Page 1

Prologue

All of the people I hate are dead. Some of them I didn’t even kill. Perhaps that’s why I’m still angry. Perhaps if it had been my hand on the knife, my eyes the last thing they saw, perhaps then I would be at peace. Perhaps.

I am old. I have outlived my enemies and my purpose. Some people are hard to kill. I’m one of them. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse can be difficult to tell. I’ve lived so often when I should have died. Lived when the better man or woman has stumbled into their grave. Lived when whole towns have burned. Even a city once. Twice. Three times if you count the Port of Laros, though that place catches fire every week.

Everything they said about age was true. That also irks me. All that the wordsmiths wrote, everything that toothless ancients mutter over long-nursed ales, all of it the gods’ honest truth. And yet only as decades stacked upon me could I understand it. Same words, different ears.

Age took the beauty that I never recognized when it was mine. It dressed me in this tapestry of scars, and for each one of them sewn silver through my skin a dozen others lie too deep to see. Age stole my grace and left me stumbling on towards a final sunset. It exchanged a confidence born of ignorance for a fear born of knowing that I do not know. And yet…and yet…it has gifted me a measure of peace I never thought to own. A breath of calm after a storm none of us expected to end. The fires of my rage are old coals now. Quiet, and banked against the coming of night.

I am older than anyone ever imagined I might become. Time’s knife has pared away at me, revealing things I thought lost. And still I don’t know if what lies ahead will be a death of a thousand cuts, or the gentle easing into the last bed I will ever lay my head in. Or maybe, at the end, the world will remember me again and we shall have a final reckoning.

One thing I have yet to learn in all this living is how to tell it. How understanding might flow from old tongue to young ear. Facts are blunt, awkward things, hard to miss, and yet the truths about how the years take from you, and what they give, are not ones that can be packed into a single sentence. They’re too ephemeral, too personal, too subjective to be captured within the net of a single paragraph or page. Not even a chapter could hold them. But maybe an entire book could do it…

1

Molly Plight

The calm before this particular storm had lasted ten years, much of which Molly Plight had spent knitting. Trouble had arrived in the shape of a man of no great height, road-dirty and weather-beaten. Save for the cruel curve of the knife at his hip and the dull glint of mail beneath his fleece, there would have been nothing to mark him. But when he paused in the inn’s doorway and smiled that smile, Molly knew that the peace she’d thought would claim her final days was over. She knew what a predator’s hunger looked like.

“That bull the Millers have won’t last another season.” Jayne Clay, the tiny old woman on Molly’s left, was given to predicting the death of prized livestock. That topic and regaling anyone who so much as paused in her vicinity with the doings of her two dozen towheaded grandchildren constituted the majority of her conversation.

Molly’s needles and ball of yarn lay on the table before her, abandoned in favour of a pipe and a drink. The village children said the pipe smelled like a burning midden heap, perhaps not unfairly, but good weed was hard to find so far from anywhere. The small, thick glass in her hand held ulik, a treacle-dark liquor the locals brewed from turnips. She watched the mercenary cross to the bar. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Doubt was a slap in the face where Jayne’s predictions were concerned. Her ability to number the days of anything with hooves was legendary. “It’s a certainty, girl!”

Molly sipped her ulik and made a face. Pipe smoke had numbed her tongue to the stuff’s foulness, but she could still taste it. On her other side the third of their trio, Ambeth, hugged her ample belly and cackled at Molly being called a girl. Jayne and Ambeth might have a decade and more on Molly, but in no world that they knew of was anyone north of sixty summers a girl.

Cackled. Molly sipped again, winced again, and considered laughter. Age had blunted much of her sharpness, but in turn it had put a harsh edge on her voice and turned laughs into cackles. Still, if that was the worst the years had done to her she would consider herself blessed.

“Another round, girls?” Ambeth patted her coin pouch. She’d sold all the cheeses she’d brought into Stones Corner on Davy’s cart, even the blue that stank worse than Vale pipe-weed, and for once could back her generous instincts with funds.

A “no” opened Molly’s mouth but she bit down on it and shaped a “yes.” One for the road. One to numb the aches before they walked the four miles back to Pye.

The tides that had left her stranded in the Vale a decade back had given no hint that her driftwood life had found its resting place. For the first few years everything had felt temporary—her pack ready by the door for a departure that never came. Instead, the slow and simple existence she’d picked up in the village of Pye had worked a strange magic on her. The steel spring that she had begun coiling in her chest at an age when she should have been chasing butterflies, or at least dreaming grand and empty dreams as she scratched a living from the soil, had started to unwind. The anger that she had for so many years bound ever more tightly at her core had somehow begun to seep away. The dark dreams, the watchful ways, the cynical poison that soured her days, all of it had started to leave her, worn away by passing seasons. Worn away by something as trivial as the community of peasants with no more learning among the lot of them than could be found in the head of any first-year acolyte of Kindness.

Ambeth struggled out of her seat and went to get the drinks, complaining of stiff legs. A mercenary wouldn’t raise many eyebrows in the cities of the west, but out in the sticks where an oddly coloured pig could be the village’s main subject of debate for several weeks, the man was drawing attention. Ambeth eyed him up and down as she approached, wrinkling her nose at the unfamiliar stink of him.

Molly stood, muttering something about the privy. It had been a long time since she’d been called on to do what had once been second nature to her. She had put all that aside, buried it both literally and figuratively. It had stayed buried so long that she had started to believe that that part of her life was over. She’d started to think that this was what her death might be, the slow setting aside of the things that had once defined her. A shedding of armour, one layer at a time. Until at last, she might go to her grave shriven of her burdens—stained by guilt but no longer defined by it.

She cursed as a second, larger man banged in through the street door, this one with a sword on his belt and a blackened iron breastplate. They had to be here for her. Nothing else made any sense. There wasn’t anything a mercenary could carry away from the market of Stones Corner that would compensate the long ride to get to it.

2

Rue

Age would have taken her if they’d just had the sense to leave well enough alone. Some problems are like that—if you ignore them long enough, they go away. Most problems, actually.

The crow hops from one foot to the other on the haft of a broken spear. The feast before it is reflected in the black beads of its eyes. An open grave in which bodies lie in their scores, layered carelessly, sprawled face down as if they might have fallen here rather than been tossed in from the edge of the cold slot in the ground.

The crow cocks its head, choosing. The mottled patchwork shows little exposed flesh: muddy homespun, bloody shawls, grey hair here, darker locks there. No warriors these, just peasants. Hard lives and easy kills.

Cawww? The crow looks up to where a figure looms at the grave’s edge, dark against the sky’s pain as the last of the sun’s light bleeds away. Here stands a man of war, tall in the sharp angles of his armour, unbowed by the rain-laced wind that tugs at his cloak.

“Fly away, storm crow. There’s nothing for you here.”

The crow doesn’t challenge the lie. But its gaze flickers to the dead.

“Greater gods than you have run before me.” A low thunder edges the voice of this man who is more than a man. “Their temples lie in ruin. Their statues are cast down. Their priests are crucified. Their faithful call my name.”