could feel the tingling effects of a healing potion.
“Peace.” Sithe put her arms around him and pressed his head to her breast.
Tears welled in his eyes and he wept. He could not say why. In truth, he had not known he was doing it until he saw the tears darkening her bodice.
“Peace,” she said.
For many moment, they sat that way-Sithe holding Kalen as he wept. He kept starting to speak, but no words seemed to fit. When the silence broke, it was Sithe who spoke.
“You fear death less than you fear the truth,” she said. “And that is laudable.”
“What truth?” he asked.
“Terrible things befall all men,” she said, “and you are not special.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All your life, you strive to make amends,” Sithe said. “This death inside you-you believe it your punishment for a life of sin.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked. “Why else would I have this curse?”
“Death needs no reason.” Sithe met his eyes. “You were born with this darkness and you will die with it. There is no meaning or greater explanation. It simply is.”
She eased away from him, leaving him kneeling alone on the rooftop. She turned toward the sunset.
Kalen knew she was wrong. As a boy, he had wandered into a storm of spellplague-that was the source of his curse-and yet … He looked at his fingers, scarred from when he had gnawed them as a child. His lips as well were hardened. The spellplague hadn’t stolen feeling away. It had made it worse, undeniably, but the numbness was his own.
And if it was …
“Myrin lied to you,” Sithe said at last.
“When?”
“In her letter,” Sithe said. “She claimed she drew death out of you and that you would live just that much longer. A lie.”
Kalen shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“She did not draw out your death, because she cannot-no one can,” Sithe said. “Your death is your own and so is your life. If you yet live, it is because you choose to and for no other reason.” She turned to him. “Now get up.”
“I cannot,” Kalen said, his teeth gritted.
“Get up.” Sithe kicked him savagely in the ribs, and Kalen curled into the pain.
He tried to push himself off the ground, but his body wouldn’t move as he directed. He fought to push life into his limbs, but they were cold and dead.
“Understand pain,” Sithe said. “Life is pain, whether you feel it or not.” She crouched over him, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “Do you feel it? Even if your body is empty.”
“In … in my dreams.” Kalen curled up, coughing. “Dreams.”
“Ah.” Sithe reached down and ran her cold black fingers across Kalen’s sweaty brow. “And what do you see, in these dreams?”
“I see faces.” Kalen panted. “All of them-the men and the women I have killed. Vaelis, my old apprentice. They …” His eyes blurred. “Their eyes are open. Waiting.”
Sithe bent lower, her face to his face. “Do you know what I see in my dreams?”
Kalen sniffed, his eyes bleared with tears. He shook his head slightly.
“Nothing,” Sithe said. “I see nothing when I close my eyes. There is nothing inside me.” She put her hand on his chest. “For you, you choose to feel nothing, but for me”-she touched her hand to her breast-“for me, I
He nodded.
“Hate,” she said. “Hate is how I move-how I defeat you. Because I believe in hatred.” She closed her hands together in front of her mouth. “And what of you?”
“There is …” Kalen coughed, then focused on her face. “For me, there is more.”
Sithe stared for a long moment into Kalen’s eyes. Her black gaze was like the eternal night sky before the stars emerged. “Then stand,” she said, “and show me.”
“But-” Kalen groaned.
“I thought as much.” She turned her back and strode away.
Kalen fell into himself, Sithe’s words echoing in his mind. His scar-his curse-predated the spellplague. It was born instead, as he had been. Aye, he was scarred by magic. Indeed, he had ever-until this moment-known it for a curse. Now he wondered if there was not power to be held. The power of a god’s chosen murderer.
Without knowing how, he rose. He should not have been able to move-the potion Sithe had forced down his throat had not healed him that much. Yet he rose. He held only a splintered dagger-the remains of his defense against Sithe’s axe-and yet he rose to face her.
“I know what he saw,” Kalen called. “The man, when he looked into the abyss.”
Sithe paused and looked back. She did not appear surprised. “Yes?”
“He saw death,” Kalen said.
“Yes,” Sithe said. “He saw death, as you say. Why, then, was he pleased?”
“Because it meant he still lived.”
Sithe stared at him a long, long moment. She offered the slightest of nods.
“There is a void within each of us,” she said. “Whether we try to fill it with faith or with magic, with will or with love, each of us must accept that it remains-boundless as existence and infinite as nonexistence. Fill yours with hate and you will be like me.”
“No,” he said. “I have something more powerful than hate.”
“Oh?” Sithe eased into a fighting stance. “Then show me.”
He ran toward her. The splintered dagger in his hand blazed with light-not unlike that of Vindicator-and he let power surge through his arm. His fingers tightened around the hilt and his hand shook, but he would not falter. Anger surged within him-anger and
As he charged, the genasi slashed at him. He had no defense to offer-none but his faith. The axe clanged off his shoulder as though it struck something metal and skipped off.
He lunged at her, striking her full in the chest with his shining dagger. Holy power flowed through him-the power of the Threefold God, channeled not for healing but for
He saw, in that moment, the armor of her faith flicker around her-powerful, dark, and filled with hate. He saw, reflected in her obsidian eyes, his own: a suit of weathered steel-breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, an entire suit of full plate. His faith was not white like that of some fairytale knight, but deep and gray: dubious in its intent, forceful in its application. He could see his pale eyes reflected in hers. So too could he see the great helm that covered his face.
Their faiths strove with one another until, impossibly, his proved the stronger.
Kalen’s strike drove Sithe back and she toppled to the ground.
They stared at one another in the chilly twilight as the moon rose and the last peaceful night of Luskan began. They stared wordlessly, though many words hung between them.
“What is it,” Sithe asked finally, “this strength you’ve found?”
“I do as I must.” Kalen shrugged. “For those I must protect.”
Sithe nodded. “You are ready,” she said. “Shadowbane.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
7 FLAMERULE (DAWN)
As dawn broke, the gangs of Luskan came. They came to the abandoned market in numbers great and small. They marched into the square from various directions. Each gang wore a different color, the better to
