Night Angel Complete Trilogy Part 53

"Momma K, do you think a man can change?"

She looked at him with a profound sadness. "No. And he'll end up hating anyone who asks him to."

Kylar got up and walked out the door. In the hallway, he ran into Jarl. Jarl was grinning like he used to when they were growing up on the streets and he was up to no good. Jarl was wearing what must be the new fas.h.i.+on, a long tunic with exaggerated shoulders paired with slim trousers tucked into high boots. It looked vaguely Khalidoran. His hair was worked into elaborate microbraids capped with gold beads that set off his black skin.

"I've got the perfect job for you," Jarl said, his voice lowered, but unrepentant about eavesdropping.

"No killing?" Kylar asked.

"Not exactly."

"Your Holiness, the cowards stand ready to redeem themselves," Vurdmeister Neph Dada announced, his voice carrying over the crowd. He was an old man, veiny, liver-spotted, stooped, stinking of death held at bay with magic, his breath rattling from the exertion of climbing up the platform in Cenaria Castle's great yard. Twelve knotted cords hung over the shoulders of his black robes for the twelve shu'ras he'd mastered. Neph knelt with difficulty and offered a handful of straw to the G.o.dking. Cenaria Castle's great yard. Twelve knotted cords hung over the shoulders of his black robes for the twelve shu'ras he'd mastered. Neph knelt with difficulty and offered a handful of straw to the G.o.dking.

G.o.dking Garoth Ursuul stood on the platform inspecting his troops. Front and center were nearly two hundred Graavar highlanders, tall, barrel-chested, blue-eyed savages who wore their black hair short and their mustaches long. On either side stood the other elite highland tribes that had captured the castle. Beyond them waited the rest of the regular army that had marched into Cenaria since the liberation.

Mists rose from the Plith River on either side of the castle and slid under the rusty teeth of the iron portcullises to chill the crowd. The Graavar had been broken into fifteen groups of thirteen each, and they alone had no weapons, armor, or tunics. They stood in their trousers, pale faces fixed, but sweating instead of s.h.i.+vering in the cool autumn morning.

There was never commotion when the G.o.dking inspected his troops, but today the silence ached despite the thousands gathered to watch. Garoth had gathered every soldier possible and allowed the Cenarian servants and n.o.bles and smallfolk to watch as well. Meisters in their black-and-red half-cloaks stood shoulder to shoulder with robed Vurdmeisters, soldiers, crofters, coopers, n.o.bles, field hands, maids, sailors, and Cenarian spies.

The G.o.dking wore a broad white cloak edged with ermine thrown back to make his broad shoulders look huge. Beneath that was a sleeveless white tunic over wide white trousers. All the white made his pallid Khalidoran skin look ghostly, and drew sharp attention to the vir playing across his skin. Black tendrils of power rose to the surface of his arms. Great knots rose and fell, knots edged with thorns that moved not just back and forth but up and down in waves, pressing out from his skin. Claws raked his skin from beneath. Nor were his vir confined to his arms. They rose to frame his face. They rose to his bald scalp and pierced the skin, forming a th.o.r.n.y, quivering black crown. Blood trickled down the sides of his face.

For many Cenarians, it was their first glimpse of the G.o.dking. Their jaws hung slack. They s.h.i.+vered as his gaze pa.s.sed over them. It was exactly as he intended.

Finally, Garoth selected one of the pieces of straw from Neph Dada and broke it in half. He threw away one half and took twelve full-length pieces. "Thus shall Khali speak," he said, his voice robust with power.

He signaled the Graavar to climb the platform. During the liberation, they had been ordered to hold this yard to contain the Cenarian n.o.bles for slaughter. Instead, the highlanders had been routed, and Terah Graesin and her n.o.bles had escaped. That was unacceptable, inexplicable, uncharacteristic for the fierce Graavar. Garoth didn't understand what made men fight one day and flee the next. her n.o.bles had escaped. That was unacceptable, inexplicable, uncharacteristic for the fierce Graavar. Garoth didn't understand what made men fight one day and flee the next.

What he did understand was shame. For the past week, the Graavar had been mucking stables, emptying chamber pots, and scrubbing floors. They had not been allowed to sleep, instead spending the nights polis.h.i.+ng their betters' armor and weapons. Today, they would expiate their guilt, and for the next year, they would be eager to prove their heroism. As he approached the first group with Neph at his side, Garoth calmed the vir from his hands. When the men drew their straws, they must think it not the working of magic or the G.o.dking's pleasure that spared one and condemned another. Rather, it was simple fate, the inexorable consequence of their own cowardice.

Garoth held up his hands, and together, all the Khalidorans prayed: "Khali vas, Khalivos ras en me, Khali mevirtu rapt, recu virtum defite."

As the words faded, the first soldier approached. He was barely sixteen, the least fringe of a mustache on his lip. He looked on the verge of collapse as his eyes flitted from the G.o.dking's icy face to the straws. His naked chest shone with sweat in the rising morning light, his muscles twitching. He drew a straw. It was long.

Half of the tension whooshed out of his body, but only half. The young man next to him, who looked so alike he must have been his older brother, licked his lips and grabbed a straw. It was short.

Queasy relief washed over the rest of the squad, and the thousands watching who couldn't possibly see the short straw knew that it had been drawn from their reactions. The man who'd drawn the short straw looked at his little brother. The younger man looked away. The condemned man turned disbelieving eyes on the G.o.dking and handed him the short straw.

Garoth stepped back. "Khali has spoken," he announced. There was a collective intake of breath, and he nodded to the squad.

They closed on the young man, every one of them-even his brother-and began beating him.

It would have been faster if Garoth had let the squad wear gauntlets or use the b.u.t.ts of spears or the flat of blades, but he thought it was better this way. When the blood began flowing and spraying off flesh as it was pummeled, it shouldn't get on the squad's clothing. It should get on their skin. Let them feel the warmth of the young man's blood as he died. Let them know the cost of cowardice. Khalidorans did not flee.

The squad attacked with gusto. The circle closed and screams rose. There was something intimate about naked meat slapping naked meat. The young man disappeared and all that could be seen was elbows rising and disappearing with every punch and feet being drawn back for new kicks. And moments later, blood. With the short straw, the young man had become their weakness. It was Khali's decree. He was no longer brother or friend, he was all they had done wrong. young man disappeared and all that could be seen was elbows rising and disappearing with every punch and feet being drawn back for new kicks. And moments later, blood. With the short straw, the young man had become their weakness. It was Khali's decree. He was no longer brother or friend, he was all they had done wrong.

In two minutes, the young man was dead.

The squad reformed, blood-spattered and blowing hard from exertion and emotion. They didn't look at the corpse at their feet. Garoth regarded each in turn, meeting the eyes of every one, and lingering on the brother. Standing over the corpse, Garoth extended a hand. The vir poked out of his wrist and extended, clawlike, ragged, and gripped the corpse's head. Then the claws convulsed and the head popped with a wet sound that left dozens of Cenarians retching.

"Your sacrifice is accepted. Thus are you cleansed," he announced, and saluted them.

They returned his salute proudly and took their places back in the formation in the courtyard as the body was dragged away.

He motioned the next squad. The next fourteen iterations would be nothing but more of the same. Though tension still arced through every squad-even the squads who'd finished would lose friends and family in other squads-Garoth lost interest. "Neph, tell me what you've learned about this man, this Night Angel Night Angel who killed my son." who killed my son."

Cenaria Castle wasn't high on Kylar's list of places to visit. He was disguised as a tanner, a temporary dye staining his hands and arms to the elbow, a spattered woolen tradesman's tunic, and a number of drops of a special perfume his dead master Durzo Blint had developed. He reeked only slightly less than a real tanner would. Durzo had always preferred disguises of tanners, pig farmers, beggars, and other types that respectable people did their best not to see because they couldn't help but smell them. The perfume was applied only to the outer garments so if need arose, they could be shed. Some of the stench would still cling, but every disguise had drawbacks. The art was matching the drawbacks to the job.

East Kingsbridge had burned during the coup, and though the meisters had repaired most of its length, it was still closed, so Kylar crossed West Kingsbridge. The Khalidoran guards barely glanced at him as he pa.s.sed them. It seemed everyone's attention-even the meisters'-was riveted to a platform in the center of the castle yard and a group of highlanders standing bare-chested in the cold. Kylar ignored the squad on the platform as he scanned for threats. He still wasn't sure if meisters could see his Talent, though he suspected they couldn't as long as he wasn't using it. Their abilities seemed much more tied to smell than magi's-which was the main reason he'd come as a tanner. If a meister came close, Kylar could only hope that mundane smells interfered with magical ones. scanned for threats. He still wasn't sure if meisters could see his Talent, though he suspected they couldn't as long as he wasn't using it. Their abilities seemed much more tied to smell than magi's-which was the main reason he'd come as a tanner. If a meister came close, Kylar could only hope that mundane smells interfered with magical ones.

Four guards stood on each side of the gate, six on each segment of the diamond-shaped castle wall, and perhaps a thousand in formation in the yard, in addition to the two hundred or so Graavar highlanders. In the crowd of several thousand, fifty meisters were placed at regular intervals. In the center of it all, on the temporary platform, were a number of Cenarian n.o.bles, mutilated corpses, and G.o.dking Garoth Ursuul himself, speaking with a Vurdmeister. It was ridiculous, but even with the number of soldiers and meisters here, this was probably the best chance a wetboy would have to kill the man.

But Kylar wasn't here to kill. He was here to study a man for the strangest job he'd ever accepted. He scanned the crowd for the man Jarl had told him about and found him quickly. Baron Kirof had been a va.s.sal of the Gyres. With his lord dead and his lands close to the city, he'd been one of the first Cenarian n.o.bles to bend the knee to Garoth Ursuul. He was a fat man with a red beard cut in the angular lowland Khalidoran style, a large crooked nose, weak chin, and great bushy eyebrows.

Kylar moved closer. Baron Kirof was sweating, wiping his palms on his tunic, speaking nervously to the Khalidoran n.o.bles he stood with. Kylar was easing around a tall, stinking blacksmith when the man suddenly threw an elbow into Kylar's solar plexus.

The blow knocked the wind from Kylar, and even as he hunched over, the ka'kari pooled in his hand and formed a punch dagger.

"You want a better look, you get here early, like the rest of us did," the blacksmith said. He folded his arms, pus.h.i.+ng up his sleeves to show off ma.s.sive biceps.

With effort, Kylar willed the ka'kari back into his skin and apologized, eyes downcast. The blacksmith sneered and went back to watching the fun.

Kylar settled for a decent view of Baron Kirof. The G.o.dking had worked his way through half of the squads, and Sa'kage bookies were already taking bets on which number out of each group of thirteen would die. The Khalidoran soldiers noticed. Kylar wondered how many Cenarians would die for the bookies' callousness when the Khalidoran soldiers went roaming the city tonight, in grief for their dead and fury at how the Sa'kage fouled everything it touched.

I've got to get out of this d.a.m.ned city.

The next squad had made it through ten men without one drawing the short straw. It was almost worth paying attention as the men got more and more desperate as each of their neighbors was spared and their own chances became grimmer. The eleventh man, fortyish and all sinew and gristle, pulled the short straw. He chewed on the end of his mustache as he handed the straw back to the G.o.dking, but otherwise didn't betray any emotion.

Neph glanced to where d.u.c.h.ess Jadwin and her husband were seated on the platform. "I examined the throne room, and I felt something I've never encountered before. The entire castle smells of the magic that killed so many of our meisters. But some spots in the throne room simply... don't. It's like there was a fire in the house, but you walk into one room and it doesn't smell like smoke."

Blood was flying now, and Garoth was reasonably certain that the man must be dead, but the squad continued beating, beating, beating.

"That doesn't match what we know of the silver ka'kari," Garoth said.

"No, Your Holiness. I think there's a seventh ka'kari, a secret ka'kari. I think it negates magic, and I think this Night Angel has it."

Garoth thought about that as the ranks reformed, leaving a corpse before them. The man's face had been utterly destroyed. It was impressive work. The squad had either worked hard to prove their commitment or they hadn't liked the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Garoth nodded, pleased. He extended the vir claw again and crushed the corpse's head. "Your sacrifice is accepted. Thus are you cleansed."

Two of his bodyguards moved the corpse to the side of the platform. They were stacked there in their gore so that even though the Cenarians couldn't see each man's death, they would see the aftermath.

When the next squad began, Garoth said, "A ka'kari hidden for seven hundred years? What mastery does it bestow? Hiding? What does that do for me?"

"Your Holiness, with such a ka'kari, you or your agent could walk into the heart of the Chantry and take every treasure they have. Unseen. It's possible your agent could enter Ezra's Wood itself and take seven centuries' worth of artifacts for you. There would then be no more need for armies or subtlety. At one stroke, you could take all Midcyru by the throat."

My agent. No doubt Neph would bravely volunteer to undertake the perilous task. Still, the mere thought of such a ka'kari occupied Garoth through the deaths of another teenager, two men in their prime, and a seasoned campaigner wearing one of the highest awards for merit that the G.o.dking bestowed. That man alone had something akin to treason in his eyes. No doubt Neph would bravely volunteer to undertake the perilous task. Still, the mere thought of such a ka'kari occupied Garoth through the deaths of another teenager, two men in their prime, and a seasoned campaigner wearing one of the highest awards for merit that the G.o.dking bestowed. That man alone had something akin to treason in his eyes.

"Look into it," Garoth said. He wondered if Khali knew of this seventh ka'kari. He wondered if Dorian knew of it. Dorian his first acknowledged son, Dorian who would have been his heir, Dorian the prophet, Dorian the Betrayer. Dorian had been here, Garoth was sure of it. Only Dorian could have brought Curoch, Jorsin Alkestes' mighty sword. Some magus had appeared with it for a single moment and obliterated fifty meisters and three Vurdmeisters, then disappeared. Neph was obviously waiting for Garoth to ask about it, but Garoth had given up on finding Curoch. Dorian was no fool. He wouldn't have brought Curoch so close if he thought he might lose it. How do you outmaneuver a man who can see the future?

The G.o.dking squinted as he crushed another head. Every time he did that, he got blood on his own snow-white clothing. It was deliberate-but irritating all the same, and there was nothing dignified about having blood squirt in your eye. "Your sacrifice is accepted," he told the men. "Thus are you cleansed." He stood at the front of the platform as the squad took its place back on the parade ground. For the entire review, he hadn't turned to face the Cenarians who were sitting on the platform behind him. Now he did.

The vir flared to life as he turned. Black tendrils crawled up his face, swarmed over his arms, through his legs, and even out from his pupils. He allowed them a moment to suck in light, so that the G.o.dking appeared to be an unnatural splotch of darkness in the rising morning light. Then he put an end to that. He wanted the n.o.bles to see him.

There wasn't an eye that wasn't huge. It wasn't solely the vir or Garoth's inherent majesty that stunned them. It was the corpses stacked like cordwood to each side and behind him, framing him like a picture. It was the blood-and-brain-spattered white clothing he wore. He was awesome in his power, and terrible in his majesty. Perhaps, if she survived, he'd have d.u.c.h.ess Trudana Jadwin paint the scene.

The G.o.dking regarded the n.o.bles and the n.o.bles on the platform regarded the G.o.dking. He wondered if any of them had yet counted their own number: thirteen.

He extended his handful of straw toward his n.o.bles. "Come," he told them. "Khali will cleanse you." This time, he had no intention of letting fate decide who would die.

Commander Gher looked at the G.o.dking. "Your Holiness, there must be some-" he stopped. G.o.dkings didn't make mistakes. Gher's face drained of color. He drew a long straw. It was several moments before it occurred to him not to appear too relieved.

Most of the rest were lesser n.o.bles-the men and women who'd made the late King Aleine Gunder IX's government work. They had all been so easily subverted. Extortion could be so simple. But it gained Garoth nothing to kill these peons, even if they had failed him. the late King Aleine Gunder IX's government work. They had all been so easily subverted. Extortion could be so simple. But it gained Garoth nothing to kill these peons, even if they had failed him.

That brought him to a sweating Trudana Jadwin. She was the twelfth in the line, and her husband was last.

Garoth paused. He let them look at each other. They knew, everyone who was watching knew that one or the other of them would die, and it all depended on Trudana's draw. The duke was swallowing compulsively. Garoth said, "Out of all the n.o.bles here, you, Duke Jadwin, are the only one who was never in my employ. So obviously you didn't fail me. Your wife, on the other hand, did."

"What?" the duke asked. He looked at Trudana.

"Didn't you know she was cheating on you with the prince? She murdered him on my orders," Garoth said.

There was something beautiful about standing in the middle of what should be an intensely private moment. The duke's fear-pale face went gray. He had clearly been even less perceptive than most cuckolds. Garoth could see realization pounding the poor man. Every dim suspicion he'd ever brushed aside, every poor excuse he'd ever heard was hammering him.

Intriguingly, Trudana Jadwin looked stricken. Her expression wasn't the self-righteousness Garoth expected. He'd thought she'd point the finger, tell her husband why it was his fault. Instead, her eyes spoke pure culpability. Garoth could only guess that the duke had been a decent husband and she knew it. She had cheated because she had wanted to, and now two decades of lies were collapsing.

"Trudana," the G.o.dking said before either could speak, "you have served well, but you could have served better. So here is your reward and your punishment." He extended the straws toward her. "The short straw is on your left."

She looked into Garoth's vir-darkened eyes and at the straws and then into her husband's eyes. It was an immortal moment. Garoth knew that the plaintive look in the duke's eyes would haunt Trudana Jadwin for as long she lived. The G.o.dking had no doubt what she would choose, but obviously Trudana thought herself capable of self-sacrifice.

Steeling herself, she reached for the short straw, then stopped. She looked at her husband, looked away, and pulled the long straw for herself.

The duke howled. It was lovely. The sound pierced every Cenarian heart in the courtyard. It seemed pitched perfectly to carry the G.o.dking's message: this could be you.

As the n.o.bles-including Trudana-surrounded the duke with death in their hearts, every one of them feeling d.a.m.ned for their partic.i.p.ation but partic.i.p.ating all the same, the duke turned to his wife. "I love you, Trudana," he said. "I've always loved you." Then he pulled his cloak up over his face and disappeared in the thudding of flesh. their hearts, every one of them feeling d.a.m.ned for their partic.i.p.ation but partic.i.p.ating all the same, the duke turned to his wife. "I love you, Trudana," he said. "I've always loved you." Then he pulled his cloak up over his face and disappeared in the thudding of flesh.

The G.o.dking could only smile.

As Trudana Jadwin hesitated over her choice, Kylar thought that if he had taken Momma K's job, now would be the perfect moment to strike. Every eye was on the platform.

Kylar had turned toward Baron Kirof, studying what shock and horror looked like on his face, when he noticed that only five guards stood on the wall beyond the baron. He recounted quickly: six, but one of them held a bow and a handful of arrows in his bow hand.

A harsh crack sounded from the center of the yard, and Kylar caught a glimpse of the back section of the temporary platform splitting off and falling. Something flas.h.i.+ng scintillating colors flew up into the air. As everyone else turned toward it, Kylar turned away. The sparkle bomb exploded with a small concussion and an enormous flash of white light. As hundreds of civilians and soldiers alike cried out, blinded, Kylar saw the sixth soldier on the wall draw an arrow. It was Jonus Severing, a wetboy with fifty kills to his name. A gold-tipped arrow streaked toward the G.o.dking.

The G.o.dking's hands were clasped over his eyes, but s.h.i.+elds like bubbles were already blooming around him. The arrow hit the outermost s.h.i.+eld, stuck, and burst into flame as the s.h.i.+eld popped. Another arrow was already on the way, and it pa.s.sed through the fraying outer s.h.i.+eld and hit one closer in. The next popped and the next as Jonus Severing shot with amazing speed. He was using his Talent to hold his spare arrows in midair so that as soon as he released a shot, the next arrow was already coming to his fingertips. The s.h.i.+elds were breaking faster than the G.o.dking could reform them.

People were screaming, blinded. The fifty meisters around the yard were throwing s.h.i.+elds up around themselves, knocking anyone nearby off their feet.

The wetboy who'd been hiding beneath the platform jumped onto the platform on the G.o.dking's blind side. He hesitated as one last wavering s.h.i.+eld bloomed inches from the G.o.dking's skin, and Kylar saw that he wasn't a wetboy at all. It was a child of perhaps fourteen, Jonus Severing's apprentice. The boy was so focused on the G.o.dking, he didn't keep low, didn't keep moving. Kylar heard the snap of a bowstring nearby and saw the boy go down even as the G.o.dking's last s.h.i.+eld popped.

People were charging toward the gates, trampling their neighbors. Several of the meisters, still blinded and panicked, were flinging green missiles indiscriminately into the crowd and the soldiers around them. One of the G.o.dking's bodyguards tried to tackle the G.o.dking to get him out of danger. Dazed, the G.o.dking misinterpreted the move and a hammer of vir blasted the huge highlander through the n.o.bles on the platform.

Kylar turned to find who'd killed the wetboy's apprentice. Not ten paces away stood Hu Gibbet, the butcher who had slaughtered Logan Gyre's entire family, the best wetboy in the city now that Durzo Blint was dead.

Jonus Severing was already fleeing, not sparing a moment of anguish for his dead apprentice. Hu released a second arrow and Kylar saw it streak into Jonus Severing's back. The wetboy pitched forward off the wall and out of view, but Kylar had no doubt he was dead.

Hu Gibbet had betrayed the Sa'kage, and now he'd saved the G.o.dking. The ka'kari was in Kylar's hand before he was even aware of it. What, I wouldn't kill the architect of Cenaria's destruction, but now I'm going to kill a bodyguard? What, I wouldn't kill the architect of Cenaria's destruction, but now I'm going to kill a bodyguard? Of course, calling Hu Gibbet a bodyguard was like calling a bear a furry animal, but the point remained. Kylar pulled the ka'kari back into his skin. Of course, calling Hu Gibbet a bodyguard was like calling a bear a furry animal, but the point remained. Kylar pulled the ka'kari back into his skin.

Ducking so Hu wouldn't see his face, Kylar joined the streams of panicked Cenarians flooding out the castle gate.

2

The Jadwin estate had survived the fires that had reduced so much of the city to rubble. Kylar came to the heavily guarded front gate and the guards opened the sally port for him wordlessly. Kylar had only stopped to strip out of his tanner's disguise and scrub his body with alcohol to rid himself of the scent, and he was certain that he'd arrived before the d.u.c.h.ess, but word of the duke's death had flown faster. The guards had black strips of cloth tied around their arms. "Is it true?" one of them asked.

Kylar nodded and made his way to the hut behind the manse where the Cromwylls lived. Elene had been the last orphan the Cromwylls took in, and all her siblings had moved on to other trades or to serve other houses. Only her foster mother still served the Jadwins. Since the coup, Kylar, Elene, and Uly had stayed here. With Kylar's safe houses burned or inaccessible, it was the only choice. Kylar was thought to be dead, so he didn't want to stay in any of the Sa'kage safe houses where he might be recognized. In any case, every safe house was full to breaking. No one wanted to be out on the streets with the roving bands of Khalidorans. houses. Only her foster mother still served the Jadwins. Since the coup, Kylar, Elene, and Uly had stayed here. With Kylar's safe houses burned or inaccessible, it was the only choice. Kylar was thought to be dead, so he didn't want to stay in any of the Sa'kage safe houses where he might be recognized. In any case, every safe house was full to breaking. No one wanted to be out on the streets with the roving bands of Khalidorans.

No one was in the hut, so Kylar went to the manse's kitchen. Eleven-year-old Uly was standing on a stool, leaning over a tub of soapy water, scrubbing pans. Kylar swept in and picked her up under one arm, spun her around as she squealed, and set her back down on the stool. He gave her a fierce look. "You been keeping Elene out of trouble like I told you?" he asked the little girl.

Uly sighed. "I've been trying, but I think this one's hopeless."

Kylar laughed, and she laughed too. Uly had been raised by servants in Cenaria Castle, believing for her own protection that she was an orphan. The truth was that she was the daughter of Momma K and Durzo Blint. Durzo had only found out about her in the last days of his life, and Kylar had promised him that he would look after the girl. After the initial awkwardness of explaining that he wasn't her father, things had gone better than Kylar could have expected.

"Hopeless? I'll show you hopeless," a voice said. Elene carried a huge cauldron with the grime of yesterday's stew baked onto the sides and set it down next to Uly's stack of dishes.

Uly groaned and Elene chuckled evilly. Kylar marveled at how she'd changed in a mere week, or perhaps the change was in how he saw her. Elene still had the thick scars Rat had given her as a child: an X across her full lips, one on her cheek, and a crescent looping from her eyebrow to the corner of her mouth. But Kylar barely noticed them. Now, he saw radiant skin, eyes bright with intelligence and happiness, her grin lopsided not because of a scar but from planned mischief. And how a woman could look so good in modest servant's woolens and an ap.r.o.n was one of the great mysteries of the universe.

Elene grabbed an ap.r.o.n from a hook and looked at Kylar with a predatory gleam in her eye. "Oh, no. Not me," Kylar said.

She looped the ap.r.o.n over his head and pulled him close slowly and seductively. She was staring at his lips and he couldn't help but stare at hers as she wet them with her tongue. "I think," she said, her voice low, her hands gliding across his sides, "that..."

Uly coughed loudly, but neither of them acknowledged her.

Elene pulled him against her, her hands on the small of his back, her mouth tilting up, her sweet scent filling his nostrils. "... that's much better." She yanked the ap.r.o.n knot tight behind his back and released him abruptly, stepping back out of range. "Now you can help me. Do you want to cut the potatoes or the onions?" She and Uly laughed at the outrage on his face. mouth tilting up, her sweet scent filling his nostrils. "... that's much better." She yanked the ap.r.o.n knot tight behind his back and released him abruptly, stepping back out of range. "Now you can help me. Do you want to cut the potatoes or the onions?" She and Uly laughed at the outrage on his face.

Kylar leapt forward and Elene tried to dodge, but he used his Talent to grab her. He'd been practicing in the last week, and though so far he could only extend his reach a pace or so behind his own arms, this time it was enough. He pulled Elene in and kissed her. She barely pretended to put up a fight before kissing him back with equal fervor. For a moment, the world contracted to the softness of Elene's lips and the feel of her body tight against his.

Somewhere, Uly started retching loudly. Kylar reached out and swatted the dishwater toward the source of his irritation. The retching was abruptly replaced with a yelp. Elene disentangled herself and covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Kylar had managed to drench Uly's face completely. She raised her hand and swatted water back at him, and he let it hit him. He rubbed her wet hair in the way he knew she didn't like, and said, "All right, squirt, I deserved that. Truce now. Where are those potatoes?"

They settled smoothly into the easy routine of kitchen work. Elene asked him what he'd seen and learned, and though he checked constantly for eavesdroppers, he told her everything about studying the baron and helplessly watching the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt. Such sharing was, perhaps, the most boring thing a couple could do, but Kylar had been denied the boring luxuries of everyday love for his whole life. To share, simply to speak the truth to a person who cared, was unfathomably precious. A wetboy, Durzo had taught Kylar, must be able to walk away from everything at a moment's notice. A wetboy is always alone.

So this moment, this simple communion, was why Kylar was finished with the way of shadows. He'd spent more than half his life training tirelessly to become the perfect killer. He didn't want to kill anymore.