‘WHAT?’ he roared, turning upon her. She stood before him, ears bristling, teeth bared. ‘What do you want?’
‘I could have killed you there!’ she snapped, pointing to the knife. ‘I . . . I could have—’
‘You didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘You had every chance in the world, but you didn’t.’
So I have to, he finished mentally, turning back to the sword.
‘No,’ she whispered, eyeing the weapon. ‘You can’t do that.’ I have to, she finished mentally, reaching out.
This is how it has to be, he told himself.
How else could it end? she asked herself.
One blow. He reached out for the weapon.
Clean and quick. She reached out for him.
Her hand fell upon his shoulder.
This is what has to be done.
They both froze, each one suddenly aware of the other as they connected, hearing each other’s breath upon the night wind, feeling each other’s heart beat through each other’s skin. They felt so weak, all of a sudden, his legs barely able to keep him up as he turned to regard her, her arm barely able to hold up the knife above her head.
Her eyes glittered in the darkness, so soft suddenly, quivering like emeralds melting. His shimmered in the gloom, so warm, ice under sunlight. Her arm shook, the knife trembling in her hand as he stared at her, not with challenge, not with threat, but with a pleading he wasn’t even aware of. Her teeth clenched behind her lips, body shaking.
The blade fell to the earth, crunching into the sand, as his body fell into hers. She caught him in her arms, wrapped them about his waist and drew him in closer, tighter. Against each other, they found a strength too weak to keep them up, enough to keep their arms about each other, but not enough to keep them from falling to their knees, the earth’s pull suddenly so strong.
‘I could have killed you,’ she whispered, running a hand down his hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said, feeling her heartbeat through his hands. ‘You could have.’
‘I didn’t,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
The surf yawned against their legs, as if disappointed that it ended in such a way. The moon waned with a staggering breath of relief and the stars allowed themselves to blink. They rested there, upon their knees, barely aware of the world moving again beneath them.
Thirty-Six
TRAGIC
The Aeons’ Gate
The Island of Ktamgi
Summer, late . . . date unknown . . . who cares?
No one picks up a sword because they want to.
It’s a matter of need. People are called to wrap their hands about the hilt, even if they can’t hear what calls them. The noblest of us do it out of what they call duty, the desire to serve their country, their lord if they have one, or their God. The pragmatic amongst us do it out of a need for work, for coin, for respect.
And the lowest, meanest of trades picks up a sword because that’s all we know how to do. Violence is all we know, all we will ever know, everything else having long been burned away and fled to the shadows. The irony of it is that the mercenary, the soldier, the knight must all carve their own way through life, but there’s always enough violence and hatred in the world that it will make room for the adventurer.
I remember now, if only in fleeting glimpses, when the rest of it was burned away for me.
Not shadows, but men, who swept into Steadbrook with candles, not torches, and set the dry hay ablaze. They killed while the flames still whispered, vanished when the fire started to roar. That was enough time for them. Mother, Father, Grandfather ... all dead ... me, still alive. I don’t know why.
Maybe that’s how adventurers are made, maybe an act of suffering and violence is necessary as the forge that shapes the metal or the knife that shapes the wood. To that end, I don’t suppose anyone can blame us for doing what we do, even if they don’t like it. I don’t suppose I can blame anyone for thinking what they think of us, even if I don’t like it.
At the moment, I have larger problems than other people’s opinions.
The tome is ours, but so many questions are unanswered. Will we even be able to get to Teji? If we do, will Argaol have kept up