CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

Surviving…well that’s the easy part.

It’s getting on with the business of living that’s hard.

—Veteran of the Fey War

 

Cutter had been through battles that lasted for days, had taken part in the Fey War until the creatures were driven back into the Black Wood. He knew something of exhaustion, of the pervasive weariness that crept not just into a man’s limbs, but his heart, his soul. Or at least, he thought he did.

The trip through the city had taken only a matter of hours, but they had been some of the longest hours of his life, and the exhaustion that suffused him was as bad, if not worse, than any he had ever experienced before. He had known, of course, that the people of New Daltenia must hate him. After all, how could they not? He, their prince, who had betrayed his brother but, more than that, had betrayed them. The man who had, by his actions, very nearly ripped the kingdom apart. Yes, he had known they hated him, had thought of it often in his years spent exiled to the small northern village of Brighton. But knowing a thing was far different than experiencing it. It was one thing to think of how they must hate him. It was quite another to see that hate in their twisted expressions of rage, to hear it in their screams and shouts.

He had questioned, at first, Matt’s decision to send him to the Black Wood, had wondered at it, thinking perhaps that it was another part of the conspiracy, that someone—perhaps one of the youth’s new advisors—had convinced him to send Cutter away so that he could not help defend the city against what was coming.

But he believed that no longer, had stopped believing somewhere along the road leading out of New Daltenia, somewhere amid the screams of those he had so wronged. The truth was that, however much he might want to help them, he could not. The truth was that his staying in the city would only make it worse. Either he would do something evil—on purpose or not—or he would draw that evil to him like a lodestone. Certainly, looking back on his life it seemed to him that he had done as much, that and little else.

The city of New Daltenia, the kingdom of the Known Lands, was sick, that was true, but he was not the man to heal it—he never had been. What good was a warrior, after all, a man who knew war and that only, in a healer’s tent? He did not know how to heal, only how to hurt. It was the warrior’s curse that even in attempting to protect, to save, he could cause only pain, only death.

I am fire and all I touch turns to ash.

By the time he caught sight of the northern gate of New Daltenia, the words had become a mantra, repeated over and over in his head, not to stave off despair, but to revel in it. For, he thought, he deserved nothing else. So he endured the scornful, hateful shouts from the crowd, accepting them as his due just as he had accepted the spatterings of rotten fruit which had struck him on their walk through the city or the occasional, almost distracted blows from the guards.

He shambled toward the city gate, stinking of rotten fruits and vegetables, blood oozing from a cut on his head, either from one of the guards’ blows or from a rock thrown by one of those who had marked his progress. He did not know and he did not care. Wherever it had come from, he deserved it, that and far more. He had accumulated a great debt over the years, reaping it with his axe, and it was one that he could not, could never repay.

“So, Prince,” the sergeant said, turning and grinning, “what do you think, I wonder, of the attention of your people?”

Cutter said nothing, not because the man was obviously taunting him but simply because there was no point.

The sergeant watched him, his grin slowly changing into a frown. “Come on then,” he said, hocking and spitting on the street. “I’d just as soon be done with this filth—the gods know I need a bath.”

They marched him toward the city gate, and though he did his best to keep up with the increased pace, the manacles on his ankles made the task difficult, if not impossible. Each time he stumbled, he was rewarded with a fresh cuff to the head from one of his escort, sometimes even when he did not stumble, as if the men knew that the time for their cruelty was nearing its end and they intended to milk it for all it was worth.

Cutter made no move to defend himself, accepting each blow as his due just as he accepted the pain, for while each blow hurt, the pain it caused was as nothing compared to that which gripped him. He had done what he could, and most of it hurt, not helped. Now, the kingdom would fall or it would not and, if it did, there would be no one to blame save him.

They reached the gate proper and one of the guards stationed there walked up to them, a look of shock coming over him. “Is that Prince Bernard?”

The sergeant leading Cutter’s escort nodded, seeming to regain some of his good humor as he glanced at Cutter’s stained, bloody figure. “So it is.”

“Fire and salt what happened to him?” the man said in shock.

The sergeant shrugged. “Justice, though not as much as a bastard like this deserves. Now, open the gate.”

The man hesitated, glancing uncertainly between Cutter and the sergeant but, in the end, he hurried away to comply and, in another few moments, the gate began to swing open.

“Well, you’ve escaped the love of your people, Prince,” the sergeant said, “but I wouldn’t rejoice too much. As much as the people of the Known Lands hate you—and they do hate you—I suspect that your reception in the Black Wood will be far more…interesting.” His grin widened. “And likely considerably shorter.”

He watched Cutter for a moment, but when Cutter did not respond, he hocked and spat again, this time on the front of Cutter’s tunic. Then he waved at one of the guards. “Get this filth out of the city.”

One of the men moved forward, grabbed Cutter’s manacled wrists, and began leading him toward the gate.

“And remember this, Prince,” the sergeant shouted after him, “should you think to flee, to run and hide, we have men everywhere. We will find you, and you will be made to suffer—as will those you care about the most!”

Cutter paused then, glancing back at the man, and this time, he did speak. “Don’t worry, sergeant,” he said. “I’m done running.”

They led him to the city gate and then outside of it. Cutter stood as one of the guard’s went about the task of unclasping the manacles from his wrists and ankles.

“Oh,” another said, walking up with a bundle in his hands. “Your things, Highness.” The last was clearly a taunt, and he tossed a bundle at Cutter’s feet.

The bundle landed with a thud, the ragged cloth that had been wrapped around it revealing the obsidian handle of his axe as well as the sheath.

“Might be short a few coins,” the guard said, grinning, “I’m afraid I dropped ‘em somewhere along the way.”

Cutter stared at the man who fidgeted, then sneered, and finally hurried away. When he was gone, and those guards removing his bonds had finished, Cutter was left standing alone, regarding the axe where it lay.

How long, he wondered, had he hoped to be rid of it? Of what it meant? Now, he realized that it made no difference. The axe was not the weapon—he was. And those deaths he had claimed with it were not its fault but his own. He knelt and retrieved the axe and its sheath, securing them at his back.

He turned back to the city gate, still open, taking it in one last time. His city, the city he had failed, yes, but the city he loved for all that, the people he loved. He told himself they would be better with Matt as their leader—certainly the youth could do no worse than Cutter had, and the people deserved better.

The guards began to swing the gate closed, but paused at a shout.

“Wait!”

The guards turned and Cutter did as well to regard the group of people running down the street. Cutter saw Priest, and Maeve, Chall, and was surprised to see Feledias among them.

The guards moved to block the way, but Feledias didn’t pause as he marched forward. “Out of my way, I come by order of the king!”

The guards did move at that, hurrying to either side of the gate and opening an avenue through which Feledias and Cutter’s companions walked.

Cutter waited until they all came to stand in front of him, Chall bending over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

“Thank the gods we reached you,” Maeve said.

“Right?” Chall panted. “I thought I was about to die.”

Maeve scowled at the mage. “You’ll have to forgive Chall,” she said, “we had to hurry to catch up with you—you all moved pretty fast.”

Not fast enough, Cutter thought. “What can I do for you, Maeve?”

She frowned at that. “Listen, Prince, you can’t go.”

Cutter sighed. “Maeve, we’ve been through this—I have to go.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the woman said. “There was another attempt on your life when you went through the city. Whoever’s behind this, Prince, they’re motivated, and they want you dead badly. Likely, because they know if you’re dead then their conspiracy will be—”

“How do you know, Maeve?” Cutter interrupted in a soft voice.

The woman glanced, confused, at Priest. “Know what?”

“How do you know that the people who tried to kill me are part of the conspiracy?” he asked. Another shared look of confusion between the two, this time including Feledias and even Chall who seemed to have gotten some of his breath back.

“Prince,” the mage began slowly, speaking as if Cutter had just claimed he could fly, “it seems fairly obvious that whoever is behind the assassination attempts—”

“Does it?” Cutter interrupted. “Does it, Chall?” The mage cut off, looking at Maeve helplessly, but Cutter pressed on. “You’re my friends, all of you, better friends than a man like me deserves, but let’s be honest, alright? There doesn’t need to be some grand conspiracy for someone to want me dead—I’ve earned it. That and more. There’s no telling the numbers of wives I’ve made widows, of sons and daughters that have grown up without their fathers because of me.”

“What are you saying, Prince?” Maeve asked.

Cutter shrugged. “I’m saying that I’ve come to terms with who I am, Maeve, with what I am. All that thinking I’d changed, hoping I had, it was just that…hope. And a useless one at that.”

The woman glanced back at the gate where the guards watched, several of them frowning, their hands on their swords, and shook her head angrily, turning back to Cutter. “Listen, Prince, we don’t have time for this, alright? We can sneak you back into the city and talk about it la—”

“No.”

“Are you saying,” Priest said, “that…you still mean to go?”

“I do.”

Maeve scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me! No offense, Prince, but that’s just about the most damned fool thing I’ve ever heard. They’ll send assassins after you as soon as you’re out of the city! Stones and starlight for all we know they could be waiting outside the city already!”

“Maybe they are,” Cutter said. “But I’m going.”

“But…why?” she demanded, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

Cutter felt a wave of guilt at that. He was a monster, yes, but even monsters might offer some small comfort. He stepped forward, gently wiping her tears away with a finger. “Listen, Maeve, the Known Lands is in trouble, the worst trouble the kingdom’s been in since the Skaalden and—”

“But that’s exactly why we need you,” she said. “Prince, we—”

“No, Maeve,” he said softly but firmly. “I’m a killer—it’s all I am. And by that measure I think I’m probably just about the last thing the Known Lands needs right now. What the people need is a chance to heal, to rebuild. With Matt as their king, they have a real opportunity to do that now, and the quickest way to screw that up would be for me to make the selfish choice and stay when I should go. As long as I remain in the city, I can only cause harm.” He glanced over at Feledias who stood with an unreadable expression on his face. “What about you, brother? Have you also come to talk me out of leaving?”

Feledias looked at the other three before turning back to Cutter. “No, brother. I have known you long enough to know that once you’ve set your mind to something you’re as stubborn as a bull.” He paused, offering him a small smile. “As ugly, too, but I suppose that can’t be helped. But no, Bernard, I have not come to talk you out of going. I’ve come to go with you.”

“What?” Chall asked.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Maeve said.

“I’m not,” Feledias said.

“Fel?” Cutter asked, surprised and relieved all at once. “But…why?”

His brother shrugged. “Because I think you’re right, Bernard. The kingdom needs an opportunity to heal, and it can’t do that, not while the two men who wounded it so badly are still sitting in the capital. I don’t know about this son of yours, my nephew…” He paused, shaking his head in wonder at that. “It seems to me he’s having some issues…acclimating to the throne, maybe. But what I do know is that, however bad he is, he can’t be any worse than us.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “But Fel, a journey to the Black Woods…it…”

“Is almost certain death?” his brother said casually, then shrugged. “Sure, but then I’ve faced certain death before. Anyway, you need a minder to come along.” He offered another small smile. “The gods know what sort of mischief you’ll get up to on your own. Like as not you’d wind up running around the woods naked, eating raw rabbit and crouching in some cave or another. Besides, for fifteen years I promised myself that I would see you dead. It’d be a shame to miss it.”

Cutter watched his brother then gave a small smile of his own, offering his hand. A surprised look came over his brother’s face and a moment later he took it. “Thanks, Fel,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” his brother murmured as he came to stand beside him, facing the others, “I’ve heard the Fey like to play with their food before they eat.”

Cutter nodded, moving forward and offering Chall his hand. “Thanks, Chall,” he said. “For everything.”

The man’s face twisted as if he might break into tears at any moment, but he took a slow, ragged breath, gathering himself before taking Cutter’s hand. “Y-you’re sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

The mage winced. “I could come along, too. Maybe I could—”

“No, Chall,” Cutter said. “Your place is here. I need you and the others to watch after Matt, to keep him safe and to look after that…” He paused, glancing at the guards. “After that thing we spoke about.”

The mage gave another ragged sigh and nodded. “I’ll do my best, Prince.”

Cutter smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your best is a damned sight better than most.”

He moved to Maeve then, the woman frowning at him as if she would have liked nothing more, just then, than to use him as target practice for the knives she always kept secreted on her.

“Maeve,” he said.

She let out a sound that was between a growl and a whimper. “I still think it’s a mistake,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “but it’s mine to make.”

“And so you’re just going to leave the kingdom defenseless then? Because of…what? Some sort of guilt?”

Not some sort of guilt, he thought. I am fire, and everything I touch turns to ash. “Not defenseless, Maeve,” he said, giving her a small smile. “They’ve got you.”

She snorted. “Maeve the Marvelous. A washed-up old woman who looks more like a troll than the supposed world’s greatest beauty, more likely to attract a mob than a man.”

Cutter glanced at Chall then back to her. “I think we both know that’s not true.” She flushed at that, looking at her feet and Cutter put a finger on her chin, lifting her face. “Things will get better once I’m gone, Maeve, trust me.”

She sighed. “I’ve always trusted you, Prince. That’s never been the problem.”

He nodded. “I’ll miss you, Maeve.”

“And I you.”

Perhaps it still wasn’t right between them, but it was as good as he could make it, so Cutter gave her another nod then moved to Priest. “Valden.”

The man gave him a sad smile. “Prince.”

“You’ll look after them? And Matt?”

“Of course,” the man said. “As best as I am able. But…are you certain, Prince? That this is the best way?”

Cutter considered that. “No, I’m not. But I think maybe it’s the only one.”

The man watched him for a second then nodded. “Is there…anything you need? Anything I can do?”

“You’re doing it,” Cutter said.

“I…I do not know what we will do without you,” Priest said.

“Survive,” Cutter said, “how about starting there? Anyway, don’t look so sad, Priest. I have come through the Black Wood before, more than once. We will see each other again.”

The man nodded, but it was clear from the look on his face that he didn’t believe the lie anymore than Cutter himself. And why not? True, he had traveled into the Black Woods and come out again before, but those had been relatively quick trips when his goal was to push back an already beaten foe or, in the second case, attempting to go unnoticed. Now, the foe was strong, perhaps stronger than it had ever been, and this time, to follow the king’s orders, he would not only have to forego stealth, he would have to march into the very heart of the Fey kingdom and attempt to negotiate a peace treaty. It might not be suicide exactly, but then Cutter didn’t think it was all that far off.

Based on the grim expression on his companion’s face, the man was having similar thoughts, so Cutter forced a smile he didn’t feel. “It’ll be okay, Priest. Either way, it’ll be okay. After all, the world needs its priests a lot more than it needs its killers.”

Before the man could say anything more, Cutter gave him another nod then turned and walked back to where Feledias stood. “Ready?” he asked quietly.

Feledias raised an eyebrow. “To venture into the homeland of creatures out of nightmare and attempt to negotiate a peace when we have nothing with which to bargain?”

Cutter considered that then, after a moment, nodded. “That sounds about right.”

His brother shrugged, grinning, and in that grin Cutter could see some of the child he had once been, back before Cutter’s betrayal, before the Skaalden had come to Daltenia, slaying thousands of its people, including their father, back when they still believed that the world was mostly good. “Well,” Feledias said, “I suppose I’ve got nothing else going on.”

Cutter turned back to the others, all standing and watching them, Chall snuffling as tears streamed freely down his face. “Goodbye, friends,” he said. “Knowing you has been my honor.”

Then with that, he turned and walked away, leaving his friends, his world, behind him.

 

***

 

Priest watched the two brothers walking away and, as he did, said a silent prayer to Raveza, the Goddess of Temperance, to keep them safe. As he watched them leave, Priest thought of the prince’s final words to him. The world needs its priests a lot more than it does its killers.

He shook his head sadly. The statement was, no doubt, a true one, taken objectively, but the prince had presupposed something in the saying of it which made it in error. For one, Prince Bernard was not only a killer—he was much more than that. And Valden was not only a priest…he was much less.

“Do…do you think they’ll be okay?”

Priest turned to regard Challadius, the mage snuffling and running an arm across his face. He considered trying to comfort the man with one of the common platitudes of his order, ones in which he himself had often sought comfort. All things by the goddess’s will, perhaps, or the path to peace is taken one step at a time. But in that moment, such words felt empty, bereft of any meaning, if even they’d had it in the first place. So instead, he met the man’s eyes and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“But…what can we do?” Maeve asked, and there was such uncertainty in the normally sure woman’s tone that Priest’s heart went out to her, wishing that he could comfort her, could say something that might give her some peace. But the last few months had shaken him, shaken him more than he would care to tell the others. “Priest,” Bernard had called him, but Valden was not sure that such the title was accurate anymore. It was like a shirt a man had outgrown, one that didn’t seem to fit quite right, for if he had not lost his faith, he felt sure that he was beginning to.

Still, he took a slow breath, gathering the remnants of that faith, that hope the way a man might, upon finding his house burned to the ground, fall to his knees and scoop the ashes of his old life into his arms. “For the prince?” he asked softly. “Nothing. Except, that is, what he asked.”

Maeve met his eyes then, her own shimmering with tears. “You still mean to travel to Belle’s hideout?”

“I do,” Priest said, “and I mean to do it alone.”

Maeve heaved a heavy sigh, shaking her head. “It seems that it is my lot to be surrounded by suicidal fools.”

“But…what is it exactly that you hope to find?” Chall asked, sniffling.

“We don’t even know if there’s anything to find,” Maeve said exasperated. “Priest, the woman was about to be executed. She was likely out of her mind with fear. Probably she didn’t even know what she was saying.”

“Maybe,” he agreed.

“And yet you mean to go anyway,” Maeve said.

It wasn’t really a question, but Priest nodded. “Yes.”

“But why?” Maeve demanded. “They’re criminals, Priest. Thieves and murderers and worse. You and Bernard were lucky to survive your first trip there and somehow I doubt relations have improved considering that we just executed their boss.”

“Wait a minute,” Chall said, “we weren’t responsible for that—stones and starlight, Maeve, we tried to stop it!”

“Uh-huh,” Maeve said, “and do you think that they know that?”

Chall fidgeted. “Well, I mean, I’m sure if we were to explain…”

“Sure,” Maeve said, rolling her eyes, “because criminals are known for their understanding. He’ll die, Chall.”

Chall winced, seeming to consider that then, finally, he nodded, glancing at Priest. “You might die.”

“There is much I am uncertain about,” Priest said slowly. “I have begun to…question things, lately, things that I once took as absolute truth. But there is one thing that I know, friends, one truth that holds when all else falls away. If we are alive, there is always a chance that we will die.”

Maeve snorted. “A damned better chance if you go sticking your head into lions’ mouths.”

Priest inclined his head. “Yes, such beasts will bite—it is all that they know, that they are, and I pity them for that. Yet, such beasts, while dangerous, are also predictable and in that predictability lies their weakness.”

Maeve shook her head. “I doubt that’s much consolation to the fools who are bit, not that they’re likely to be consoled by anything, being dead and all.”

“What did you mean, Priest?” Chall said abruptly.

He turned to regard the mage. “I’m sorry?”

The other man fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “I mean…about beginning to question things? What did…what did you mean by that?”

Priest stared at the man, surprised to find that he looked almost frightened. He had spent years mocking Priest’s calling, his beliefs, but now the thought of Priest foregoing those beliefs seemed to fill him with an almost childish, superstitious fear. Valden hesitated for a moment. The truth was that he understood the mage’s feelings, for discarding such beliefs, beliefs he had dedicated the latter half of his life to, was frightening, particularly because if he did not believe in them, that meant that the world, and all that happened within it, was random, that there was no power greater than their own looking after them. It meant that, in the end, they were alone.

Priest could not find the words of his belief as he once had, words that might give the mage comfort, but he decided there was some little bit of comfort he could still offer the man. “Forgive me, Challadius,” he said, “I misspoke. I only meant that I have been afraid, but I will pray to the goddess for guidance, and I am sure that all is well and all will be well.”

The mage let out an almost imperceptible sigh at that, nodding his head and apparently accepting the lie. “Ah, right.”

Priest watched him for a moment. The man still seemed afraid, uncertain, but he had done what he could. He turned back to Maeve. “You ask me, Maeve, why I will go, knowing the dangers, and so I will tell you. I will go because Prince Bernard asked us to.” And while I may have lost my faith in many things, I have not lost it in him.

She sighed. “I still think it’s a mistake, but if you think it’s worth it…”

“I do.”

She nodded and, before he knew it, it seemed to him that before even she knew it, she had pulled him into a tight embrace. “Be careful, okay?” she asked.

“As careful as one can be while sticking his head in a lion’s mouth,” he said smiling.

She pulled away after a moment and then Chall walked up, fidgeting and looking at his feet like a child preparing for a good scolding. Priest found himself smiling. “This is not goodbye, Challadius,” he said softly.

“You don’t know that,” the mage said.

Well, that was true enough—there were many things Priest did not know, now in particular—so he only nodded, offering his hand. The mage blinked, staring at it for a moment and then, before he could react, Priest was pulled into a hug so tight it took his breath away. He grinned, hugging the man back.

Then Chall pulled back, ending the embrace as quickly as it had begun. “You’re a good man, Priest,” he said, refusing to meet his eyes. “A good…friend.”

“As are you,” he said, “but for the task ahead, Chall, I am not Priest. I am Valden—that and that only.” Perhaps forever. He turned to Maeve. “I will meet the two of you at the castle as soon as I may. However this turns out…there are things we need to discuss.”

And with that, he turned and left.