Daniel Abraham - The Dragon's Path

Cithrin felt her lips press tight. She wanted to apologize for what had happened to Opal, but that would only put Master Kit in a position where he had to apologize again, and she didn’t want to do that. Words and thoughts banged against each other, none of them quite right for the moment.

“What will you do now?” she said.

Kit took a deep breath and let it out slowly before turning away from the song.

“I expect we’ll stay here for the time being. I don’t think Cary’s quite ready to take on the full burden of Opal’s roles, but by the end of the summer, with some rehearsal and serious work, I expect she will be. Between the armies of Vanai and now Opal, the company’s a bit thinner than I like. I hope we’ll be able to recruit a few good people. I’ve found port cities often collect itinerant actors.”

Cithrin nodded. Kit waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, went on.

“Besides which, I find myself rather fascinated by your Captain Wester.”

“He’s not my Captain Wester,” Cithrin said. “He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s his own Captain Wester.”

“Has he, then? I stand corrected,” Master Kit said. The church song swelled, what could have been a hundred voices rising and falling, throbbing against each other until it seemed like some other voice threatened to speak through them. God whispering. It seemed to pull Master Kit’s attention, but when he spoke he hadn’t lost the conversation’s thread. “I believe the dragons left a legacy in this world that is… destructive. Corrosive by nature, and doomed to cause pain. Unchecked, it will eat the world. Wester is one of the few people I’ve met who I thought might stand against it.”

“Because he’s so stubborn?” Cithrin asked, trying to make it a joke.

“Yes, because of that,” Master Kit said. “And, I suppose, the shape of his soul.”

“He was a general in Northcoast a long time ago,” Cithrin said. “Something happened to his wife, I think.”

“He led Prince Springmere’s army in the succession. There were battles against the armies of Lady Tracian that should have been lost, but Captain Wester won them.”

“Wodford and Gradis,” Cithrin said. “But people also talk about… Ellis?”

“Yes. The fields of Ellis. They say it was the worst battle in the war, that no one wanted it and no one could back down. The story is he was so important that the prince grew afraid that another of the pretenders might seduce his loyalty. Convince him to change sides. Springmere had his family killed and his rival implicated. The captain’s wife and daughter died in front of him, and badly even as these things go.”

“Oh,” Cithrin said. “What happened to Springmere? I know he lost the succession, but…”

“Our friend Marcus found out what had really happened, took his revenge, and then dropped out of history. I think most people assumed he died. In my experience, the worst thing that can happen to a man in that position is that he live long enough to see how little vengeance leaves after it. I don’t think he has many illusions left to him, which is why he’s…” Master Kit shook himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wander off like that. Getting old, I think. I had wanted to say again that I’m sorry for what happened, and I am deeply committed to seeing that it not happen again.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I would also like to offer whatever help I can in seeing you safely to Carse. I feel we owe you more than a day’s free labor. A bit odd, I know, but I think pretending to be soldiers for so long left us all with a bit of the camaraderie of the sword.”

Cithrin nodded, but she felt her brow furrow even before she knew quite why. The church song sank in a final, conclusive cadence, and silence seemed to flow into the world like a wave. Seagulls looped through the high air, yellow beaks and steady, unflapping wings.

“Why do you apologize for everything you say?” she asked.

Master Kit turned to her, bushy eyebrows hoisted.

“I wasn’t aware that I did,” he said.

“You just did it again,” Cithrin said. “You never say anything straight out. It’s all I believe this or I’ve found that. You never say, The sun rises in the morning. It’s always, I think the sun rises in the morning. It’s like you’re trying not to promise anything.”

Master Kit went sober. His dark eyes considered her. Cithrin felt a chill run down her spine, but it wasn’t fear. It was like being on the edge of finding something that she’d only guessed was there. Master Kit rubbed a palm across his chin. The sound was soft and intimate and utterly mundane.

“I’m surprised you noticed that,” he said, then smiled at having done it again. “I have a talent for being believed, and I’ve found it to be problematic. I suppose I’ve adopted habits to soften the effect, and so I try not to assert things unless I’m certain of them. Absolutely certain, I mean. I’m often surprised by how little I’m absolutely certain of.”

“That’s an odd choice,” Cithrin said.

“And it encourages me to take myself lightly,” Master Kit said. “I find a certain value in lightness.”

“I wish I could,” she said. The despair in her voice surprised her, and then she was weeping.

The actor blinked, his arms shifting uncertainly, and Cithrin stood in the open street embarrassed by her own sobbing, but powerless to stop. Master Kit wrapped an arm around her and led her forward to the steps of the church. His cloak was cheap wool, rough and still smelling of lanolin. He draped it over her shoulders. She leaned forward, her head on her knees. She felt the fear and the sorrow, but only at a distance. But the landslide had begun, and there was nothing she could do now but let it go. Master Kit placed his hand on her back, just between her shoulder blades, and rubbed gently, like a man soothing a baby. After a while, the sobs grew less violent. The tears dried. Cithrin eventually found her voice.

“I can’t do this,” she said. How many thousand times had she told herself that since the day Besel died? But always to herself. This was the first time she’d said the words aloud to anyone. They tasted sour. “I can’t do this.”

Master Kit took his arm back, but still shared his rough, cheap cloak. A few of the people walking by stared, but most ignored them. The old actor’s skin smelled like a spice shop. Cithrin wanted to curl up there on the cold stone steps, sleep, and never wake up.

“You can,” Master Kit said.

“No, I—”

“Cithrin, stop. Listen to my voice,” Master Kit said.

Cithrin turned. He looked older than she remembered him, and it took a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t smiling, even in the corner of his eyes. There were pouches under his eyes. His jowls sagged, and the stubble of his beard was more white than black. Cithrin waited.

“You can do this,” he said. “No, just listen to me. You can do this.”

“You mean you think that I can,” she said. “Or you expect that I will.”

“No. I meant what I said. You can do this. ”

Something in the back of Cithrin’s mind shifted. Something in her blood altered, like the surface of a pond rippling when a fish has passed too close beneath it. The overwhelming sorrow was still there, the fear that she would fail, the sense of being at the mercy of a wild and violent world. None of it went away. Only with it, there was something else. Hardly brighter than a firefly in the darkness of her mind, there was a new thought: Perhaps.

Cithrin rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and shook her head. The sun had shifted farther and faster than she’d expected. She didn’t know how long ago they’d left the new rooms.