live. I have done terrible things, Priest, unimaginable things, and there is no counting the number of those who have suffered for what I have done. I would have it stop. I would end it—here. There is a price for my sins, and it is one I pay gladly. Only…the reason I asked you to stay…” He trailed off, suddenly struggling to finish.
“I will look after the boy,” Priest said softly. “As best as I am able.”
Cutter let out a heavy, relieved sigh. “Thank you. And please…the others, too. Maeve. Chall…he will not understand.”
The man nodded at that, and then there was nothing to be said, no more words needed. There was, now, only the doing. Cutter offered his hand to the man who took it. “It has been a pleasure, Priest.”
“The pleasure is mine, Prince Bernard,” the man said. And with that, he turned and started away, then pausing to look back at him. “Prince?”
“Yes?”
“The gods never give up on us, not ever. Not, even, when we give up on ourselves. Good luck.”
Cutter nodded. “And to you.”
Then the man was gone, vanishing into the shadows after the others. Cutter watched him go, a small smile on his face. “Good luck,” the man had said, but Cutter did not think he needed it. It didn’t take much luck, after all, to die.
He found, now that he was alone, that he did not fear his death. The man, Priest, was always fond of saying that the path to peace was taken one step at a time, and Cutter believed that. He believed, too, that when a man was haunted by his past crimes, his very soul stained with them, that the only path to peace was death—and that path, at least, was a short one.
He rose from where he crouched beside the building, staring back at where his brother barked words at the bruised and battered innkeeper still kneeling on the ground. He had lied to them, Matt and Maeve and the others, but not everything he’d said had been a lie. He would create a distraction, that much was true, and what better distraction for a man whose entire life had been twisted on vengeance than the sudden appearance of the object of his rage?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
What to say of Prince Feledias?
He was all that his brother was not.
He was kind where his brother was cruel, warm where his brother was cold.
He was the greatest man I have ever known.
But that man, that prince, is dead.
And in his place…a monster lurks.
—Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn
“Where is he?” Feledias shouted at the old woman kneeling in the dirt.
The woman looked up at him, working her mouth before turning and spitting out a gobbet of blood. “Who’s that now?”
“You know who!” he barked. “My brother—Prince Bernard. I know that he came here, that he stayed at your inn.” He paused, withdrawing the knife from the sheath at his waist, then knelt before her. “You will tell me where he has gone, old woman. One way or the other.”
“I s’pose I’m meant to be impressed by that little sticker?” the old woman asked, eyeing the blade. After a moment, she shrugged. “I’ve seen bigger.” She cackled at that, cackled right up until his fist struck her in the face, and she let out a gasp of pain and surprise, collapsing sideways onto the ground.
Feledias growled as the woman slowly climbed back to her knees. “You will die, peasant. I am sure that you have gathered that much, at least, and so I will not lie to you. One way or the other, you die today. But if you tell me where my brother has gone, I promise to make your death quick, painless. If you instead choose to
