Dawn (29 page)

You’re different,
Flage said.
I’m here to tell you why.

Chapter 11

A’MEER WAS SMILING
down at Kosar, kneeling so that the sun was behind her and throwing her into silhouette. She was beautiful; her hair was braided as usual, and hanging to either side of her head; her pale skin shone even in shadow. And she was laughing. Many times since leaving Pavisse and settling in Trengborne, Kosar had yearned to hear that laughter again, and now it was a balm for his wounds, a tonic for his soul. He reached out, but she shook her head and drew back, still laughing. He wanted to speak to her but he could not find the words. He felt protective and jealous, wanting no one else to see what he was seeing now, hear what he was hearing.

A’Meer,
he tried to say, but there was no strength to his voice.

Her laughter faded, her smiled faltered. For a few seconds she moved sideways so that he could see the concern on her face as she stared down at him. And he realized then that his emotions toward A’Meer were so charged because he knew that she was dead.

She mouthed something, reminding him of the image the mimics had shown him. That had been a representation of her at the moment of death; this was beyond. And this time he knew what she was saying.

Trust the Monk.

THE RED MONK
—Lucien Malini it had called itself, though Kosar had trouble attaching a name to such a thing—was sitting close to one of the dwindling Breaker fires. It had its back to him. He lay a few steps from the Monk, arms and legs free of the old machine now, his throat so painful and swollen that he could barely turn his head.

I’m going to kill you,
Kosar thought, staring at the red cloak in the poor moonlight. That cloak was stained with splashes of A’Meer’s blood, and whatever he dreamed her saying, she was still dead.
Soon, I’m going to kill you.

The Monk raised its head, lowered its hood and turned around. It was monstrous, just like all the other Monks Kosar had seen over the past ten days. Its head was almost bald and its face was a mass of scars, old and new. Its eyes were black in the moonlight, its face shifting in shadows thrown by the fading fire.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” it said.

“Good.”

“I can help you. Circumstance has made us allies.”

Kosar tried to laugh but it hurt too much. He raised himself up instead, turning and spitting into the dust. There was still blood in his mouth.

“This Alishia you spoke of…”

“I’ll kill you before you can touch her.”

“I don’t seek to hurt her.” Its voice was quite unlike any he had ever heard before. Gruff and hesitant, as though the demon was not used to speaking.

“I don’t believe you.”

“A Monk never lies.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

“Ahh. There’s a dilemma.”

Was that humor?
Kosar thought.
Is it trying to seduce my trust?
He felt only disgust and rage at the Monk. It had killed A’Meer. Then it had tortured truths from him and expected him to ally with it when it chose to act on those truths.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said again.

The Monk frowned and stood. “Then that’s difficult,” it said. “Because I
can
continue on my own to Hess, to tell the Shantasi of the hope there is in Alishia. The final hope to stand against the Mages. The Shantasi will kill me, but there’s a chance that their Mystics will smell the truth in my blood. Less chance than if you presented the story to them…but a chance, at least.”

“You’re trying to
appeal
to me?” Kosar said.

The Monk shook its head. “I’m stating a fact. If you refuse to come, I kill you now in case you fall into the hands of the Mages’ agents. You go for New Shanti, and perhaps with me to protect you, you’ll get there.”

Kosar coughed, swallowed, felt the tang of blood still in his throat. Even the thought of walking was daunting, let alone negotiating whatever dangers there may be between here and New Shanti.

“You sound hoarse,” he said to the Monk. “Bet you’ve never said that much in one go before.”

“Sometimes I talk to myself,” it said. “I’m mad, after all.”

Kosar was glad the demon did not attempt a smile.

He lay back down, wincing as the strain hurt his throat. Smoke from the fire gave the sky some texture, but the moons soon bled that away.

“So you’re giving me two choices,” he said. “Go with you and live, or stay here and die.”

“Yes,” the Monk said.

He closed his eyes and thought of A’Meer mouthing those words,
Trust the Monk.
Perhaps the demon had implanted that image when he gave Kosar the sleeping drug. Or another insect, cut into his brain while he slept to insinuate the Monk’s desires into his mind.

“Of course,” Kosar said, “there’s choice number three.”

The Monk remained silent.

The thief stood, flexed his hands and felt the familiar sting of the brands. “I could cut you to fucking ribbons now, shit in your foul heart and go on my way.”

The Monk did not move. It still had a crossbow bolt in its shoulder. Its hands were dark with Breaker blood. The fire gave its skin a red tinge, and Kosar remembered the Monk in Pavisse that had fought on with slayer spider venom melting its veins.

“Of course, that would be unfair,” Kosar said. “You’re weak from the recent massacre. I have honor.”

“So will you wait until I’ve recovered my strength?”

Kosar nodded. “It’s only right.”

The Monk looked down at Kosar’s hands. “I can cure your brands.”

Kosar splayed his fingers and looked down. “You can fuck off,” he said. The brands were like speckles of burning coal on his fingertips. The blood glistened fresh, and when he touched two fingertips together the pain was exquisite. It was different from the pain in his throat, his back, his ribs; this, he was used to. It was familiar, and with familiarity came some sort of acceptance. The brands were a part of him, and after so long they had started to define him. They were as much a part of him as his eyes, his mouth, any other characteristic by which people formed their first opinions.

Kosar wondered what the Monk thought of them, but he would never ask.

“I really can,” the Monk said. “If you ever want me to.”

“A show of trust?” Kosar asked.

The Monk tilted its head slightly in what passed for a shrug.

I could pick up my sword,
Kosar thought.
It’s lying over there where that thing threw it. Its handle has known A’Meer’s hand, and together we’ll slay this monster and move on to Hess. A’Meer’s message is fresh in me. They’ll believe me when I get there. The Mystics will believe me.
He glanced across at the sword lying away from the fire, visible only because its blade reflected the dying flames.

“If we fight, you will die,” the Monk said. “I am Lucien Malini.”

“You told me that once before,” Kosar said.

“I’m telling you again in the hope that you may listen.”

“You want me to know your name? You want me to believe that you’re human?”

The Monk frowned. “What else am I?”

“Demon,” Kosar said, looking away.

The Monk was silent for some time. Kosar sat again and listened to the crackle of the dying fire; logs settling, sap popping, flames licking the sky lower and lower as though defeated by the dark.

“Our cause is a good one,” the Monk said at last.

Kosar did not wish to enter into conversation with a demon. It would confuse him, catch him off his guard, make him believe that it was right to let it live and accompany him to Hess. It would be sly and devious, though right now it seemed only sad.

“No cause justifies what you do,” Kosar said. “And you’ve already failed. Three hundred years of murdering innocent people and the Mages snatch magic from beneath your nose.”

The Monk did not reply. It raised its hood and stared into the fire, face hidden from Kosar.

Now,
Kosar thought.
I could snatch up the sword and take off its head. Kick it into the fire. Watch it scream without voice as the flames eat its eyes, its brain, boiling away the only true memories of A’Meer’s death.

But he still felt weak, and he had lost a lot of blood. And perhaps he would fumble the sword and the Monk would be upon him, accepting the implied decision and killing him before moving on to Hess.

“Do you really believe that Alishia is a chance?” he said. “Or do you want to kill her, as you tried to do with Rafe?”

“We tried to kill the boy to keep magic from the Mages. They have it now. You’re right; the Red Monks have failed. But our cause is still my only reason for being. We could not prevent the bastard Mages from taking the magic, but perhaps I can help win it back.”

Kosar turned his back on the Monk and lay down. He looked up at the dark sky, ribbons of smoke from the fires dispersing when they rose above the Breakers’ ravine.
It’s a long way to Hess,
he thought.
I’m weak. And the world is a dangerous place, more so now than ever. The Breakers proved that.

He closed his eyes, decision made but not yet spoken.

Besides,
he thought,
revenge can never grow stale.

THEY LEFT THE
ravine together, climbing the same cliff path they had descended several hours earlier. The Monk had disappeared for a few minutes before they departed, and when he returned he carried a spray of plants; heathers, leaves, a drooping flower and a soil-encrusted root. He made a paste and told Kosar it would help.

Kosar placed a pinch of the paste beneath his tongue, and by the time they made the climb from the ravine, his pain had faded to a dull throb. He should be stitched, he knew; the wounds on his back were pouting, inviting infection and chafing against his rough shirt. But there was no time. And while he was willing to accept the Monk’s herbal pain relief, Kosar did not like the thought of the demon crouching behind him and stitching him together with sand rat teeth.

He ran his fingertips across the wound in his throat. The tiny curved teeth were still there, holding the edges of the wound together so the flesh could heal.
I may be dead before this is mended,
he thought.
And then I’ll rot away with a throat full of sand rat teeth.
He giggled, the sound strange in the silent night, and he was glad that the Monk did not turn to share in the joke.

Lucien Malini had insisted on leading the way out of the ravine. Kosar had seen no reason to argue, and he’d rather have the Monk in front of him than behind. Behind them, all the dangers were dead.

Kosar paused on the cliff path and looked back down to the ravine floor. The giant machine was little more than a shadow, the fires dwindled almost to nothing and the Breakers were dark shapes spread-eagled against the light soil. The Monk had killed their children. No mercy. No qualms. It had been killing for so long that it knew no other way.

“I’m nothing to the Monk,” he whispered.
I’m just part of its route to Hess, to the Mystics, to Alishia and whatever magic she may have in her.
He turned and watched the figure in red climbing out of the ravine, sword held ready in one hand. It reached the head of the path and turned, waiting for Kosar.

The thief moved on, splaying his fingers so the cool air could kiss his wounds.