David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

“Thank you,” Kalida said.

Cadel looked up at her. Perhaps he had been wrong a moment before. Perhaps he did do this for her. Their time together had been brief, but it had been the longest romance of his life. Such was the life of an assassin, the life he had tried so hard to leave, the life that had clung to him as Kalida’s wet hair clung to her forehead.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “About my name, about who and what I was. As you say, I had hoped to change.”

“I understand.”

She smiled at him, and his chest began to ache.

“I have gold,” he said, standing. “I’ve made a good deal over the years. I carry a bit of it with me, but there’s far more of it hidden away.”

He glanced down at Tavis. The boy was coughing less and had opened his eyes again, although he still looked dazed.

“I don’t care about your gold, Cor-” She stopped, looking embarrassed. “I’m not sure what to call you.”

“It doesn’t matter, Kalida. Just listen a moment. The gold is in Cestaar’s Hills, near Noltierre.”

“All right, we can go there.”

He shook his head. “No, listen to me. There’s a pass just north of the city that leads into a narrow, grassy valley. A river flows through it, and there are a few trees, though it’s fairly open. At the south end of the ravine there’s a pair of oak trees-they’re the tallest by far in the entire valley and easy to spot. The gold is there, buried between them.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

“Do you understand what I just told you?”

“Yes, but I-”

“Repeat it to me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tavis staring up at him. His color had returned and he seemed far more aware of his surroundings. In another moment, he would remember the thing he’d seen, the thing Cadel had seen as well, but had ignored.

“The. . the pass north of Noltierre,” she said, her brow creased. “A narrow valley with two tall oaks at the south end. The gold is between them.”

He nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”

“But surely you want the gold, too. It’s for both of us.”

Only someone who had never killed for hire could think as she did. She was strong-willed, and she possessed a fire, a passion, that her sister lacked. But she was far more innocent than she could ever know. That was the only way to explain the hope he heard in her voice, the belief that they might actually have a life together. Had she spent the last several turns as he had, trying to escape from all he had done over the past eighteen years, she would have known better.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, seeing Tavis plunge his hand into the icy water.

Kalida said nothing. By this time she too had taken notice of the young lord. But she seemed unable to do more than just stare, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening in horror, as Tavis retrieved his lost sword from the water.

Even knowing the attack would come, even having resigned himself to his own death, Cadel was caught off guard by the speed with which the boy struck at him, the grace with which Tavis stood and spun. He held himself perfectly still, wondering that he should feel so calm, noting the way water ran off the gleaming steel, like small rivers flowing off the steppe. He saw rage and hate and bloodlust in Tavis’s eyes, in the fierce, feral grin on his face. And he watched the blade accelerate until it became little more than an arc of silver light, like a ghost sweeping through the rain.

Only then, marking the trajectory of the young lord’s sword, knowing where it would meet his flesh, did Cadel Nistaad close his eyes. At the end, he was aware only of the storm around him, and of Kalida’s anguished cry.

The first blow sliced into the assassin’s neck, nearly severing his head. Blood spouted from the wound, darkening Tavis’s blade and pouring down Cadel’s shirt. The assassin toppled to the rock, landing on his side and then rolling lifelessly onto his back.

Cadel made no sound, no movement, but still Tavis didn’t hesitate. Drawing back his weapon a second time, he drove the point of his steel into the man’s heart. Lifting his arm to strike again, he heard the woman cry out, saw her rush at him, her fists raised, her face contorted with fury and grief.

“Stop, you bastard! Stop it! Stop it!”

He dropped the sword rather than level a blow at her, and as she started to beat at his face and chest, he caught her wrists in his hands.

“Let me go!” she said wrenching herself from his grasp and falling to her knees.

For a moment he thought she might take up the sword, but instead she crawled to where the assassin lay, his blood flowing over the rock and mingling with the sea foam. She was sobbing, one trembling hand held to her mouth, the other reaching for Cadel’s cheek.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded.

At first Tavis couldn’t tell if she had asked the question of him or of the dead man. But a moment later, she turned to glare at him over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Because he killed Brienne, and too many others to count. Because he destroyed my life.”

“He didn’t want to kill anymore.”

“I don’t believe that,” Tavis said. He was starting to shake, whether from the cold or the memory of how close he had come to dying, or the realization of what he had done, he couldn’t say. “You know what he was. Even if you didn’t believe us, you heard him admit it himself.”

“He let you live. He didn’t have to-a moment more and you would have died. But he gave you your life. And then when you attacked him, he didn’t even try to defend himself.”

The young lord looked away, rubbing his hands together. It was so damned cold. “That was his choice.”

She didn’t answer, but still Tavis felt her eyes upon him. After a moment he stooped to retrieve his sword. Xaver’s sword. Returning it to its sheath, he glanced about, looking for his dagger. Spotting it near Cadel’s body, he hesitated, then picked it up as well.

“You’re a coward,” she said. “You butchered a man who spared your life and allowed himself to be killed. You may have avenged Lady Brienne, and rid the Forelands of a hired blade, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a coward.”

He made himself face her. “I know.”

She stared back at him, as if unsure of how to respond.

He glanced at the assassin one last time, then started back toward the moor.

Before he had gone far, Tavis spotted Grinsa hurrying in his direction. He moved awkwardly, favoring one leg, and he held his left arm to his chest, as though it pained him. His face was the color of ash.

“Tavis!” the gleaner called, sounding relieved.

“You’re hurt! What happened?”

“I was attacked by a Qirsi, a man working with Cadel. I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not,” Tavis said, reaching him at last and immediately draping the gleaner’s good arm over his shoulder so that he could help him walk. “You need a healer. We’ll go to the castle.”

“Cadel?” Grinsa asked, as they began to make their way across the grasses.

“He’s dead.”

“How. . How did you manage it?”

Tavis shook his head. “Not now. I’ll tell you eventually, but I need time.”

“Of course,” Grinsa said, concern written on his face. After a few moments he said, “I saw a third person with you.”

“Yes. The woman from Duvenry.”

Grinsa glanced at him. “Did you?. .”

“Of course not,” Tavis said with a frown. “She chose to remain behind. It seems she loved him more than she let on.”

The gleaner nodded, and they walked for a time in silence, rain soaking them, wind whipping their clothes and faces.

“So you’ve done it, then,” Grinsa finally said. “You’ve gotten your revenge.”