They call this place the Sighing Mountains, though when I lived in Maniyadoc I knew it as the Slight Hills. That name does not do its beauty justice.
The people here keep away from me, talk little to me apart from what is needed to trade for the few things I require. No doubt they talk of me, if not to me. The cripple who lives in the forest—skin unhealthily pale no matter how much sun he takes—and of the fat man who visits him. I suspect they think us lovers, though we are not.
Dead gods grant me that small mercy.
When Aydor appeared, many years ago now, I thought he had come to end me and it saddened me. I had come to love Aydor as a brother—but he had not come to finish me. His daughter was happily married, had her own life and children, so he had come to find his friend. He comes each yearslife now, stays for the season before returning to his lands and his grandchildren. In all these years he has never mentioned what I did. Never asked me of the act that sent me running from Rufra’s lands, and never have I felt him judging me for it.
We have fought for what we thought was right, killed on occasion, even fought each other once or twice—though I blame most of that on Aydor’s love of drink. We are old now, if shockingly healthy. And if Aydor suspects I ease the aches in his bones and muscles with magic he says nothing, cares nothing.
I live each day as if it is my last.
As well it might be.
When Aydor is not here I don the black cloak and mask of a priest of Xus and go out into the country, doing what I can for those that need me. It is not much, but it is all I have and all I want.
I have said, many times, I am not a good man. A long time ago I came to Maniyadoc to save the heir to a throne. Now I write my story down sure in the knowledge that, one day, someone a lot like me will come into this quiet valley. I hope she comes only for me, that if Aydor is here she leaves him alone, I cannot imagine that will be the case. He cannot help but interfere. He is quite often a very stubborn and stupid old man, and when he is very drunk—which is often—he talks of the debt he owes me.
Of course, he owes me no debt at all.
But one day I will open my eyes to see a figure cloaked in darkness, twin blades held at her sides, death written on her face. I shall fight for my life, of course. And I shall lose. Age is always overwhelmed by youth in the end, and so I shall be overwhelmed, and begin my walk to Xus’s dark palace.
I do not regret my life.
What did she whisper to me, that quiet little princess? What did she say that led me to this place in a faraway valley, sure in the knowledge that one day an assassin would come for me? She said six words. Six words that caused me to forsake everything.
“Don’t let Vinwulf kill me too.”
And I did not.
Her words were the last part. They were the inevitable end of Rufra’s curse. I thought of what Gusteffa had said: “It does not end with me.” How happy she had looked as she went to her death. Because she knew her vengeance was not yet over. Oh, that Adran’s grandchildren would sit on the throne was a big part of it, but she had gone further than that. She had sown seeds that were still sprouting. How often had I seen Vinwulf in Gusteffa’s company?
Too often.
How close had the two of them been?
Too close.
And, of course, there was Feorwic. I had struggled to see how her attacker stabbed her in the back from where he stood, but he did not of course. Vinwulf did it. The man was only ever a distraction. Feorwic moved to protect her friend, as Vinwulf knew she would—and he stabbed her in the back, killed the man who saw him do it and then went after his real target, his sister.
Anareth would never be safe as long as he lived, neither would her younger brother, Voniss’s son, Aydon. Neither would my friend, Rufra. Gusteffa had trained Berisa, but she had also trained another, Vinwulf. She had bent him, and twisted him into everything his father could not bear. Rufra, being Rufra, could never face what his son had become. He was a man full of hope, and he would have hoped for change in his son. But I had seen Vinwulf in the menageries. I knew that change would never have come.
And I had made a promise to Feorwic.
I left my shining Conwy blade, stained with blood, on the prince’s bed, so Rufra would be in no doubt of who and what had happened. So he knew I would never be coming back and that I understood the enormity of my actions. But I made the world a better place. What I did freed him from his curse, saved his life. Saved the lives of his other children.
Or maybe I acted only out of vengeance.
Sometimes I am no longer sure.
So, sister of Xus, fellow of the Open Circle. Take these words I have written, do what you will with them. Burn them if you must, but read them first. And with these papers find Feorwic’s eating knife, which I found in the room of Vinwulf. He had taken it as a souvenir and in the same box were many other things. Know that I did not betray my king, ever. His love for his son blinded him and if Vinwulf had been allowed to prosper then all Rufra had fought for and hurt for, all so many had died for, would have been wasted.
To save an heir, I killed the heir.
On balance, I do not think I regret a thing. I am not sad to die. From what I hear Anareth rules well under the tutelage of her father. Those I loved the most, my master and Feorwic, await me in Xus’s dark palace and I miss them terribly. Rufra will come there one day, and I hope Xus will grant us the friendship of children again. The Children of Arnst say, when they come to harangue the village, all is forgiven in death. I hope they are right.
Because I loved Rufra too. I still do.
He was my king.
My friend.
And my brother.
So ends the third, and final, confession of the murderer Girton Club-Foot.