Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Instead, they would move west into Praga in hopes of finding Garec and the staff-wielding foreigner.

When Brexan returned to their room, Sallax was awake and standing at the window watching dawn colour the marsh where Brynne’s body had washed ashore. They had gone looking for her together their first morning at the Topgallant, but Brynne was gone, long ago washed out to sea on a Twinmoon tide. Sallax was recovering well; he stood at the window lifting a heavy log he had pilfered from Nedra’s woodpile, to exercise his damaged arm.

‘Good morning,’ Brexan said cheerily.

‘I did it, you know.’

‘What’s that?’ She folded their blankets and draped them over the foot of the bed.

‘I killed Gilmour, me, Sallax Farro of Estrad. Just me. I did it.’

‘I know,’ she said, straightening the sheets. ‘But Versen told me about Nerak, the one controlling Prince Malagon, and you didn’t have much of a choice. He wasn’t playing fair with you.’

‘I know, but I should be stronger than that.’

‘Aren’t you strong enough? Who else could have survived the way you did, on the streets, eating what you ate?’ She shuddered. ‘And yet here you are, having just bested a Seron with a knife.’ She moved to his side, but he avoided looking at her. ‘You may be the strongest of us all, Sallax, and you’re getting more so every day.’

‘No, I’m not.’ His words fell like stones. ‘There’s something wrong with me, Brexan. Those wraiths did something, and I don’t know if time will be enough to set me free – I don’t even know if I want to be free from it.’

She turned to look out the window with him.

Sallax went on, ‘It’s as if a curtain has been drawn across my mind. For a long time I couldn’t see anything through it, just shadows.’

‘But now?’

‘Now I can see, and think, and remember – some things anyway – but I still can’t find the centre of things. It’s a place in my mind, my heart, my soul… I don’t rutting know, but it’s the place where I used to be, the centre point from which I used to look out at the world.’ He paused.

‘And?’ Brexan prompted gently.

‘Now I’m not allowed back there. For some reason I’m off to one side,’ he gestured, ‘where I can see and think and do, but it’s as if the focal point of me is over there somewhere in the corner and I can’t get back there.’

‘Is that the wraiths’ curse, or is it guilt?’

Sallax grunted in amusement. ‘Which is worse?’

Again, Brexan had no reply.

‘I think the only person who could lift this last veil – and it’s not black any more, it’s just irritatingly dark, as though someone has drawn a cloud over the sun and everything has faded slightly – well, the only way I could open it again would be to see Gilmour, to explain it to him, and to have him tell me that he understands what happened. So maybe it is just guilt. Gilmour never wanted anything except to serve the people of Eldarn – and I arranged his execution. I used to sneak out of camp after everyone had gone to sleep; Steven caught me twice. I would meet him in the forest, or in an inn, wherever he ordered. All I had to do was wander back the way we’d come and he would call to me, reach out for me, pull me in.’

‘Jacrys?’

‘Jacrys. Yes. I told him everything – except that we didn’t have Lessek’s key; somehow that seemed too important, it was bigger than Gilmour and me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that. I hated Rona and everything about Rona, because raiders had killed my family. I truly believed they had been led by Gilmour. I wanted to go to Praga, but whenever I thought about it, something kept me in Estrad. Now I know it was Prince Malagon. The wraith, O’Reilly, showed me that.’

‘But think of the work you’ll do from here on. Isn’t that enough?’

‘I don’t know.’ Finally he looked at her. ‘I wish he were here. I would tell him everything, and then I would beg him to forgive me.’

‘He would.’

‘That’s exactly what Steven tried to tell me the morning Lahp broke my shoulder, but I didn’t want to hear it. I guess a part of me still doesn’t; I need to hear it from him. I suppose when I get to the Northern Forest I will ask him.’

‘Maybe that’s why the wraiths didn’t kill you that night in the river – maybe they realised you needed time to figure things out, and to recognise that Gilmour’s death wasn’t really your fault. Maybe they set you up: gave you a sort of vantage point from where you could see and think and be Sallax of Estrad, but from where you could also observe yourself healing. Maybe they did it on purpose.’

‘They were a marauding band of homicidal monsters, Brexan. They did this to me to amuse themselves. They soaked up my pain and spun it so it would torture me for ever; much more entertaining than simply killing me. You told me that.’

Brexan nodded. ‘You’re right. But perhaps it was a gift anyway.’

‘To live like this?’

‘To live at all. Do something with it, Sallax: make them regret not killing you.’

The sun finally crested the horizon and the salt marsh burst into glistening gold as the sun’s early rays refracted off the thin ice that covered everything.

Shielding her eyes, Brexan said, ‘I think we ought to distract you.’

‘Carpello?’

‘That’s a good place to start.’

Turning back to the window, Sallax squinted. ‘It’s the perfect day for it.’

Carpello leaned back in his chair, watching the girl, Rishta, Rexa, whatever her name was. She had disposed of her skirt as she entered the room and the gossamer-thin, loose-fitting tunic that had already fallen off her shoulders barely covered her tightly encased bottom – those breeches looked painted-on, he thought to himself, barely restraining the drool as he watched for the curve of her breasts through the almost see-through material. Craning in his chair, he felt like a schoolboy. RishtaRexawhatever’s brown hair hung in drooping ringlets, jouncing about and getting in the way: just when he felt certain he was going to get a warm-up glimpse of that delicious young package, her cursed hair swept down like a dressing-room curtain.

What kind of a prostitute was she? You don’t take your skirt off as soon as you come into the room; that’s not how it’s supposed to happen. Carpello felt a flush of anger redden his face; with it came a stirring in his groin. Yes, give her a good beating: teach her some good whoring technique. He felt his body respond to the thought of violence as he watched her pour drinks and slice off slivers of fennaroot – that was mostly for herself, but he would have a slice himself tonight, perhaps two. Have all you want, my dear, he thought lasciviously, for tonight you are going to learn how to be seductive – and what happens when you get it wrong…

RishtaRexawhatever stood up, the loose neckline of her tunic falling closed, and stared vacantly at Carpello: too much fennaroot. Now she was adrift in a narcotic dream of colourful nymphs, floating castles and great winged horses, and that made Carpello angry, that the girl was so wrecked before she’d completed her night’s work. His anger fuelled his erection; he didn’t care; his pleasure was yet to come and she would do just fine – in fact, once she realised what was about to happen, that might even sober her up; it did so many of them.

Although he didn’t much like using whores, especially fennaroot addicts like this one, they all retreated back into that state of youthful shyness he desired. It was true that they couldn’t cry like the virgins when they finally understood where he was about to take them; those nights were like grand holidays, glorious events – but even the most street-hardened prostitute managed a satisfactory squeal or two when she realised what was happening to her.