So, he would wait for them.
And when he got better he would make a spear, the way Orfantal showed him from what he’d learned from somewhere. Finding a shaft of stout wood, heating and trueing it and heating it some more to harden the wood, especially at the point. Once he had his spear, he would go out and hunt down the sergeant who had stabbed him, and then the three who had hurt Jinia, and then the ones in the house who had killed Lady Nerys. He would find them because he had three names. Telra, Farab and Pryll.
He stared down at his scraped knees; and the welts of red from the burns and all the body hair that was now white and fell to dust when he brushed his skin, and all the splashed blood where flies now danced. He could see his pain, inside his head, and it was all red, but he decided to stay away from it.
She called me a Denier, but I never denied nothing. I was never even asked anything, so I couldn’t deny anything, could I? I seen that monastery once, the one on the other side of the river, and it looked like a fortress, or a place where they send criminals. It scared me.
He’d wanted to be a hero. Saving everyone. Saving Lady Nerys just like Orfantal would have done. Nothing ever went right in his life.
She should never have stabbed me. That hurt worse than any caning.
One day I’ll stab her and see how she likes it.
When he heard his ma’s thin voice wafting up, calling his name in helpless anguish, Wreneck shouted wordlessly to bring her to him, and when at last he saw her and she saw him and hurried towards him, he began bawling and could not stop.
Tutor Sagander leaned hard on the crutch. The padding did nothing to ease the ache in his shoulder, but his one remaining leg hurt even more. He had no idea there could be so much pain in one poor body, and every twinge and spasm rode bitter waves. He imagined everything inside, beneath his skin, to be black as pitch, fouled by the pain and the hatred that seemed locked in a savage embrace, like lovers wanting to devour each other. But this was not torment enough. He could still feel the leg that was no longer there, could feel its outrage, its incessant demands. It haunted him, rushing through sensations of brutal cold and searing heat, maddening itch and deep ache.
He stood now, resting, in the narrow corridor, trying to hear the words being spoken at the front gate. From the window of his small cell he had seen Legion soldiers. Things were happening in the outer world, the marching of unheard footfalls; and the isolation he had willed upon himself, in the name of healing, now constricted him, tight enough to unleash a howl in his mind.
That cry battered him. There were Legion soldiers in Abara Delack. A dozen or more had ridden out to the monastery; he’d seen monks mustering under arms, and now it seemed that there was a confrontation at the gate.
And here he was, almost too weak to make his way outside.
The boy had a lot to answer for. Better he had drowned under the ice years ago. And as for the three daughters, well, he’d witnessed enough to know that their father should have slit their throats at birth. House Dracons was cursed, by its own blood, by all its secret histories the Lord guarded so well. But the tutor felt close to some truths. He had not wasted all his time here in the monastery.
He’d rested enough. The pain wasn’t going anywhere. Lurching into motion, Sagander made his way down the corridor. Cell doors were open on both sides, evidence of haste. Within he saw modest possessions, nothing of worth, little of interest.
The cult was reborn. He knew that much. The well in the compound had overflowed. The fountain in the garden ran red for days. That had been unnerving. Kharkanas was probably in an uproar. The Citadel itself had been built around an ancient temple to the river god. Sagander felt a certain satisfaction when thinking about all of that. When one viewed such matters from a distance, it was clear to see that Mother Dark and her cult were but upstarts, and all the blustering and displays of power hid paucity at the heart. His growing sense of contempt for Mother Dark was new, but he found pleasure in its cultivation.
Gasping, he reached the corridor’s end where it opened out to a high-ceilinged intersection. Off to his left ran the colonnaded transept leading to the assembly hall and beyond that the Vigil Chamber and then the front doors. A year ago and he would have traversed this distance in a few score heartbeats. Now it seemed impossible.
He saw no one about, none upon whom he could call for help — although of late they had been less inclined to give it. Their hearts were hardening to him, as he knew they would. Sympathy surrendered to pity and pity gave way to contempt and disgust. He would have to leave here soon. They might well decide to stop feeding him, or bathing him, or carrying him about. People were the same everywhere, no matter what lofty vows they proclaimed. Help was given only in the hope of its being reciprocated. Expectations of reward lurked behind every act of altruism. But he had nothing to offer them, nothing but more need, more weakness, more misery.
