“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He most certainly was. “Do you know what the whispers are in Trel? That this war, brewing in the East, this war with Lock, is not a war with Lock at all. It’s a war with you. Lock may be a stepping stone, but Just has his sights on Atherahn.”
“He’s deluded.”
Lu frowned. What an unpleasant word to throw around. “Yet clearly, someone, or something, is capitalizing on his delusion.”
“Who could it possibly be?”
“The Mother perhaps?”
“The Mother is cowed.”
“One of her children, then?”
“Who?”
“Sybil is still out there somewhere. As is Galina, and Nikom, and oh so many others.” Me? Lu wondered. Yes, me. He kept that part to himself. “How long did you think it would take them before they realized they must move against you?”
Fate glared at him. She glanced down the road to where the boy had gone. She shook her head and sighed. “You are trying to distract me.”
“Have I ever done anything else?”
“No… you make your thoughts erratic to confuse me, and then you throw out bait so that I focus on all but you.”
“Have I ever done anything else?” he repeated. Was that really what he was doing? Who cared, the bitch deserved anything she got.
“No. But you speak true. This is Just’s work. I can feel his touch upon it. And there is another’s touch upon him.”
Lu swallowed. “And the sooner you act, the better it will be for all of us.” Just was going to be really mad.
“You would give your blessing?”
“To act against him? No. But to protect yourself… why would I interfere in that?”
“Because, you have a habit of interfering, even when you say you aren’t.”
Lu grinned. “So, we have an understanding.”
“We do.” Fate closed her eyes and turned to the east. After several moments of cold silence, she opened her eyes and laughed. “That one again? Our masters have a sense of humor, Dydal…”
Lu sighed. “Destiny calling again? What are you seeing this time? And, I am not Not Lu.”
Fate tsked impatiently. “I am not seeing, I am sending. You might think to distract me, but my vision is clear. One of my pawns will be keeping an eye on that boy, whatever you say. I have made a bargain, and I will keep it.”
Lu shrugged. “Fine by me. I never argued otherwise.”
Fate sniffed. Clearly, she did not believe him. And of course, she had no reason to.
Now how am I going to keep her attention? Lu wondered. But already, he knew the answer.
CHAPTER THREE
It was several hours before Jem stopped running, his hair matted to his brow from sweat. Not even the fear could keep him moving. The forest had slowly disappeared, the terrain becoming more rugged as low, rolling hills ranged the horizon. Shrub and brush covered the hillsides. Jem found a small pocket of space within a thicket, and too tired to start a fire, collapsed to the ground, and slept.
In the morning, he woke oddly refreshed. Sitting up, he looked around for his pack and began working at the latch, searching for food, until he noticed his hands. They were still covered with dried, flaky blood. The taste of blood didn’t sound appetizing.
After a short search, he found a small stream, where he washed his hands and face. Blood was smeared across the front of his shirt. He tried to clean it, but his attempts availed him nothing. Realizing that he would have to do better than a few rinses, he dug a small hole and filled it with water.
Retrieving a bottle of ink from his pack, Jem returned to the hole, unstopped the jar and poured the contents into the water. Droplets splashed onto the ground and ripples swept through as the two fluids joined; the ink a solid stream of black, fading and diluting as it crept deeper into the pool. Ripples reflected backward, displacing the ink as the water darkened to a murky gray. Removing the shirt, Jem pressed the cloth into the dye, stirring it together with the ink.
He left the shirt in the pool as the ink set, rinsed his hands in the stream, then went to retrieve some food from his pack, but realized he had not packed enough. There was only a single loaf of bread remaining. If he did not find a village soon, somewhere to buy supplies, he would go hungry. But where to go? What would he do, now that he was a criminal?
Before and after Liv, Jem’s father had been a scribe, and he had taught Jem enough to read and write. He knew the City of Trel was to the southwest, somewhere on the coast, and that there was a library at Trel. Perhaps there he could find work writing letters or copying texts. He sighed at the thought.
It would have to do. He didn’t have any better ideas. He didn’t know how to hunt or survive in the wild and he couldn’t farm. The only work he knew was chopping trees and mixing inks.
Jem took a few bites of the bread before retrieving his shirt from the pool of ink. The fabric was much darker, a deep blackish hue. The blood stains were still visible, a mottling of black against a lighter gray, but they weren’t noticeable. It wasn’t pretty, but it would have to do.
Today was easier than the others had been. The anger, regret, and guilt still nested in the back of his mind, but the more insipid thoughts were easier to ignore. For much of the day, he thought about the girl he had loved, an odd feeling of apathy shrouding the memories.
Did she lie? he wondered.
Does it matter? he responded. He sighed and looked at his hands. A gray tint of dye and ash held to the skin, reminding him of dead and rotting flesh. Jem tried his best to ignore the memories they provoked.
Jem tried to come to terms with recent events. He tried to make himself forgive her, to forgive his father, to forgive himself, but began to realize it might be impossible. And yet… mostly he realized that it was becoming harder to care. He had lost almost everything. There was little more he could lose, so what was the point in caring? What did her motivation matter? What did his justifications matter? Either way, he had lost his father, and Elyse, and a piece of himself.
But he’d had to do it, hadn’t he? He’d needed to protect Elyse as his father had not protected him. In truth, Jem should have killed his father long ago. Indaht Trask had been a brutal man – a Butcher, in every sense of the word. But Jem had still loved him, despite everything his father had done, despite all those he had killed.
Late in the day, Jem thought about the old man at the crossroad. He pictured Lu’s face, saw the dagger, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle. He saw it buried in Lu’s chest, heard the blood gurgle from his mouth, and saw Lu fall from the rock. And he felt what he dreaded most of all, that same feeling he’d felt as he dipped his hands into the old man’s blood: a tinge of joy.
Jem tried to understand the difference between his actions with his father and Lu. He hated himself for what he had done to his father, but joyful for what he had done to Lu. Why should he feel guilty for an act that was justified, but joy from an action rooted in anger? His father had deserved to die. Lu had not.
Was it the power? Jem wondered. Was it the act itself?
No, he lied. It wasn’t the power, that would be wrong. There was nothing good about having control over another. It was not the act. What kind of monster could feel anything but pain from murdering an innocent person? Besides, the act had happened too fast for him to feel anything real. How could he feel anything accurately in that short a time?
What then? he asked.
The blood on my hands?
No, he lied. It wasn’t the blood. The letting of blood desecrated the spirit, a wholly evil deed. There was no pleasure in seeing blood spill, or feeling it between the fingers. That was mad.
Perhaps confusion? he pondered.
Yes, he lied. He had been through a great deal in the last few days. Maybe his body had forgotten how to respond? Maybe he’d had too much guilt and so his body had made him happy instead? Was there a limit on guilt? On regret? Yes, of course there is. That was it. His body was confused. And
it had happened so quickly. That could only lead to excitement. A natural response, he told himself.
Jem slept easily that night.
The next morning, he woke beneath a tree. He checked the temperature of the fire pit and then used Lu’s staff to stir the coals and check for embers. Breaking up the coals to create more ash, he took off his shirt and stirred it into the soot. It wouldn’t hurt to make the shirt darker. Again, he ate only a small amount before he gathered his shirt from the fire pit and draped it over the small, carved bird of Lu’s staff. Before leaving, Jem dipped his hands into the ashes of the fire.
As the day stretched, so did the landscape. The hills gave way to plain, and the river and trees returned. He stopped to drink and refill his canteen. The water here was cleaner than the ponds and streams he had found the past few days, so Jem washed the mud and grime from his feet.
He rinsed his face and hands then stared at his reflection. His clothing was worn and ragged, his feet were swollen and blistered. Clots of dirt clung tangled in the tresses of his auburn hair.
There was something different about today. Jem didn’t feel the need to think about the things he’d done. He didn’t fear contemplation, but rather, he was bored with it. More importantly, he was sick of all the walking. How could he be so… simplistic? In the span of a week he had ruined at least four lives, and here he was, bored. Shouldn’t he be feeling something else? Pain? Anguish? Remorse? With all the guilt and regret, how could a murderer possibly be bored?
Normal. He realized. Somehow this has become my normal. The guilt, the worry, the fear, the pain and anger, all of it has become routine. This is my life now.
Jem burst into a laugh. It was too much to take. He knew it was true. This was his life; endless walking and contemplation, to the point of boredom. So, which is worse? he asked himself. The grief or the boredom? His answer was buried beneath the laughter.
As Trin approached the river’s bend, she heard the chortling of a madman. In the west, she saw a frail and ragged beggar sitting on the riverbank. Dust coated his legs and soot covered his chest and arms from shoulder to elbow. Water dripped from his hands.
For two days, she had felt nothing. Now, a torrent of animalistic fear shivered through her flesh. With one hand she led her ox, and the cart it pulled, into a copse of trees beside the road. With the other, she rubbed distractedly at the bruise on her cheek. After tying the ox to a tree, she retrieved a bow and quiver from her cart. She draped the quiver across her shoulder then made her way through the trees to a spot where she could see both her belongings and the man at the river. She nocked an arrow to the bow and waited.
Jem knelt before the slow flowing river. He cupped water in his hands then let it drain from his fingers, sending ripples through his reflection. Gazing into the sky, Jem decided it was roughly noon. His stomach ached from hunger. Should I stay? he wondered. There were fish in the river. But could he catch one? He didn’t know how much longer it would take to get to a village. Could he risk staying, and potentially catching nothing, or should he continue on and hope he found somewhere to buy supplies?
If he continued on, he would need to wash. It would do him no good to try and barter the way he looked now. Dirt on his legs and clothing was likely acceptable, but in his hair? And what of the soot? Jem stood from his knees, then removed his belt and sheath – both of leather – and set them on the ground against his bag. He unstrung the shirt from the staff then dropped the staff on the river bank.
Putting on the shirt, Jem waded into the river. When it reached his waist, he crouched and dunked his head, scrubbing his scalp and then his arms and legs to clear away the dirt and soot. Afterward, he took off the shirt, stirred it back and forth in the current, and then checked to ensure the makeshift dye remained in the fabric. The blood was still unrecognizable. Satisfied, he put the shirt on and turned toward the bank.
Bruised and sore, Trin watched from the trees as the beggar laughed at the river. She held the arrow nocked and pointed at the man. In fear and anger, she waited.
The man stood and she clenched her jaw. Reflexively, she drew back the string and watched as he removed his belt and knife then set them on the ground. After a time, he waded into the river and she relaxed her pull on the bow. As the man dipped his head beneath the water, she left the woods and crept down to the bank.
The man did not notice as she stole the knife. But there was no knife. It was just an empty sheath. Worried, she went to the bag and rummaged through it quietly, keeping an eye on the beggar. She could not find the knife. The bag held a few jars of ink, a set of pens, quills, a crust of bread… but no knife. The man began to turn toward the bank. Seeing the staff in the dirt, she rolled it farther from the water and put her foot firmly on its center. She drew the bowstring. The man saw her and screamed. But he wasn’t a man. And he wasn’t as frail as she had thought, just skinny with the lankiness of youth. Instead, it was a boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen. She lowered the bow and met the boy’s gaze.
His face was empty, the eyes vacant. She raised the arrow to his chest.
“Where’s the knife, boy?” she asked.
“L- lost,” the boy stuttered.
“Don’t give me that, boy. On your feet, out of the water. Stand there on the bank.” He moved to obey, the arrow trained on his chest. “Right there. Good. Take off the shirt and drop it there on the ground.”
The boy did as she ordered. He was skinny. Far too skinny. The faint impression of muscle wrapped his arms, but he did not look healthy. His flesh looked as though it had seen many years of heavy lifting and hard work, but in recent months, the muscle had given way to hunger, then failed and withered. The boy’s ribcage was prominent, the skin stretched against bone. His cheeks were hollow, his flesh pallid in stark contrast to the red burns that covered his shoulders, scalp, and the top of his ears. And there were marks; scars which lined his back, legs, and arms. The trails of a whip, long healed.
Trin swallowed, uncertain what to do. “Kick the shirt toward me,” she ordered. “Now turn out your pockets.” The boy listened. The shirt lifted and fluttered. The pockets were empty. If the boy had the dagger, it was well hidden.
“Where’s the knife boy?”
“I told you, I lost it,” he said.
The bruises on her face stung and her scars itched. She did not believe him.
“Where is it?” she asked, her voice rising.
The boy shrugged, his entire body moving with the gesture.
She mistook the movement of his arms for an attack, and she did what she never thought herself capable; she let the arrow fly. It streamed toward the boy’s chest, the air whistling around the head and shaft. Her aim had been quick, but it would hit the boy’s heart. And then, at the last moment, the arrow veered to the side without explanation. She reached for another, but was not fast enough. Before she could nock a second, the boy was upon her. She felt her feet flee the earth as the breath tore from her lungs. The staff beneath her foot rolled forward and she hit the ground – the arrow rising up, twirling end over end before planting itself in the dirt beside her head.
The boy perched atop her, his knees upon her arms, one hand clenched around her throat. She tried to break free, but she couldn’t. She was trapped. The boy’s face was rabid, hovering above her own. With his free hand he reached, then gripped the arrow in the earth beside her. He straightened as he pulled it free. Soil dripped from the head as he raised it into the air. A ghost of memory came to mind. The image of another man from only a few days past enwreathed the boy’s form – in the man’s hand a rock, in the boy’s an arrow. She struggled against them, but she could not win. The scars itched fiercely and she could feel the sweat tracking across her face and down her arms. Both boy and man raised their weapons above their heads. She screamed and closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch. In her mind, the man drove the rock down toward her, but this time she could not reach the knife at her side. She would not be able to stab him and stop the blow. She waited
for the rock to strike her skull. She saw it in her memory, but she did not feel the pain. Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes. The boy sat atop her, the arrow held level with his face. He did not bring it down to strike her. The vacancy in his eyes was gone. Instead, there was something else. Sympathy? No. Sorrow.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the boy said. He threw the arrow aside and rolled onto the ground beside her. She too rolled, but away from him, and came to a knee, the bow in her hands. She grabbed an arrow from her quiver, nocked, and aimed. But the boy did nothing. He simply lay there in the dirt, watching her. Small droplets of mud covered his chest, moving in rhythm with his heavy breathing. Her fingers tensed on the string. This was not the man who had attacked her. This was just a boy. A boy who had spared her life after she had tried to kill him.
She let the arrow loosen then dropped it and the bow to the ground beside her.
“Do you have any food?” the boy asked. She nodded then went to the boy’s side. She kneeled beside him and gave him her hand. They rose together.
“Grab your things,” she said. “I’ll start a fire.” She started walking back to her cart – her legs shaking as the energy from the scuffle began to ebb. She heard the boy shuffling behind her as he gathered his things. She could feel his eyes upon her as she walked toward the trees. She knew she should not worry, but did anyway. The boy had had his chance to kill her. He hadn’t. But the fear was constant. She was no longer certain who she was. Am I so far gone that I jump at strangers? Before, I was only Fate’s slave… Now, I bring death firsthand.
Old Nance was nibbling at a shrub when Trin returned. Setting the bow against a tree, she rubbed her hand against the ox’s neck before untying the rope and removing the yoke. The boy arrived as she dropped the wooden beam to the dirt. He wore a blackish gray shirt, his pack hung over one shoulder, and in one hand he carried the simple wooden staff. The belt and sheath were tied around his waist. In the cart she found her axe and shovel then handed him the axe. “Here.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 6