"Your friend." He spoke the words as though they were an expletive. "That's all?"
She started to reply but stumbled over her tongue.
Finally she said, "When I returned from abroad my mother ... told me something."
She looked up at him and he could see tears pooling in her eyes.
His legs went wobbly. He held his breath.
"She said... that before you went to find the shadow demon..."
She trailed off and looked away, blinking. It took her a moment to recover.
"She said you left me a note."
His mouth went dry. He reached for his reading chair, to steady himself.
Shamur had found the note; Thazienne had never seen it.
He could not form words.
"She told me what it said."
He felt his whole body flush red. His eyes found the floor. For a fleeting, wonderful moment, he thought she might throw herself into his arms. She didn't.
"And?" he said.
She spoke softly, but Cale heard the firmness behind her tone. She had already had this discussion in her mind, tens of times probably.
"And? Gods, Erevis. What did you think would happen? We had a special relationship, but—Did you think I'd read that note and swoon? Did you expect me to fall into your arms at the power of your words? Did you—?"
"I don't know," he cut in. "I wanted you to know, that was all. Damn it!" He clenched his fist at his side. "What I expected was to die! Nine Hells, woman, I went after that thing because of what it did to you!"
The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. It shamed him to have stooped so low.
Her face reddened, and her forehead creased with anger. She strode forward into the room, right up to him, and looked into his face.
"How dare you even suggest that, Cale. Do you think I'm obligated to you for that somehow? You do, don't you?"
He didn't answer. Mostly, he thought the answer was "no." But at least some small part of him thought the answer was "yes." She saw the hesitation in his eyes and smacked him. Hard.
"I'm not a treasure to be won, you bastard." She put a finger on his chest. "Besides, you didn't go after that thing because of me. You went after it because it hurt you. Make no mistake about it. It may have hurt you by hurting me, but it was you—you—it hurt. Don't ennoble your motivations by cloaking your need for vengeance with ..."
She stopped before saying "love," but Cale knew what she meant. The word hung between them, suspended in the silence, heavier than her perfume.
Cale did love her. He still loved her, despite it all. But now her presence only hurt him, and that hurt came out of him as anger, no matter how much he wished it didn't.
She went on, merciless, just as he had always told her to be: "You don't know what to do with yourself if you're not killing things, Cale. I know what you are. I heard how you fought that demon. How could you ever have thought—"
He didn't realize what he was doing until he had already grabbed her by the shoulders and started to fling her away. He stopped himself before throwing her to the ground.
Shocked, he looked at his hands as if they didn't belong to him. She stared into his face, wide-eyed. He released her as though she were white-hot. His gaze found the floor, and tears formed in his eyes. He wanted to pull her to him and whisper an apology into her hair, but he felt paralyzed.
She had always brought out the best in him, and he had allowed her to see the worst. Shame and anger burned in him, shame that he had dared put his hands on her and anger at her words, which hit too close to his own thoughts. She thought he was a killer. She might as well have stabbed him in the gut and split him down the middle.
Silence sat heavy in the room for heartbeats that felt like hours. When at last he looked into her face again, the face of the woman he loved, he saw that it too was red with shame. She knew she had hurt him. Like him, she had done something she regretted. And both of them knew that what they had done and said could never be taken back.
"Leave, Tazi," he said.
"I'm sorry, Erevis."
She reached out a hand. He dared not take it.
"Me too," he said. "Gods, me too. Now leave. Please."
Tears welled in her eyes. She cradled her hands to her chest. He had to look away. He felt her eyes on him but neither said anything. After a few moments, she turned and hurried from the room. The slam of the door echoed in his brain. He realized then that the last touch they would share would be his hands on her in anger. In that instant, he hated himself.
After a time, he wiped the tears from his eyes and sagged onto the corner of the bed. Only then did he realize how badly he was shaking. He had killed men without allowing his heartbeat to accelerate, but arguing with Thazienne had left him a trembling idiot with no self-control.
An eternity later, a knock at his door brought him back to himself.
For a wonderful, hopeful moment, he thought it might be Thazienne returning. But he knew it could not be—the knock was too forceful, too casual. He rose from the bed and composed himself. The knock repeated.
"Mister Cale?" Cora's voice sounded from the hall.
"Yes, Cora. Come in."
The young maid opened the door. Her eyes went wide when she saw his clothing and weapons. She had not been on staff when he had fought the demon in the great hall. She did not know that he was . . . what he was. He did not bother to explain.
She held in her hand a letter sealed with a dollop of dyed beeswax. She seemed to have forgotten her business.
"Cora, is that for me?" he asked, indicating the letter.
"Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, Mister Cale." She approached him cautiously, as though he was a dangerous animal, and she held out the letter. "This arrived by messenger less than a quarter hour ago. Your door was closed so I—"
"That's fine, Cora. Thank you for your consideration." He took the letter and said, "That will be all."
She fled the room without another word. Cale shut the door behind her, sat in his reading chair, and examined the letter. The wax was marked with the general seal of a licensed scribe-for-hire. He cracked it and unfolded the parchment. The letter contained only seven words:
Usual place. Tonight near midnight. Important. Riven.
Cale stared at the words without understanding their meaning. His exchange with Thazienne still preoccupied his mind. He replayed it again and again. His face still stung from where she had slapped him. His heart still stung from what he had done.
It took a few moments for the import of the letter to register.
Riven wanted a meet at the Black Stag. Why? Though the Zhents were in the midst of an internal religious war—Cale knew that the Scepters were pulling Zhent corpses from the bay almost daily; mostly Cyricists—Riven had left the Network months before. He would not be involved in that. What then?
He shook his head. He could not reason clearly. His mind seemed unable to focus on anything but Thazienne ... the look of shock on her face when he had put his hands on her, the sound of her voice when she had called him a killer.
Tired to his bones, Cale refolded the letter and placed it in a pocket—a letter written by one killer to another. He looked around, at the door through which Tazi had exited his room, at the door through which she had exited his life.
There's nothing more for me here, he thought.
Whatever Riven wanted, there was only one way to find out. And it could not be worse than being in Stormweather Towers.
He threw on his cloak and walked out the door. At least he had somewhere to go.
CHAPTER 4
THE BLACK STAG
Cale exited Stormweather Towers through one of the manse's less-trafficked side doors. With the family at table and most of the staff occupied with dinner preparations, he managed to exit the house unseen by anyone. That was just as well. He had already said his goodbyes.