6 FLAMERULE (DUSK)

THE GODS MUST BE MAD,” KALEN SAID. “TEN PEACEFUL DAYS in Luskan.”

“Ten days,” Sithe said, a dozen paces behind him. “But not without battle.”

“Indeed.”

Neither Kalen nor Sithe had slept more than a few hours during the last tenday. They’d spent that time in the streets or on the rooftops, breaking arms or jaws, putting folk on the ground. Every time they took down an edict-breaker, they hauled the unfortunate back to the appropriate tavern to lie on a cot and heal. Between the two of them, they must have beaten half of Luskan senseless.

And in all that time, Kalen had killed no one. Even Sithe had killed only one foe—Duulgrin. Ten days of peace, without real bloodshed.

The Dead Rats had not been idle during Shadowbane’s reign, either. Every time a battle saved a business or righted a wrong, Kalen sent Rats with some of their own stores: food, wine, rope, supplies of all sorts. The gang was, like its namesake, notorious for hoarding. The efforts had helped: Luskan actually seemed like a city once more, albeit barren of anyone on the streets, and that was something Kalen had never thought to see.

Also, the Rats had kept ears and eyes open, seeking disappearances. As far as they knew, the Fury hadn’t struck again, so Kalen’s plan was working. He hoped tomorrow would draw the source of the scourge out of hiding.

The two enforcers stood, watching the sun set from the roof of an abandoned building flanking the market square. The place where tomorrow, a king would be chosen.

“You know this kingmaking of yours will end in blood,” Sithe said.

“It is the way of Luskan.” Kalen nodded.

The genasi gave him an approving look. “You are ready, then?”

Without waiting for an answer, she came at him, leaping through the air with impossible speed. Her axe scythed across as though to take his head from his shoulders. He bent at the knees, no faster or farther than he knew he needed to. He trusted himself. The axe passed within a hair of his scalp. He rose in its wake so smoothly it seemed to have passed right through him.

They faced each other across five paces—Sithe with her axe, Kalen with his daggers drawn and ready. He pulled back his increasingly tattered cloak, showing only a plain black tunic and leggings.

“No armor?” Sithe asked.

“I am armored by my faith,” Kalen said. “Just as you are.”

“Faith in what?”

“That I am no murderer for my god,” Kalen said.

“We shall see.”

Sithe attacked again, her axe tracing an arc of fire through the air. He dived around her, his blades slashing along her side. She swayed just wide of his steel, but the attack had come close—close enough to have drawn forth her warding darkness. The dying flames of Sithe’s axe illumined their faces.

“Are you going to tell me?” Kalen asked. “What Myrin meant—‘all for nothing’?”

“Why should I know?” Sithe asked. “I have spoken thirteen words to the girl.”

“Because you know something of nothing, Lady Void.”

That struck her. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. He could not help thinking he had made a terrible mistake.

She raised her hand and an invisible force wrenched him straight into her scything axe. He dodged low at the last instant and rolled between her legs. He rose and faced her once more.

“You’ve set aside your armor, but all your defenses are still in place,” she said. “You refuse to accept the truth. You fear to be your god’s instrument—the hand of vengeance.” She raised her axe. “You prefer fear to faith.”

“I told you,” he said. “I fear nothing.”

“And what of Myrin?”

Kalen hesitated.

Sithe pointed at him and bonds of darkness formed around his legs and arms. Before he could react, she came rushing toward him, her axe raised.

Kalen tried to dodge, but Sithe’s power hobbled him and he stumbled. He crossed his daggers in front of his chest to block, but Sithe’s axe shattered right through his defense and sank with a wet thunk into his chest.

He felt the blow only a little—mostly, Kalen felt the impact as it hammered him into the rooftop like a heated blade caught between a smith’s hammer and an anvil. He saw more than felt blood welling around the ripping blade of Sithe’s ugly weapon. For some reason, he couldn’t move his arms or legs. He couldn’t—

Sithe wrenched the blade forth in a great gout of blood and flesh.

He felt that, assuredly—felt the jagged blade rip into his insides and light a fire that brought darkness lunging at him from all sides. His body reacted of its own accord, limbs twitching toward the wound. The world wavered and he gasped for breath.

Sithe threw a leg over him, straddling his chest and pressing his wound closed with her body. She put her face to his, almost as though they might kiss—but no desire or even mercy shone in her eyes. She caught his cheeks between her hands.

“Do not fight this,” she said. “Rather, embrace it.”

He could feel sucking darkness. The pain from that initial wrench subsided, replaced by a numb confusion as his body struggled against the inevitable.

“I—I cannot feel it,” Kalen said. “My spellscar. I cannot feel—”

She punched him in the face, silencing his protests. “This is death,” she said. “Spellscar or no, this is the death you have carried since birth—since ever your father looked upon your mother with lust and she upon him with the same.” She wrenched his head up and their noses touched. “You are not responsible for this.”

“But my spellscar—”

“If you had never acquired a spellscar, still you would feel nothing,” Sithe said. “You feel nothing because you fear to. You fear the truth of your doom—a doom you have always known and always chased—and you fear to live in spite of it.”

“No, that—that isn’t—” Kalen’s words felt sluggish now, his body fading. “I—I cursed myself. I brought this doom upon me. I have chosen this.”

“You are a bigger fool than I could have imagined,” Sithe said.

She stood, releasing the pressure on his wound.

Involuntarily, Kalen’s throat cried out like a terrified child. His body seized in a rictus of agony, then collapsed.

He thought about Myrin.

Darkness.

Sithe crouched beside the dying man, her chin on her hands. Blood flowed freely from the rent in his chest and his body was twitching its way into oblivion.

She could let it end, she realized. Killing was her purpose—death her only lover and master. What right had this man to life, when he sought at every turn to deny it?

She might have left him to die, but she saw something more. She saw what he was … and what he could be.

She drew a vial of white liquid from her belt and forced its contents down Kalen’s throat.

Then she waited.

Life came back in a rush and he sat up with a wrenching cry. The wound in his chest had closed, and he could feel the tingling effects of a healing potion.

“Peace.” Sithe put her arms around him and pressed his head to her breast.

Tears welled in his eyes and he wept. He could not say why. In truth, he had not known he was doing it until he saw the tears darkening her bodice.

“Peace,” she said.

For many moment, they sat that way—Sithe holding Kalen as he wept. He kept starting to speak, but no words seemed to fit. When the silence broke, it was Sithe who spoke.

“You fear death less than you fear the truth,” she said. “And that is laudable.”

“What truth?” he asked.

“Terrible things befall all men,” she said, “and you are not special.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All your life, you strive to make amends,” Sithe said. “This death inside you—you believe it your punishment for a life of sin.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “Why else would I have this curse?”

“Death needs no reason.” Sithe met his eyes. “You were born with this darkness and you will die with it. There is no meaning or greater explanation. It simply is.”

She eased away from him, leaving him kneeling alone on the rooftop. She turned toward the sunset.

Kalen knew she was wrong. As a boy, he had wandered into a storm of spellplague—that was the source of his curse—and yet … He looked at his fingers, scarred from when he had gnawed them as a child. His lips as well were hardened. The spellplague hadn’t stolen feeling away. It had made it worse, undeniably, but the numbness was his own.

And if it was …

“Myrin lied to you,” Sithe said at last.

“When?”

“In her letter,” Sithe said. “She claimed she drew death out of you and that you would live just that much longer. A lie.”

Kalen shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“She did not draw out your death, because she cannot—no one can,” Sithe said. “Your death is your own and so is your life. If you yet live, it is because you choose to and for no other reason.” She turned to him. “Now get up.”

“I cannot,” Kalen said, his teeth gritted.

“Get up.” Sithe kicked him savagely in the ribs, and Kalen curled into the pain.

He tried to push himself off the ground, but his body wouldn’t move as he directed. He fought to push life into his limbs, but they were cold and dead.

“Understand pain,” Sithe said. “Life is pain, whether you feel it or not.” She crouched over him, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “Do you feel it? Even if your body is empty.”

“In … in my dreams.” Kalen curled up, coughing. “Dreams.”

“Ah.” Sithe reached down and ran her cold black fingers across Kalen’s sweaty brow. “And what do you see, in these dreams?”

“I see faces.” Kalen panted. “All of them—the men and the women I have killed. Vaelis, my old apprentice. They …” His eyes blurred. “Their eyes are open. Waiting.”

Sithe bent lower, her face to his face. “Do you know what I see in my dreams?”

Kalen sniffed, his eyes bleared with tears. He shook his head slightly.

“Nothing,” Sithe said. “I see nothing when I close my eyes. There is nothing inside me.” She put her hand on his chest. “For you, you choose to feel nothing, but for me”—she touched her hand to her breast—“for me, I am emptiness. You understand?”

He nodded.

“Hate,” she said. “Hate is how I move—how I defeat you. Because I believe in hatred.” She closed her hands together in front of her mouth. “And what of you?”

“There is …” Kalen coughed, then focused on her face. “For me, there is more.”

Sithe stared for a long moment into Kalen’s eyes. Her black gaze was like the eternal night sky before the stars emerged. “Then stand,” she said, “and show me.”

“But—” Kalen groaned.

“I thought as much.” She turned her back and strode away.

Kalen fell into himself, Sithe’s words echoing in his mind. His scar—his curse—predated the spellplague. It was born instead, as he had been. Aye, he was scarred by magic. Indeed, he had ever—until this moment—known it for a curse. Now he wondered if there was not power to be held. The power of a god’s chosen murderer.

Without knowing how, he rose. He should not have been able to move—the potion Sithe had forced down his throat had not healed him that much. Yet he rose. He held only a splintered dagger—the remains of his defense against Sithe’s axe—and yet he rose to face her.

“I know what he saw,” Kalen called. “The man, when he looked into the abyss.”

Sithe paused and looked back. She did not appear surprised. “Yes?”

“He saw death,” Kalen said.

“Yes,” Sithe said. “He saw death, as you say. Why, then, was he pleased?”

“Because it meant he still lived.”

Sithe stared at him a long, long moment. She offered the slightest of nods.

“There is a void within each of us,” she said. “Whether we try to fill it with faith or with magic, with will or with love, each of us must accept that it remains—boundless as existence and infinite as nonexistence. Fill yours with hate and you will be like me.”

“No,” he said. “I have something more powerful than hate.”

“Oh?” Sithe eased into a fighting stance. “Then show me.”

He ran toward her. The splintered dagger in his hand blazed with light—not unlike that of Vindicator—and he let power surge through his arm. His fingers tightened around the hilt and his hand shook, but he would not falter. Anger surged within him—anger and justice.

As he charged, the genasi slashed at him. He had no defense to offer—none but his faith. The axe clanged off his shoulder as though it struck something metal and skipped off.

He lunged at her, striking her full in the chest with his shining dagger. Holy power flowed through him—the power of the Threefold God, channeled not for healing but for avenging. He buried the blade deep into her—or would have, had it not caught on the aura of pure blackness that surrounded her.

He saw, in that moment, the armor of her faith flicker around her—powerful, dark, and filled with hate. He saw, reflected in her obsidian eyes, his own: a suit of weathered steel—breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, an entire suit of full plate. His faith was not white like that of some fairytale knight, but deep and gray: dubious in its intent, forceful in its application. He could see his pale eyes reflected in hers. So too could he see the great helm that covered his face.

Their faiths strove with one another until, impossibly, his proved the stronger.

Kalen’s strike drove Sithe back and she toppled to the ground.

They stared at one another in the chilly twilight as the moon rose and the last peaceful night of Luskan began. They stared wordlessly, though many words hung between them.

“What is it,” Sithe asked finally, “this strength you’ve found?”

“I do as I must.” Kalen shrugged. “For those I must protect.”

Sithe nodded. “You are ready,” she said. “Shadowbane.”