Keiftal gazed back at him. His eyes, beneath his long, scraggly brows showed sadness, pain, and most of all understanding. Benediction seemed to radiate from every wrinkle of his compassionate features. “Teron,” he said, “every soldier on Khorvaire—at least every one with a conscience—has struggled with the same thing. It’s only natural to hate your opponent in a war. In many ways, we trained you to it—not to help you lose emotional control, but to make it easier for you to kill them without remorse.”
Teron laughed again, a single black chuckle. “You did well, honored one, you and the other instructors. The things I’ve done …” Then his face turned gravely serious, even accusatory. “But I never did any of it because I hated the Thranes.”
Within the darkest parts of his soul, Teron walked to the precipice. “I did it all because I hate myself.”
Keiftal cocked his head to one side.
Teron steepled his hands over his nose and leaned forward until his hands rested on the ground. He took several deep breaths, then at last took the final step, the last desperate attempt to prove to his mentor that he was unworthy. “Master Keiftal,” he said, “I killed my own family.”
He heard only the nasal sound of Keiftal breathing. The rhythm did not change, indicating that Keiftal was not the least bit surprised at Teron’s revelation.
Teron’s disquiet grew, and he sat back up. “That’s the truth of the matter,” he said. He dared to raise his eyes to meet those of his mentor, but instead of cold reproach, he saw only absolution in Keiftal’s gaze.
“Let it go,” said Keiftal. “Leave it behind, Dol Arrah has counted you worthy of her intervention, as I have counted you worthy of everything I have to offer. If I do not hate you, if she does not hate you, do not hate yourself.”
Teron pondered this, such all-embracing forgiveness in the face of his total self-recrimination. If his deity and his master held him in such high esteem, how could he add to his self-loathing by disappointing them? He wiped the corners of his eyes with his fingertips, trying to squeeze out the tension that had filled them.
He rose. “As you wish, honored one. I shall take this assignment.”
“No,” said Keiftal, “you shall complete it. Keep that in mind.” He, too, rose. “We’ve prepared everything for you. Our best condensed rations, several letters of credit that have been carefully endorsed by the prelate, some gold and small gems for when you wish to use other methods of payment, maps, and the prelate’s seal to prove that you are about official church business. And here are the portraits of Praxle and Jeffers. Some of the brothers copied them from the papers we found in their luggage. They’re far from perfect, but they should help. That should be everything you need.”
Teron smiled half-heartedly. “That seems to cover everything I might lack, since it seems I still carry Dol Arrah’s favor, blessings be on her for her beneficence.”
“That I am glad for,” said Keiftal, “for you shall need it.”
“Yes, honored one.”
“Quit calling me ‘honored one.’”
“Lathleer!” Oargesha gasped as she looked at the settlement atop the next hill. “At last.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the Fox. She spotted a farmer working a nearby field and hailed him. “Heyo!” she called. “Which town is this?”
The farmer cupped his hand, propping his hoe in the crook of one arm. “Bluevine,” he answered.
“Bluevine?” asked Oargesha. “Where in the night is that?”
The Shadow Fox shrugged.
Oargesha called back to the farmer, asking, “How far to Lathleer?”
The farmer scratched his head, “A hundred, maybe a hundred fifty.”
“Sovereign bitch!” spat Oargesha.
“Watch your tongue, my friend,” said the Fox, waving to the farmer and urging her horse forward. “It’s hard enough to get the gods’ attention. You might want to ensure that when you do get it, it’s the kind of attention you want.”
“Give me some leeway here, will you?” said Oargesha. “It’s dinner time, the horses are run out, my butt feels like it’s on fire, we lost three people for Host’s sake, and here we are at some provincial little Aundairian hamlet a hundred or more miles from nowhere! We can’t keep this pace up, Fox. It’ll take us another three days to get to Fairhaven, minimum, and that’s if none of the horses die on us. By that time, you know everyone will be looking for us.”
“You’re right. This route was probably a mistake.”
“Probably? What do you mean probably?” said Oargesha. She growled in irritation. “Maybe we could press eastward from here. I know we don’t have any camping equipment, but the Thrane border can’t be that far, and—”
The Shadow Fox reined in her horse. “Hold up, Gesha. What’s that over there?” She stood in the saddle and squinted her eyes. “Is that an airship on the other side of town?”
Oargesha raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun, hovering just above the horizon. “I can’t tell from this distance,” she said.
The Fox leaned over her saddle horn for a moment, tempting herself to relax, perhaps even slide off the horse, then she straightened up again. “Just a two miles’ hard gallop,” she said.
“No,” murmured Oargesha. “I can’t.”
The Shadow Fox summoned up what energy she had left and slapped the haunch of Oargesha’s horse. “Heiya!” she yelled and kicked her horse to a reluctant gallop.
A hulking shaggy shape sank into the bushes, beady eyes squinting against the waning light. “Hey! Snouts up!” the creature hissed. “Here comes one!”
Two other gnolls, bestial canine-headed parodies of humans, crept up and joined the speaker, hiding behind a sprawling thornberry bush.
“I told you we should start early tonight,” said the first.
“He’s running very fast,” said the second. “Do you think he’s running from something?”
“I hope so,” said the first. “That way he’s already scared.”
“He doesn’t even have any weapons,” said the third. “This will be easy.”
“Let’s get ready.”
Two gnolls moved over by the road while the other stayed at the lookout’s post. In this particular location, the cart track crested a hill between two thickets of thornberries, making an excellent choke point for highway robbery. It was far enough from Ghalt to avoid town militia, and the hilltop location made it easy to spot marks or law enforcement a good distance away.
The lookout watched as the lone figure drew closer. He was lightly clothed, holding a small pack under one arm, but the speed at which he ran indicated that he was in fear of losing his life or of losing whatever valuables were in the pack. The gnoll smiled. Both would be lost very soon—or from the gnoll’s point of view, gained.
As the lone human passed him, the lookout broke from cover and ran around behind him, penning him in the ambush site. The other two gnolls broke cover ahead of the human and blocked his path.
The human slowed then stopped. He didn’t stumble to a stop as one afraid, just controlled his deceleration. Breathing heavily, the human put his hands on his hips. He looked at the two gnolls ahead of him, then turned halfway around to lock eyes with the lookout and check that his escape was, indeed, blocked.
The lookout smiled cruelly.
The human leaned forward and set his pack down, then placed his hands on his knees, his chest heaving as his tired lungs burned through huge gulps of air. The lookout noticed that large patches of the human’s tunic and pants were drenched with sweat. This is good, he thought. He’ll be tired.
The three gnolls closed and displayed their weapons, carefully chosen for their barbaric appearance. One hefted a halberd, one swung a spiked chain, and the lookout spun a war pick in his great pawlike hands.