A sound came behind him: pilgrims on their way to worship. He crept down the ledge and dropped to the sand, running into the shadow of a rock.
Amalya lifted the ladle from the stew and motioned towards Eyul, who sprang to service. She’d done everything with one arm except pour the water from the well, and he had been waiting for a chance to help. He put a bowl on a rock beside her and held it steady while she poured, then did the same with the second bowl.
When both were filled he handed her one and squatted down to eat. “Smells delicious.”
She gathered her next bite. He could see that she smiled.
“It’s nice to have a full night between us and the cliffs.” Amalya nodded as she chewed, bent over her next spoonful.
She moved her bandaged arm freely, and there was no sign of the fever that had plagued her.
But she remained gaunt; Eyul could make out the sharpness in her cheekbones and the hollow of her throat. She looked up, and Eyul busied himself with his stew. He felt a fool, to be staring. Part of him wished this trip to be over; it was far easier to follow Tuvaini through dark corridors, listening to his thoughts on everything from warcraft to the supremacy of coastal olive oil…
Easier, but less interesting, perhaps.
She was still watching him, not moving, her hand on her knee. “I trust you, Knife-Sworn.”
Eyul put down his spoon and spent a few seconds balancing his bowl between two curved rocks next to the fire. It gave him some time, but he still couldn’t think of a response other than, “Pardon?”
“At one time you frightened me. But not any more.”
“Now the hermit frightens you.” He focused on the flames, her flames. Her magic.
“I feel great power in the hermit, though he can’t do the simplest tasks of a Tower mage,” she said. “I don’t understand it, and it frightens me. Metrishet hides from him.”
“Metrishet?”
“My fire.”
Eyul had heard hints about the elementals, that they had personalities and thoughts of their own. “Does he- Does it think?”
“Yes, he thinks, and he communicates.” A dark look crossed her face. “He does not like our world.”
Amalya carried something alive inside her, while Eyul carried only ghosts. Did Metrishet resent Amalya? Did the elemental beg for his freedom the way his ghosts begged for justice? He cleared his throat, looking for a way to frame his next words. “The hermit says he can help Beyon against the Carriers.”
She took another bite, then said, “That would take a great deal of power, to stop the disease from spreading.” Clearly she knew nothing of Beyon’s markings; the words held no special meaning for her.
“Would it? Perhaps it just takes some learning. He has old texts, documents, things that aren’t available to everyone.”
“Could be.” Amalya leaned over her bowl, her brows drawing together in thought.
Eyul picked up his food and said nothing for a time. He didn’t know how to broach the subject of Govnan. Amalya herself had told him to find the centre and use his Knife. The hermit had shown him the centre. And yet, when he opened his mouth to speak of Govnan, no words came forth.
Guilt filled him. Amalya had told him she trusted him, and yet he kept silent. Eyul put aside his bowl again. So many of his victims he knew nothing about. What use was it, when drawing a blade across a man’s throat, to know his likes and dislikes? To know who had loved him, and who had trusted him? And yet he couldn’t resist. “What about Govnan?” he asked.
It was Amalya’s turn to be confused. “Pardon?”
“You trust me-what about Govnan?”
“Of course I trust him.” She put her empty bowl next to his half-full one. “We both serve Beyon.”
“The mages serve the empire,” he said, thinking of Tuvaini.
“People sometimes differ on what that entails.” She drew in her breath. “Beyon is the empire.”
“All right,” he said, taking the bowls and standing up.
“What do you think the empire is?” she asked. “The buildings? The army? The scribes?”
“No, you’re right.” He took a handful of sand and poured it into her empty bowl. “We both belong to Beyon.”
“The Tower belongs to Beyon,” she said, “and Govnan is the Tower.”
“All right,” he said again, not sure why he was unable to say more. He scrubbed the bowls, watching her outline against the sky, and she watched him, not speaking, until at last she crawled into her tent.
Eyul could feel the morning’s heat on his shoulders, weighing him down, the burden of another day. He missed working for Tahal, who had been sure and fair. He had never struggled with doubts under Tahal. He’d been a strong emperor, never weak, until the very end, and even then Tahal had taken steps to ensure the empire would remain whole. The deaths of his boys ensured a unified palace and a unified army…
And yet, what was good for the empire had been poison for Eyul. Tahal had loved him, and Tahal had destroyed him. He’d given Eyul the Knife, knowing what was to come. He had doomed him No; before Tahal there had been Herran, and before him Halim, and before that, Eyul himself. He had been chosen for his nature.
He threw the bowls to the sand and looked at his tent. The nightmares waited for him there. He did not wish for sleep, nor did he wish to wait here for the full light of the sun.
A sandcat appeared over the crest of the dune, its lithe body slinking towards him. Dawn gleamed along its yellow hide. A good hunter, it could overwhelm its prey in seconds-as could he. The animal watched him, its head low, its green eyes shining in the rising sun.
Eyul met its gaze, his shoulders falling in relief. “I am tired of hunting, my friend. If you want me, I am here.”
“No.”
Eyul was startled-had the whisper come from Amalya? The cat took one step towards him, then turned away, drawn perhaps by an easier kill beyond the dune. A flick of its paws, and it disappeared from sight. It was only then that Eyul felt his fingers on the hilt of his Knife, ready to draw. Not so ready to die then after all.
He unbuckled his belt. The leather, worn as it was, felt rough in his hands. He laid it out, checking it from buckle to pointed end. The Knife looked small, powerless in its sheath, the metal of the hilt twisting dark against the lighter color of the dune. A gusting wind kicked sand against Eyul’s back, tiny needles pricking his neck, and he stretched, feeling light without his weapon.
Wrapping the bandage around his eyes, he counted fifteen steps to Amalya’s tent. He dropped to his knees and scratched lightly at the flap.
A rustle, and then her voice came, velvety with sleep. “Eyul?”
“When we met, you asked me how I became an assassin.” She was silent, but he felt her listening on the other side of the cloth.
“There was a man-a cruel man. Jarek. I spent many days with him, weeks, maybe months.”
“He taught you to kill?”
The simplicity of her question caught him off-guard. “No-no, at the time I was just a boy lifting purses.” He remembered hiding in a doorway, slipping after his mark, the soft feel of leather against his fingers, and the shouts, the chase.
“The guards said I’d lose my hand, but first they put me in Jarek’s cell.” For a moment he felt Jarek’s breath on his neck, heard the shouts of the guards taking bets. When will the boy scream? Eyul cleared his throat. “He didn’t know how to kill, at least, not on purpose.”
“I see.”
He drew his fingers through the sand, as he’d seen the hermit do, and closed his eyes against the morning light. “One day-I remember it was a cold day-they passed a sword through the bars to me. They said if I killed Jarek, they’d let me go. A visitor came and watched me try. He was young, well-dressed.” No bets were taken that day, in deference to the visitor with green robes and serious eyes.
Halim had always been serious. Each turn of the blade, every thrust and step, could save or end your life, he’d said. In training there had been no cause for levity. In the end, Halim had been a better teacher than an assassin. He’d died when Eyul’s beard was still new and soft on his cheeks. Halim never knew grey hairs or creaking joints, but he had known regret. The one thing he never taught Eyul was how to live with it.