He released her wrist and saw her rub it, but her eyes didn’t leave his. They demanded an answer. He didn’t give her one. He stood impassively, trying to ignore the feelings writhing in his chest.
“Take me with you,” she pleaded, her brow wrinkling in distress. She looked as if she would touch him again, but perhaps the recent pain dissuaded her. “Take me back to Dahomey. To my homeland. I’m weary of this land of endless night. Take me, Krywult. Please.”
“I cannot,” he said, shaking his head, backing away from her. His chest heaved with suppressed emotions. He was tempted. He was sorely tempted. There was no way he could unlock the part of his brain where the memories of her lay.
Another tear came down that cheek. She closed her eyes and wept softly. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice thick with despair. The look of grief in her eyes tortured him.
“I have my orders,” he said. “And neither you nor anyone else will stop me from fulfilling them.”
“But why?” she said in anguish. “Why must you obey them? If you won’t save me, then at least save yourself!”
He was more angry now. More angry than he wanted to be. She had unwound something inside him, loosened the moorings, and now his boat was churning on a stormy lake. Part of him wanted to flee from her, to escape into the snow and try to forget her once again. It was torturing him, not being able to remember her.
Take me to Dahomey. Please.
“I am the knife,” he said curtly. “That is my role. I don’t direct the blade. You heal wounds. I make them. We both have our parts to play in this world.”
She bit her lip and shook her head. “No! We are slaves, both of us! I remember being a child at the abbey. It was peaceful there. It—”
“There is no peace!” he said, cutting her off. “What you chase is a shade. An illusion. The abbey was raided. It didn’t protect you. An abbey can’t protect you. Not from someone like me.” He chuffed. “There is nowhere we could go that the Victus wouldn’t find us. Look at me! I would not be safe there either. They would come for us. And they would kill us. But not until after they’d tortured us. I’ve seen what these men do to their enemies.” It made the heat in his chest begin to flag, to fade.
“Please, take me with you,” she said, but it was without conviction. “There is more to life than killing people.” Her voice fell even softer. “If you were with me, I wouldn’t fear anyone. Please, Krywult. You don’t have to obey them. You always have a choice.”
She would never know how close he came to defying Derriko and abandoning his mission. Part of him wanted to protect her. To keep her safe. Yes, there was the fear of reprisal. The knowledge that he would be a hunted man for the rest of his life. Maybe if he’d remembered her, he would have chosen differently.
Maybe that was why they had taken his memories away.
“I won’t,” he said. And he prepared to depart and left her in the shadows of the barn, preferring the ice of the winter wind to the throbs of dying flame in his heart.
He came to regret his choice.
The hall of Shigionoth was ablaze with fire. A huge pit in the center held two roasting spits, and the hot coals beneath the flames shimmered with orange. The trestle tables were up, and the remains of a massive feast lay spread about. Dogs chewed on bones beneath the tables. Huge iron chandeliers, at least eight of them, hung from chains attached to the roof timbers. There even seemed to be a real wolf with a chain around its neck being baited by a child with a gristly bone.
The kishion was escorted into the hall by ten warriors, each wearing a slathering of war paint on their faces. Guffaws and cheers went up among those gathered. The air smelled like ale and cooking venison. At the head of the hall, within a stone inset, sat two wooden thrones on which sat Shigionoth and his wife, Lady Pressa, who had the looks of a Hautlander with her pale yellow hair.
Shigionoth was a bearlike man, and although in his forties, was well-sinewed and had a savage-looking face. A single scar cut across his cheekbone. He had a beard, flecked with the remnants of his meal, and a balding head. As the kishion was escorted up, Shigionoth’s own personal guards emerged from the shadows of the inlet. There were six of them, each brandishing a sword.
On the walls hung tapestries seized from previous raids. Shigionoth was not one to flaunt his wealth. No, the bulk of his treasures were locked within a crypt deep within the bowels of the fortress. But it wasn’t the treasures that the kishion had come for.
“My lord,” said one of the guards escorting him when they reached the alcove. “Here is the man.”
Shigionoth had green eyes that narrowed at the news, his hand stroking his beard. His eyes were full of enmity and also worry. “He’s uglier than you said,” he mocked. “Where are his weapons?”
“He had only these,” said the guard, holding out the kishion’s twin curved blades.
Shigionoth motioned for them, and the guard handed them to him. He took them, eyeing them critically. His wife, Lady Pressa, was nervous. It was hot enough in the hall to make the sweat pool at the hollow in her throat. But she was on edge, not as sure as her husband.
“Who are you?” asked Shigionoth as he eyed one of the blades more closely. “You claim to bring tidings of my son.”
“I’m the servant of the Victus of Naess,” said the kishion.
Shigionoth pursed his lips and set down the blades, one on each of the armrests. His own sword was also there, set against the side of his throne, always within easy reach. The look in his eyes flashed with guilt and then anger.
“The Victus?” Shigionoth said, tilting his head.
“The one you tried to murder last night,” the kishion said.
Shigionoth barked out a curt laugh. “And who are you again to speak such falsehoods in my hall?” He was growing more and more agitated. The kishion watched as his composure cracked, began to fall apart.
“Your son is dead,” the kishion said.
“No,” gasped Lady Pressa.
“And this is the news you bring me?” said Shigionoth, his eyes blinking, his rage building. Those from Naess were so predictable. They consumed hatred as much as their ale. They spent half their lives in a stupor.
“There is more,” said the kishion. “I’ve been sent to kill you.”
Shigionoth rose from his throne, surprisingly sturdy for the amount of drink he’d consumed. There was a look of panic in his eyes as well. His brain would be flustered. The kishion was counting on it.
“You came here?” Shigionoth said in disbelief. “To murder me here in my own hall? And you . . . you told me first? Are you mad? I have your weapons. You’re surrounded by my trusted men. Servant of the Victus, your body will soon be cooking on one of those spits!” He ended with a shout, pointing at the blaze in the center of the hall.
The kishion stared at him without emotion. “You were already dead before I set foot in here,” he answered. “Your son met his end on a frozen pond. And yes, I killed him. I am a kishion. And you drank your death before I arrived.”
“Kill him!” shouted Shigionoth, his eyes flashing with horror. He reached for his own sword.
The kishion swung around and smashed his elbow into the nearest guard’s face. He pulled a two-edged sword from another’s scabbard and kicked him hard on the knee, breaking it. The commotion rocked the hall, shouts and grunts and shrieks filling the air. The kishion grabbed one man by the strap of his armor and threw him down. He parried thrusts sent at him, watching as faces soon grimaced with the internal pains his poison had already infected them with. The sudden rush of their blood, the fighting pulse accelerated the toxin. By fighting him, they were only killing themselves faster.