If his master minded about the men, he did not show it. “But you eventually came to yourself again.”
“Yes.” After that he could remember more clearly. “I wondered about whether I should try to kill the boy again, but when I asked about him, they told me he was no longer at Second Hearth, that he keeps his court at Mist’s Edge now. I didn’t think I’d be able to get into Mist’s Edge the way I did at Second Hearth, so … so I decided to come back, and wait for you to tell me what I should do.”
“I see.” His master pressed his fingertips together, tilting his head as he considered something. “You always tell me the truth, don’t you, Shinsei?”
Shinsei nodded. “Of course.”
“Then tell me this: Do you think I can trust you, if I send you far away again? Will you do what I ask of you? Or will you lose yourself again, like you did this time?”
Shinsei did always tell his master the truth, but this was a difficult question. He stroked the hilt of his sword, searching within himself for the answer. “I never wish to fail you,” he said. “But it seems there are more and more things I don’t understand. There are so many more things in the world than I could have guessed—I don’t know if I can say for sure that one of them won’t … make me strange.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. I wish—I wish I could stop.”
“If you truly wished that,” his master said almost wearily, “then you would be able to stop. You torment yourself only because you think about things you shouldn’t.” He looked about to say more, but then he broke off with a vague click of his tongue. “Well, that’s good enough. Let’s stop there for now. You may return to your quarters—we will advance on Reglay soon enough, and I’ll need you in the army when we march.”
“I understand.” He might have left it there, but more words sprang to his lips, bubbling forth with an urgency that almost frightened him. “I…” he started, almost stammering, “may I ask you one thing?”
His master frowned, but he said only, “What is it, Shinsei?”
Shinsei hesitated for a moment, but the question would not be denied. “Did I—did I ever know anyone named Sebastian?”
His master stayed very still for what seemed like a long time, and Shinsei could not read his face. “That name means nothing to me,” he said at last.
“Oh,” Shinsei said. “I see.”
His master threaded his fingers together, still watching him closely. “Was that all you wanted to ask me?”
Shinsei nodded.
“Then you should get some rest.”
Shinsei bowed, and left for his quarters. But he could not rid himself of the vision, despite what his master had said. There was an idea—a memory, perhaps—flickering faintly inside his mind, like a candle that would not go out.
In the vision, a young man had a hand on his arm, and was pulling him toward something. His hair was very pale. He was smiling. Come on, Ritsu, he said. We’ll be late if you keep dragging your feet like that.
But, Sebastian, he said, your father told you—
Oh, my father’s always telling me one thing or another. When’ll we get the chance to see something like this again, eh?
That was all—try as he might, he could retrieve nothing more of it. But who was this Sebastian? And who, for that matter, was Ritsu?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Cadfael put one foot in front of the other more out of stubbornness than anything else, distractedly watching his boots bite into the dust. He trudged forward as one who has dreamed his destination, barely more than an abstract idea somewhere beyond the horizon. His throat was dry, scratchy, as if lined with parchment, and sweat made the dust stick to his face and palms, despite the early morning chill. There was no blue in the sky that he could see, just oppressive clouds that reminded him uncomfortably of Mist’s Edge.
The resolve he’d felt the day he left the castle had drained away the farther he got from it. The king had been understanding in every way; he had never tried to stop him, never offered any incentives to get him to stay. But Cadfael wondered, even so, if it had not been wrong of him to leave. The boy would need all the help he could get in the hard times to come, and what good was Cadfael doing anyone like this? Did he really have a hope of finding Shinsei?
He had been sure Elgar would not appear at Mist’s Edge without his most trusted general, and yet he had. But if Shinsei was not with him, where could he be? What mission could be more important than protecting Elgar’s life?
He wanted to strike something. Where would he even go next? Where could he search? He did not even know what Shinsei looked like; the man could pass by three inches from his face and he’d never suspect a thing. And the people who had ever seen him were few and far between; for someone as infamous as Shinsei undoubtedly was, he was remarkably elusive. Why was that? Cadfael wondered. Wouldn’t such a legendary butcher relish the chance to strike fear into the hearts of all he met, simply through the force of his reputation?
The trees were starting to thin, and he could make out the shape of the hills beyond. He leaned against a nearby tree, calming his breathing so he could listen. He hadn’t yet been able to determine the exact number of men following him; he guessed three, but it might well be four or five. He did not need to ask them who they were or why they were following him; he merely needed to decide how best to dispose of them. If the one creeping up on what he no doubt thought was Cadfael’s blind spot could be encouraged to move just a few steps closer, Cadfael could have him at a stroke. But, truth be told, he didn’t much care—this was the third time this had happened since he’d left Mist’s Edge, and his patience was wearing thin.
“Awful morning,” he said conversationally, and by the time the man had finished being startled, Cadfael’s sword was already bare and in midswing. The man flung up his swordarm in a clumsy attempt at a block, so Cadfael cut it off for him, then swung again. This one caught the man right through the middle, tearing leather and flesh alike. Cadfael could tell he wouldn’t be getting up again, but two more men were already bounding into view, weapons drawn. Cadfael thought there was a fourth somehow ahead of him, though he’d never sensed he was being passed. The last man seemed a ways off yet, though from the sound of it, he was hurrying to catch up. Better to finish with his fellows quickly, then.
The swordsmen were not wholly useless, but that did not save them: after only a handful of exchanges, Cadfael had cut the legs from under the first and beheaded the second. He made sure to give the former an additional cut afterward to end his suffering, but that was all the time he had—there was definitely a fourth man, and he was closing in fast. Cadfael darted behind a tree, hoping to conceal his position, and after several seconds he saw the last man. He was moving quickly, but starting to slow down a bit, perhaps because the sounds of battle had stopped. The fool hadn’t even drawn his sword.
Cadfael charged from behind the tree, aiming his strike at the other man’s heart, and the man’s sword left its sheath so fast, Cadfael could barely see it. It met his in a beautiful, assured swing, driving him back a step that very nearly became a stumble.
The other man smiled. “You don’t think it’s a bit early in the morning for such fervent combat?”
“You seem apt enough,” Cadfael grunted, and swung again.
The man blocked him again, just as smoothly as before—he had enough time to toss his long hair back from his face before his riposte, which Cadfael only just managed to block. He might not have been anything of a success in other areas, but swordplay was what he knew, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been thwarted so easily. The other man, whose sword and build were a touch slighter than Cadfael’s, relied more on his speed, so the closeness of the trees should’ve hampered him—but if it did, Cadfael saw no sign of it. His every movement was precise and surpassingly confident, and Cadfael had to struggle to keep his own strokes sure despite the rapidity of the other man’s onslaught.
The man’s eyebrows lifted curiously—was he impressed, or
just surprised Cadfael wasn’t dead yet? He was still smiling. “Well, look at that. It seems I’ll have to try harder.”
Cadfael saved his breath for his next swing, and his next. They moved about without a significant change in either’s position, exchanging blows that never landed but were never countered by anything decisive. Cadfael’s head was spinning, his palms sweating against the hilt of his sword. The other man slashed at him again and again, his dark hair streaming out behind him as he flew to meet Cadfael—that was what it seemed like, like his feet didn’t even touch the ground between strides as he ran, as he spun and struck.
“Who are you?” he asked, as Cadfael’s sword met his.
But Cadfael was not thinking of names, only of the movements he must perform, where the other man’s blade would be in half an instant and the space his own would have to travel through to meet it, the space both swords would occupy after the parry. He understood, in some back corner of his mind, that the clang of metal was deafening. He barely heard it.
“You’re good,” the other man said, in something like wonder. “You’re one of the best I’ve ever fought with, do you know that?”
Cadfael thought he grunted, throwing his shoulder into the next swing but failing to stagger his opponent. The other man pivoted, and Cadfael nearly pitched forward, righting himself just in time to make the next block, though the force of the impact drove him to one knee.
“I’ll ask you again,” the other man said, eyes gleaming above him, bright as the blade of his sword. “Who are you?”
Cadfael struggled, managed to push up off his bent knee, forcing the other man back as he took his feet again. “Cadfael,” he muttered, “is my name. A lot of good it’ll do you.”
“And is your name known?” the other man asked, slicing the air as he adjusted his grip on his sword. “Because I promise you, it will be.”
Shouldn’t the man who had been sent to kill him know his name? “It’s known enough,” he said, panting, “to make me wish it were known less. But most of those who used to know it are dead.” Block, block, block—he wanted to dodge, but the man was so fast—
“I could say the same,” the man said—nonchalantly enough, but Cadfael could see how he was sweating. “Do you mind if I ask what we’re fighting over? Do you just want my coin, or can you possibly have some grudge against me?”
Cadfael nearly dropped his guard, recovering just in time to block again. “Is that some joke? I’m trying to kill you because you’re trying to kill me.”
“My friend, I’m not trying to kill you, I’m just trying to defend myself. If you recall, you were the one who came at me—I hadn’t even drawn my sword.”
No, Cadfael thought, not that that seemed to hamper you much. The lull in their battle gave him time to examine the man’s sword more closely, and he felt a throb of pain as he realized its similarity to one he would never see again. It was a tsunshin—uncommon enough in these parts, to be certain. “Are you trying to tell me,” he said, not dropping out of his stance but not advancing either, “that you aren’t with those other men?”
The man backed up a few steps. “I am certainly saying that, as I don’t even know which men you mean.”
“They’re dead,” Cadfael said, twitching one shoulder toward where they lay. “Back there. They were Elgar’s men.”
“If they were trying to kill you,” the man said, “then I doubt we have a quarrel.” Cadfael must not have seemed convinced, because he backed up another step. “Look, I’ll sheathe my sword first, see? I don’t want to kill you, I swear it.” He did as he said, holding his hands out in front of him.
He was young, maybe Cadfael’s age or a bit younger, with features that weren’t quite Aurnian—his gray eyes were too wide, his nose sharply pointed. His hair fell straight to the middle of his back, and he didn’t even tie it—Cadfael had no idea how he’d kept it out of his eyes as they fought. Whatever he was, his sword was undoubtedly Aurnian; Cadfael didn’t doubt the man could have it out again in less than an instant, but he backed off anyway, finally easing out of his stance.
The man smiled. “You have my thanks. I suppose I should apologize—that very nearly ended messily for at least one of us—but … well, you did draw first.”
Cadfael didn’t even know what to say. “I should … examine the others, then.” He walked slowly back toward the bodies, keeping an eye on the man, who followed at a safe distance.
He searched the dead men, but he found nothing of note on them—not that he’d really been expecting to, as he doubted Elgar needed to send written instructions that said kill him. It was an easy enough command to understand, if not, in this instance, to follow.
The somewhat-Aurnian raised his eyebrows at the bodies. “Elgar isn’t half angry with you, is he? What did you do to him?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? He had made a grave move against Elgar at Mist’s Edge, that was certain. But was that truly the only reason Elgar wanted him dead?
For what felt like the thousandth time, he thought back to Elgar’s words at Mist’s Edge. All Elgar had actually said was that he knew Cadfael for a Lanvald, but he could have deduced that in half a hundred ways. It didn’t necessarily mean that he remembered Cadfael, or knew who he was. They had met only once before, and Cadfael was certain he’d been unrecognizable—his face had been bandaged, after all. He hadn’t lied to this Aurnian, either—whatever fame he might have accrued under Eira was long gone. And yet, the way Elgar had looked at him …
“I insulted him, I believe,” he said to the Aurnian. “He couldn’t let that go, apparently.” Was the man just going to follow him about? He sheathed his sword and folded his arms, waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long. “If you’re the type to insult Elgar,” the man said, “maybe I can ask this of you: Where did he go? Village gossip puts him at Mist’s Edge, but back in Valyanrend they say he wouldn’t have so much as a single soldier occupy that castle for anything.”
“He was there,” Cadfael said, “but he must be gone by now—on his way back to Hallarnon, I assume, if he hasn’t arrived already. Why, do you have business with him?”
The man’s fingertips brushed the hilt of his sword. “Of a sort.”
He reminded Cadfael of the way he himself spoke of Shinsei. “Has he wronged you in some way?”
The man shrugged. “He’s wronged you for certain, hasn’t he? What with sending his men to kill you.”
Cadfael leaned against a nearby tree; he was still somewhat winded from the battle. “It doesn’t change anything. I had no love for him before, so I had none to lose over this. If you hoped for some kind of revenge, though, you’d best turn back for Hallarnon—not that I imagine you’d have much luck there.”
The man brushed his hair back from his face. “No, I wasn’t after revenge—nothing so definite. I wouldn’t mind a chance at him, but I’ve more pressing business at the moment.” He shrugged again. “To be honest, I doubt I possess the conviction to make an earnest attempt on his life, despite all the pain I owe him. Perhaps I merely sought the novelty of his company, if it wouldn’t take me too far out of my way.”
“I doubt you would have found whatever you were looking for,” Cadfael said. “He’s an unremarkable man in just about every way.”
The man laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Yes. That’s rather what I thought.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It makes me wonder how he got to where he is, or why someone doesn’t just stop him.”
Cadfael’s father had died before he could see Elgar’s greatest victories, but he had always said the people of Hallarnon wanted someone steady and plain after Gerde Selte’s wild caprices and the strain of Norverian’s extravagant spending. And after the breathtaking array of tortures and punishments the pair of them had dreamed up, their subjects were certainly happy to bow to someone with a less morbid imagination. Elgar liked gold, but not so much as his former master had, and he used pain as a lesson, not as entertainment. King Eira had said that
it was the war against Aurnis that made Elgar’s name: Hallerns and Lanvalds alike still held grudges against the Aurnians for driving their grandfathers out of their lands a hundred years ago, and the Hallerns were only too glad to think of their leader as a great conqueror, never mind what he might be like at home.
But Cadfael himself had no opinion. Perhaps that was his problem: he had always had too few opinions. His sister had had opinions about everything. “It would be difficult to stop him now, I think,” he said. “Perhaps it would have been easier, once.”
“Perhaps,” the man said. He sighed. “I’ll tell you this much: never part from your friends. It’s a damned hassle to find them again, and ten to one you won’t.”
Cadfael had no friends to speak of, though he couldn’t help thinking of King Kelken. Most likely he would never see him again. “Either way,” he said, “I wish you luck. Though with a swordarm like that, I doubt you’ll need much of it.”
The man laughed, and this one sounded genuine. “Oh, well, you nearly had me, for all that. I won’t press you for details, but you’re no common soldier, that’s for certain.”
That was exactly who he had been. As for who he was now, he wasn’t sure. “I have told you my name.”
“So you did—Cadfael, was it? I’ll remember it. But it seems I haven’t told you mine.” He extended his hand, features smoothing into a slender smile. “Lucius. Lucius Aquila.”
* * *
After three afternoons watching the comings and goings out of Chandler’s Assorted Goods, the bright red and green of the sign seemed to Marceline a personal offense, and she was quite sure she never wanted to hear about candles ever again. She didn’t want to risk asking the shopkeeper about Mouse again, but if he was as frequent a customer as he seemed to be, she figured he’d have to turn up at the shop before too long. But though she’d spotted a few young men, none had matched the chandler’s description: beardless, brown-haired, and supposedly very handsome indeed.
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