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Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

Page 36

by Craig Saunders


  It took me two years to escape that place. I was not favoured and I was not killed. But I feel death in me now, taking me slowly. I know I am favoured by death. He is sparing me his time and for that I am grateful.

  When at last I die, he will not keep me waiting.

  It is good to know.

  *

  The man on the podium is dead. I killed him last night.

  *

  I refuse to leave the suffering behind. Perhaps this one disclaimer in my work was born from my incarceration, perhaps from the one undying part of my life before, when all I knew of pain had been learned from others. Once, not long free from tortured souls outside my own, I had killed a woman. On my way to kill a man. I do not know if he deserved to die but I was paid and the job was done. I killed the woman with a knife, and impolitely she insisted on showing me her eyes. Ordinarily I do not watch. It seems impolite should I see death at work, and while I know he watches me we have not yet such rapport that I should receive the honour.

  I watched the life leave her eyes and always surprisingly a mere trickle of blood escaped the wound as arteries held their dying blood, and breath abated. The woman died and I carried out my work. Untouched. I returned unhurried leaving the man dead above.

  The price was paid, and I could no more deny the price than my own nature. The Protectorate made me, and I was their creature. A dog directed, a hound sicced on their enemies.

  As I retraced my steps, in the knowledge that the passage would be clear, I passed the woman’s body. Still warm, her long dark hair fanned across the floor of the room, and I noticed, pleased, that I had not cause her to vacate, at least a little dignity in the husk remaining. I noticed a kitchen through an opening. Perhaps she had been a house slave. Drifting on the warm air came muffled sound.

  I could still hear a boyish crying as I left.

  Sometimes I am misinformed. I kill extras, I still get paid. The detritus make no difference in my line of work. I imagine death feels much the same regardless of my intentions. I left the house that day disbelieving at the guilt I felt. I had killed that boy’s mother, leaving a grieving boy, a soulless shell like me. To leave the dead was noble work. To leave the suffering, that was torture.

  That night I slept alone and dreamed of prison.

  The following morning I returned and killed the boy. I slept untroubled sleep thereafter.

  *

  The man on the podium spoke truths I knew. He spoke of union. The people joined in murmurs of agreement, he spoke of solace and silence reigned as thoughts inverted. He spoke of pride and shame rose unbidden in me. I thought at times he knew me and talked directly to my conscience. I do not think anyone else could have found it, long since withered as it was. He had a talent, for when he spoke he spoke to me, as he spoke to all those gathered.

  Watching closely now, the great man, for he was a great man, faltered and stumbled. He stood straight one last time and looked ahead.

  “I am killed”, I heard over the increasing roar of disbelief. He raised his hands for silence one last time and fell forward. His last words would be interred with him. His body hit the wooden flooring, slick from rain, and slipped toward the circling crowd. He fell but no-one rose to take his place.

  *

  With word of love to a land of slaves, the land of Kolthar, the man spoke of freedom and higher ideals than gain. An unholy man he asked no donations, he asked no succour of his younger followers and I feared were I close enough I would see a smile pass his eyes as he died. That day a revolution was born, which I had murdered.

  I thought about what he said and felt.

  My tears, subdued for unknown years, emerged renewed. Below me the crowded street was filled with wails of mourning for a man they had hardly known. And I too felt sad. Sadness welled up inside my walls and engulfed my spirit, pushing it to the surface. I had my final victory and in my pride fell undone. I had killed hope in my arrogance and fallen from grace. Before my death I realised that even death could not kill words and emerge unscathed.

  From my rooftop perch my body flew to the stones below.

  *

  The darkness thickened behind me and I turned to face death. Light shied away, creating a corona around my kindred. Wordlessly he asked. His myriad souls called to my own. I wanted no more of this death, but for me, to join the Planes’ Assassin was the wages of my sin.

  In the end, I screamed, and with my fists I fought, but the creature that was death and the only end for an assassin pulled me into its many breasts and a thousand comforting arms tried to soothe my tortured soul.

  I killed hope that day, and in my own way, I pay the price.

  I pay the price with every death we take, joined as we are. I hate what I have become, and with each death I scream, and I cry.

  But for the assassin, the price must always be paid.

  - End -

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