It should have sickened him, but instead, the sight intrigued him. Even with the candle burning on Taehrn’s desk, he could feel something within the man, tiny dots within his flesh, tiny dots which sang and cried, calling for sweet reunion. They wanted to be a part of Jem, to be a part of the Well, and the Well wanted them, also. It wanted its claim. It wanted to do something, but Jem did not think that something would help the man. It terrified him. He dare not even try.
Doing his best to keep his hand from the knife at his belt, Jem turned and looked at Taehrn. The sword was leveled between them, pointed at Jem’s neck. A quick thrust, that was all it would take and Jem would be dead. He wouldn’t have time to draw his knife. If he leapt away, Taehrn would have him before he escaped the man’s reach… But clearly Taehrn was as frightened as Jem was. Clearly, Taehrn had not thought this through.
“You’ll have to put out the candle,” Jem said. “You didn’t think of that, did you?”
It was a quick glance, nothing more. Taehrn’s gaze shifted to the candle on his desk. Still, it was enough. Jem yanked the blanket from Acklin’s lap and whipped it toward Taehrn. Blood and vomit were flung at Taehrn’s face as the sodden, putrid cloth wrapped about the legionnaire’s sword arm. Fabric scraped on fabric as Jem pulled with all his might. The pull was too strong, the blanket tore away without knocking the sword from Taehrn’s grip, but it was enough. The man stumbled forward, the yank unbalancing Taehrn as he lifted his arm to block the blood and filth from his face, and as he stumbled, Jem drew his knife and lunged.
Taehrn was too slow. He didn’t react beyond flinching back and lifting his arms. The man was much taller than Jem, which made for an awkward angle, but even so, the blade slid easily into his face. There was a single jerk, and then the man stopped. As the blood oozed, Taehrn fell in a heap, his face empty and lifeless, a knife in his eye.
Jem threw the blanket aside, the revulsion overcoming his caution. Taehrn was dead. Acklin was screaming.
“Butchering heathen!” Acklin yelled. “What are you doing?”
Jem didn’t answer him. He glanced at the man, then at the candle on Taehrn’s desk. Even though the Well ached for freedom, he knew what Acklin was and knew better than to extinguish it. Sores covered the man from head to foot, vicious burns, already festering beneath his charred and slashed tunic.
The shout sent Acklin into a wracking cough. Those burns called to Jem. The blood from the blanket was singing on Jem’s fingers, just as when he had killed the old man, Lu. The Well begged him to extinguish the candle. He felt it pulling him down, back into that dark place, into that soothing lull.
He can smell the dying man’s breath, its stench the sour scent of acrid vomit. Acklin’s breaths are short and rasping. They shake the man’s chest in a dying rattle, and yet they are vibrant. They are the struggle for life; the painful, pointless struggle against the inevitable.
He looks at the dying man. And the man looks woeful. The pained twist to Acklin’s smile, the strained muscles in his jaw, the black, blood-soaked tunic, they are no way for a person to be – no way for a person to live. Jem remembers the pain of the lash, the searing agony of the torn flesh on his legs and back. On that day, Jem had welcomed death, and that pain had only lasted a few minutes, but Acklin has lived this horror for perhaps several days. Death would be a mercy. So how can Jem refuse this mercy? How can he let the man suffer?
The Well is eager. Again, it wants, as it has not done in many weeks. And Jem wants, too. He wants to acquiesce, wants to give the Well its claim and satisfy the urge. All the reasons return to him. All the reasons that he should kill.
‘Death is good,’ it says. ‘It is the gift of finality. It is an end which gives all meaning.’
‘Death is inevitable,’ it says. ‘And life is torment. You have yours, he does not need his. You must shoulder his burden.’
‘Death is the mercy which killers grant,’ it says. ‘And you are a killer.’
But Acklin hadn’t asked for mercy. Though doomed and hopeless, the man still wanted to live. And he’d done nothing to Jem.
Throwing off the Well’s trance, Jem said nothing as he lifted the blanket and covered the assassin. Acklin flinched as Jem approached, the assassin’s breathing heightened to a quick rasp, but Jem did not want his death, nor the magic within his flesh; he just wanted to leave.
Jem avoided looking at Taehrn’s corpse. He was growing too used to this. There wasn’t any guilt this time; wasn’t any remorse. Taehrn had spoken of friendship and loyalty, but Taehrn had never given either, not to Jem. The man had been a monster.
There was not a lot of blood, not yet, but Jem bathed his hands anyway. There was no guilt in the action, not like before, only habit. He pressed his hands into the small pool ringing Taehrn’s head, just as he had done with the old man, and allowed the Well to drink. And the Well made its claim. Acklin watched him with a curious smile, yet he said nothing and neither did Jem. With one last glance at the assassin, Jem left the tent.
He did not extinguish the candle.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Jem was less than a minute gone when the horns sounded. That’s odd, Trin thought. The Luddahners still had another day before Taehrn’s ultimatum expired, so the call to arms made little sense. Trin set aside her ledger and left the tent, hoping to see some indication of what was going on. She knew the signal, but as of yet, no one had informed her of what to do in such an event. Gods, who do I even ask? No one’s even looked in on my doings since the Grand left. Do I even have a superior officer to check in with?
“It’s damned incompetent,” she mumbled. Looking east, the skyline was calm over New Luddahn, the patterned plumes of chimney smoke in neat rows over the modest village.
“Many things are, Miss Cavahl. Though I find that laughable from one such as you.”
Trin glanced behind her. The speaker was a courtesan, a trim man in white robes patterned with stylized vines in green silk. His mask was relatively plain, a soft white porcelain, unpainted except for a green blush around the eyes. His tone was hostile, the voice familiar, and the intonation more so, but she could place neither.
“Excuse me?” Trin said.
“Excuse you? How could I possibly? That would be a crime against all those you have condemned. No, Miss Cavahl, I will do no such thing. I will not excuse you.”
The man leaned at an odd angle, as if too far gone to stand upright, and though his words were eloquent, his tone sounded like that of a drunk who no longer cared to filter his thoughts. Her first instinct was that he might be one of their clients, but she did not remember that mask… though the voice was so very familiar.
“Have I done something to anger you?” Trin asked. “Did Gin and I forget your name in the rotation?”
“Anger?” the man said, his head cocking to one side. “Anger would not even begin to cover it, but my anger is not for you. I am angry at those that have used you. For those that force me to take actions which I would prefer to avoid. But you know of such things, yes? You are the victim here. Not Cyleste. Not me. Not those defiled by your touch. You, the victim.” The man laughed, curt and bitter.
“I…” She did not like the way he said ‘defiled.’ She had often been called an unsanctioned whore, and this would not be the first time a member of the Whore’s Cult had derided her for the choices she made in life, but despite its commonality, it was not something she had become accustomed to. “Is there something I have done to offend you?”
For a long moment, the mask was still, the gaze motionless. “Yes,” the man said. “For three days, I have pondered that question. For all his lies, for all his claims, for all his villainy, in some ways my heckler has spoken true. My instincts spoke that you were innocent, that you were but a victim of circumstance… a victim of mine own enemy. Of Fate. For three days, I scoured his memories looking for anything which might undermine my doubts… Your friend is in love with you, Miss Cavahl. My newest servant has chosen a patron, and she is you… but it
will not stop me. I have scoured Bell Cobbren’s memories… and I’ve found it. The proof that you are guilty.”
Trin’s flesh crawled. “Bell?” she asked. “What do you know of him… What have you done to him?”
“I have done nothing to him… He is oddly… clean. Innocent… You did not deserve him. You did not deserve his friendship and his loyalty… But you were right, Cavahl. He was wrong. He was ignorant. You are fated.”
“What… Who are you? What do you know of Fate?”
“I know that you seek to oppose her. I know that you seek to free yourself from her grip… I know that you are guilty.”
The man took a step forward.
“For three days, I looked. Hoping that I would be dissuaded.” The man’s voice rose, rasping with the enthusiasm of madness. “Do you know what it is to hope, Trin Cavahl? To hope when your conviction tells you there is none? When you know you must do wrong and so look for any excuse to do otherwise? I looked, hoping to find your innocence, but such a fool I am. Each of us is guilty. None of us are free of guilt, you least of all. Do you even know the worst of your crimes? You blame yourself for the Tyrant of Ternobahl, for Wilt, for this war… but do you even see the worst of it?”
Her breath tasted foul as it pooled along the roof of her mouth. Her thoughts were like broken glass, scattered by shock yet webbed together by fear. Frantic logic sent her mind in every direction at once, first to Fate, to Taehrn, to Bell and Jem – to any person or thing which might give an explanation for what this man was saying. “Did Taehrn send you?” she asked. “Did Taehrn send you here to mock me?”
The man took another step forward as he laughed. “Mock you? I wish that were the reason I am here. I used to love mockery. I used to enjoy it… but now it but reminds me of my heckler. It reminds me that I have been blinded by trust and doubt… But no more. No more doubt, no more trust in the words of others. Cyleste is dead. The Mother has betrayed us. Sybil and Dydal have abandoned me. There are none left for me to trust, and no more avenues of doubt. I have found the memory which proves your guilt…”
“What guilt?” Trin demanded.
“The worst guilt of all, Trin Cavahl… the guilt of knowing, yet abstaining. Of knowing what you do, of knowing how your presence corrupts, of knowing the only way it might be stopped, yet doing nothing… Do you understand me? Do you understand your crime?”
Trin swallowed. She thought of the page from Teachings of a Whore. He could not mean what it sounded like. He could not be speaking of the truth she feared, of the knowledge from which she had tried to hide since that first reading.
“Is it a crime to have fought her?” Trin asked, though she knew that was not the crime this man spoke of. “Is it a crime to have tried to defy Fate?”
The man shook his head. He took another step and Trin inched away from him.
“No, Cavahl, but it is a crime to choose not to. It is a crime to accept the task for which she has asked of you. I have tracked the pieces. Tracked the threads of your fating… seen the horrors in your wake. The tyrant. Gable. Gellin. Settin. You have traveled the world in search of a cure, even knowing that there is only one. Is it that you wish ill upon those around you? Is it that you sought to create Death, even as you told Bell Cobbren otherwise? Is it because you wish for the godhood Fate has promised you? Are these the reasons you do not act? Are these the reasons you avoid the action you must take? Or, I ask again… have you not seen the worst of what you have done? Do you not see the scars you’ve left on those you love?”
Trin bristled. He would accuse her of trying to harm her loved ones? It was for her loved ones that she had sought a cure for Fate’s curse. “I do not wish to create Death,” Trin spat. She planted her feet. “Who in Butcher’s name are you, whore? Who are you to question what I’ve done? Who are you to tell me that it has not been enough? I’ve spent my life fighting that one mistake. Squandered my time, searching for an end to my fate. Who the Butcher are you to judge me? Who the fu-”
“I am Justice,” the man said. “I am your god. I am the god who judges. Do you know why I have come, Trin Cavahl? Do you know why I stand here? Speaking when I should be crushing your throat! It is because I have pity! It is because I have mercy! You have been used. You have been wronged, but so too have you been indolent!”
Just? Trin wondered. The god of judgment? He would judge her? He would tell her that she had done wrong? That she had erred despite everything she had done to combat Fate? Butcher take the man. No, Butcher take the god!
“Then, where were you? You blooding prick!” Trin demanded. “You wish to tell me that you are Justice, then where were you to stop her? Why weren’t you there on the night I met Fate? Why weren’t you there to stop her? To save me? Talk of blooding indolent.”
“Do not curse me, vermin! It is not my place to make your choices. I left you free will, and for that, you should praise me.”
“I have no interest in praising a man who let Fate rule my life!”
“I do not!” Just snarled. He took a final step and grabbed Trin by the arm. His words were a harsh whisper. “I have done everything I could to stop her. That is why I am here, Trin Cavahl, to make you see the wisdom you have overlooked! You think me indolent? You think me blind and content? I am not! I have been nagged by doubt, by the doubt that should have tormented you, the doubt that should have convinced you to do what you knew was right. You have read that page. You know what it says. You know that only your death can end your fate, and yet you have done nothing! Why, Cavahl? Why?”
Trin glared at the hand on her arm, then leaned in close to the man. Though he gripped her arm, he might as well have gripped her throat for the way her breathing grated in her chest. “Because I am not my curse!” she hissed. “Because even if Fate has used me, she is not me, and I can still do good.”
The man pulled back his head. The eyes behind the mask stared unblinking. He breathed slowly as his grip relaxed on her arm.
“Oh, Cavahl… is that what you believe? Is that why you persist? You poor, poor woman.”
The change in tone startled her. There was no anger in the man’s voice, it was pure and single-minded pity. The man removed his mask and revealed his face and her breathing halted. It was the soldier that she had killed. It was Wilt Bakehmin.
“I brought this man back from the brink,” he said. “I let him die beneath that tree, let him bleed until he could bleed no more. Let him suffer for what he had done to you… for the stakes that he had risked. All that time, I had thought that you were my mother’s servant… the Mother’s servant. I thought when you defiled that book that she had picked you to be her agent… I know now that you have been used, by more gods than one, you have been used… but it led me to something else, to another truth…”
The man removed a letter from his pocket and held it up for her. “As I was going through Bell Cobbren’s memories, I learned the story of a babe… It caught my attention because your description of the courtesan matched that of someone I knew so very well… Of my mother. And then I listened to her words to you, of what she had attempted to do with the boy, and how she had changed her mind, and agreed to a bargain with Fate instead. And then I realized how they had used you, Cavahl. How Fate had sent you there to take the baby away… and then I saw where they had you take him. I am sorry, Miss Cavahl. You have not done any good in this world, not since the Fatereader claimed your life.”
To speak was a struggle. Her eyes watched the letter in his grip. “What are you saying? Of… of course I have.”
“Have you? Good? Good like you have done for that boy? Like you have done for Jem Trask? I understand, Cavahl, that it is easier to hide behind the supposition which remains unvoiced, but surely you must see the truth. Surely you must know what your curse has done to that boy.”
“What are you talking about? I have done nothing but help Jem.” But her gaze remained fixed on the parchment and the three letters scrawled across the top.
“Trin Cavahl, I speak o
f the story of that little boy, with fine red hair. That little boy, a product of the Gableman’s Riots, that little boy who the Mother placed into your arms at the behest of Fate. There were three initials on that letter she gave you, three small characters on a single line. D.I.T. You see the letter before you. You see the boy that babe has grown to be, you must know now what those initials stand for?”
She swallowed, but she could not get air past the knot in her throat. “No… no.”
He thrust the letter toward her. “Read it, and know what you have wrought.”
Her hand moved as though automatic. The letter shook with the tremors in her hand.
“I found it in the foundry,” the god said. “Stashed with the remainder of Trask’s possessions. The workers dared not touch his things, they feared that if they should, that his spirit might pay its grisly visit. Of course, you know as well as I, that Indaht Trask has not been dead as long as they thought. Only a short, few weeks, that is all it has been since the deacon’s death. Open it, Cavahl. Read it, and know.”
The letter was short, a few simple paragraphs, but they were enough to prove Just right.
Indaht,
We shared a single night after you deposed my servant. I had thought that the tyrant would be my salvation, but I was wrong. I was hopeless, distraught, desperate that the man who killed him should birth my next attempt. But that was foolish and cruel. Both to you and to your son. This boy is yours. I will not do to him as I had planned. Instead, he shall live with you, without interference from me.
I have chosen to give this boy his chance at a free and happy life. And in that regard, I have decided to name him after one of my many grandchildren, one who’s foolish choices cost him his life and my daughter’s love. For my daughter’s sake, I wish that he should carry her apprentice’s name, so that in a way, that foolish boy can live the second life my daughter would have gifted him, if only she had been able. Though there is no magic in his blood, please give him a life befitting the god he should have been.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 118