“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.”