bright crimson. “Raettonus, get his sword,” Slade said, his voice icy cold. Quickly, the boy complied and fetched Rhodes’ weapon. Slade moved closer to his one-time friend, driving his blade deeper into his meaty thigh. “You ought to die.”
Tears ran down Rhodes’ sagging cheeks, and he began to sob. “Slade, Slade!” he pleaded. A trail of snot was dripping from his nostril. “D-don’t do that! I’m—we were friends!”
“Yes. We were,” said Slade. His face was expressionless. “So I’m not going to kill you. How much did they pay, whoever it was that bought you? How much gold does it take for you to murder a friend, Rhodes?”
The man didn’t answer. Narrowing his eyes, Slade pulled his sword from Rhodes’ leg, prompting an agonized scream. He turned away and started toward the horses, and Raettonus ran ahead of him to untie them. Slade helped Raettonus up onto Silvershield and then mounted Steorra. “Slade, wait!” shrieked Rhodes, limping towards them. “Y-you’re not going to leave me here, are you? Oh, God, Slade—I’m injured! I’m bleeding… I could die!”
“If you die, that’s God’s will. I don’t really care what happens to you,” Slade said, his eyes hard. He turned Steorra around. “Raettonus, come.” They started for the path as Rhodes called after them. The sun was gone; night was imminent. Somewhere a wolf howled and dogs began to bay.
It was a miserable autumn night. The chill in the air pierced bone-deep. However, Raettonus didn’t mind.
Chapter One
Raettonus opened his pale eyes to stare at his ceiling and listened to the morning sounds outside his home—the chirp of birds, the laughter of children, the passing conversations of people arranging their day. He rolled over onto his side with a sigh and curled up into a ball beneath his thin blanket. Even though he was now a grown man, and remarkably well muscled, his bones were still slight and his features androgynous. He hugged his knees and stared at his wall, his gaze tracing the outlines of all the familiar stains and cracks in the plaster.
He’d dreamed a dream that he’d had a million times. It was more a memory really, which would come to him at night when he thought he’d left it behind. In the dream, he was in Slade’s room, lying on his bed, crying with his face pressed against his master’s chest. The room was dark, but he could see all the same—he could see the tapestries in black and red with a gryphon rampant upon them, and the chest at the foot of the bed, and the suit of armor that stood beside the open window, and the thin drapes flapping as the rain poured outside. He could see the blood soaking into the mattress all around them. He watched the blood spreading; it was all over his hands and his stomach, and it smelled so strong he could’ve sworn it was in his nose as well. He stared at Slade’s broad, bare chest—at the pale, moist flesh—because he was too afraid to look up. If he looked up, he’d see his master’s face. If he saw his master’s face, he’d start crying anew.
With one hand, Raettonus brushed the long, blond strands of hair from his face and threw off his blanket. As much as he would’ve liked to hang around in his bed the rest of the day, he’d learned that such an action would only give him painful sores. Besides, he needed to be going.
The curtain drawn over his window did little to stop the light that flitted into his room, illuminating the stained plaster walls and the piles of books and papers strewn about the floor. As Raettonus swung his legs over the side of the bed, his stomach rumbled. “Brecan?” he called out, but there was no answer. He scowled. “Figures he’d be off screwing around…”
He stood with a grunt and rubbed at his stomach as he shuffled over to his desk. His torn black tunic had been unceremoniously flung across a stack of books. He picked it up and slipped it over his head, ignoring the smell of death that clung to its fibers. He had dropped his belt and rapier carelessly on the floor on his way to bed the night before, and it took him a moment to locate them. Buckling his belt around his middle, Raettonus glanced out the window. The sun was full up; he had slept well past noon. It was going to set him back on his journey some, but