'What is it?'
Fayne went to reclaim the clothes she'd left on his bed. 'You love her,' she said.
'Ha.' Kalen shook his head. 4 'Ha?' Fayne scoffed. 'That girl practically hurls herself at you every moment you're together-it's in everything she does. She adores you-the sight of you, the thought of you. She loves you, you idiot. And you'-her eyes narrowed-'you love her, too.'* He shook his head. 'I do not.'
She paused and looked at him curiously, warily. 'You're sure?'
She stepped toward him, and he could feel heat growing withinlust for her and for the duel. It would always be this way with her, he thought.
'What do you feel, then?' she asked. 'What do you feel, right now?'
It came to him, the perfect word. Kalen smiled sadly. 'Pity.'
Whatever Fayne had expected, that surprised her. 'You pity her?' Then her voice became colder. 'You pity me?'
'Myself.' Kalen shook his head. 'She makes me wish I were a better man.'
Fayne flinched as though he'd slapped her. 'That sounds like love to me.'
She started to turn but he caught her wrist. 'No,' he said. 'No?'
He shook his head.
'Well thank the Maid of Misfortune,' Fayne said, raising her jaw proudly. 'I was starting to think you didn't fancy me anymore.'
The sheer, unflappable confidence in her eyes-the mock outrage and scornful words, the shameless flirtation-all of it made Kalen smile. The bravado of this woman astounded him.
Fayne was not like shy and thoughtful Myrin, but bold and conceited, utterly convinced of her own allure. And as arrogant as Fayne was, Kalen had to admire her. She was unchanging, immovable, perfect in her imperfection.
He told her what he hadn't told Myrin-what he never would have dared tell her. He wanted to stop himself but couldn't.
'I am sick, Fayne.'
She stared at him, as though judging whether he spoke true. Finally, she nodded.
Kalen went on. 'When I was a child, I felt less pain than others did. My fingers are scarred from my teeth'-he spread his hands so she could see-'as are my lips.' He licked his lips and pursed them, so she might see the marks. 'I just-1 just didn't feel ir.'
Fayne nodded, and her gray eyes grew a touch wider.
'I would have died, but for the scoundrel who took me in and raised me, among a host of other orphans,' Kalen said. 'He taught me how to inflict the pain I couldn't feel-how to use my 'blessing' for my benefit. Or rather, his.'
'Sounds like my father,' said Fayne. When he paused, she waved him on. 'But this is your story-pray, continue.'
'I found feeling eventually, but long after my skin had hardened. At six, I shrugged off stabs that would have left a man weeping on the floor.'
Kalen watched Fayne's eyes trace the scars along his ribs and chest, some of which were very old. Each one, Kalen remembered well.
'I killed my master when I was just a child,' Kalen said. 'He was a cruel old man, and I had no pity for him. More pity I had for the older orphans he had hurt over the years-though I reserved the most for myself, undersrand.'
Fayne nodded. She understood.
'I was a thief, and a mean one,' he said. 'Folk had done things to me-terrible things-and I had seen far worse. So when I hurt folk-killed them, sometimes-I didn't think anything of it. I used my blade to get coin-or food. Or if I was angry, as I often was. I was born hard as steel, and I only got harder.'
He almost wanted Fayne to say she was sorry-as though she could take the blame for all the world and offer atonement. But she merely watched him, listening patiently.
'Without my master, I was forced to beg on the streets-to sell my services for food or warmth. I met Cellica shortly thereafter, and she became like a sister to me, but my master had done his work and I was stone not only on the surface, but inside.'
'Cellica grew up in Luskan, too?' Fayne glanced toward the door. 'She seems too soft.'
Kalen shrugged. 'She was a prisoner,' he said. 'Escaped the grasp of some demon cult.'*
'A cult?' Fayne looked troubled. 'What kind of cult?'
Kalen shrugged. 'Cellica didn't talk about it much, and I didn't uuin uvui i on mu ask,' he said. 'I met her by chance, and she set my broken arm. Healing hands.' * 'Mmm.' Fayne nodded. 'She was a good friend?'
'I hated her, too, at first,' Kalen said. 'As soon as my arm healed, I hit her, but only once.' He grinned ruefully. 'She put me down faster than you could say her name.'
Fayne giggled. 'You wouldn't think it, to look at her.'
'Tough little wench,' said Kalen, and Fayne shared his smile.
Then he paused, not wanting to tell her the story of Gedrin or of obtaining Vindicator, and in truth it did not matter. That would instill a touch of nobility to his story, and he did not feel noble. He was awash in his brutal past.
'When I was eight years of age, I… I made a mistake. I did something terrible, and my spellscar returned in full force. I couldn't move at all.'
He tried to turn, but she held his hand tighter and didn't look away. Kalen set his jaw.
'I was frozen, locked in a dead body that felt nothing, but saw and heard everything. It was like my childhood sickness, but returned a hundredfold. A man grown would have gone mad, and perhaps I did-not knowing when or if I would ever move again. I couldn't even kill myself-only lie there and wait to die.'
His hands clenched hard enough for him to feel his fingernails, which meant they would be drawing blood. Fayne watched him closely, consuming every word.
'I prayed-to anyone or anything rhat might hear,' he said. 'I prayed every moment for true death, but the gods did not hear me. They had abandoned Luskan and everyone in it.'
'You were a man of faith? 'asked Fayne. Her voice was respectfully soft-almost reverent. 'An odd choice for a beggar boy.'
He shrugged. 'Cellica didn't follow the gods either-her healing was in needle, thread, and salve. But she believed in right, and she definitely believed in wrong. And though letting me die might have been kinder, as I thought, she told me every day that she would help me, no question. She loved me, I came to realize, though I had no understanding of it then.
'She kept me from starving. She cared for me when anyone else would have left me for dead. I hated her for that-for not letting me die-but I loved her all the same. She would feed me and clean me and read to me-but other times, she would just sit with me, talking or silent. Just be with me, when I had nothing else.
'And eventually-finally-I began to pray for life. Just a little bit of life-just enough to touch her cheek, hold her, thank her. Then I could rest.' Kalen brushed a hand down Fayne's cheek. 'Do you understand?'
Fayne nodded solemnly. 'What happened?'
'Nothing,' Kalen said. 'No god came to save me-no begging brought life back into my dead body. I was alone but for Cellica, and she could not fight for me. I had to fight for myself.'
Fayne said nothing.
'I stopped praying,' Kalen said. 'I stopped begging. Once…' He trailed off.
He breathed deeply and began again.
'After I escaped my master but before my mistake-when I was a boy of eight winters, begging on the streets. Someone once told me not to beg. A great knight, called Gedrin Shadowbane.'
Something like recognition flickered across Fayne's face-the name, he thought.
Kalen continued. 'He didn't ask me why I begged-nothing about my past, or who I was. He didn't care. He just told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was never to beg. again. Then he struck me-cuffed me on the ear so I would remember.'
'Whar a beast!' Fayne covered a grin with her hand and her eyes gleamed with mirth.
Kalen chuckled. 'It was the last thing anyone said to me before I fell paralyzed,' he said. 'And as I lay
