by Steven Brust
It came to mind that it was spring, and that I’d never had much cause to notice the seasons before.
If my life as an assassin had a beginning, perhaps it was here, where I’d found the egg that would grow to become my familiar. If my life as an assassin had an end, it would be here as well. If it turned out to be only an interruption, well, so be it.
Loiosh and Rocza were quiet. Save for them, I was alone. Adrilankha was far away, and there were no cities for miles in any direction.
Alone.
Except for the two jhereg, no one was here to see me, or to speak with me, and the Phoenix Stone guarded my thoughts from any who would seek me that way. I had rendered myself invisible to sorcery. The hardware I carried, dozens of knives, darts, and other nasty things, seemed absurd here. I had no doubt that, as time went on, I’d gradually diminish their number, perhaps to nothing. On my back I carried what clothing I’d need for the changing of the seasons, a spare pair of boots, and a few odds and ends that might come in useful.
Just the three of us now.
It would be easy to give in to self-pity, but I would only have been lying to myself. It was a time of change, a time of growth, as exciting, in its own way, as the moment just before the target would walk up to the spot I’d selected for his execution.
What would happen? Who would I become? Would the Jhereg find a way to track me down? Would love, somehow, emerge from the ashes to which we’d reduced it? Or even spring up elsewhere, unexpected?
I felt a smile on my face, and didn’t try to second-guess it.
I began walking west.
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