Sithe listened to Vincent’s sermon without comment, watching
with an idle sort of interest as the boy vented his grievances. The more he
talked, the softer Sithe’s face became. Her anger—which was actually more fear
and anxiety than anything else—slowly, steadily, drifted off of her face like
dirt off a stone washed in a river.
“... He tried to quit. I should’a seen it. Understood. Helped. You don’t just walk away from Master Akar, ‘cept in a long box down the Pale River.”
Sithe gave a quiet sigh. “You did,” she said softly.
“Sure I did,” Vincent hissed through his teeth. “I got out,
and it got him killed. This was a message, you know. To me. He’s saying this ... this is what happens when you piss on his guild. The guild.”
Sithe smiled gently, and put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder as
tears began to squeeze their way out of his eyes. Coaxing the boy as gently as
any mother, she led him into the kitchen. Cell was wiping William’s forehead
with a sweet-smelling salve that he insisted would soak up fever, while Sythius
sat in the corner of the room, using his fingernails to carve something out of
a block of wood.
Vincent took one look at his friend and his eyes fell out of
his head. “Will!” He whirled on the matron and stared up at her like an
acolyte newly inducted into her personal religion. “I thought—but you said ... ! You said there wasn’t ... !”
Sithe sighed. “I said that Natan del Norak was protected
from my skills. Evidently what he wasn’t protected from is a giant with
hands wider than his head.” She gestured to Sythius. “I suppose I can’t blame
you, for not believing me when I said you should trust in Our Father. But if
you’ve ever wanted proof of His work, then consider the fact that the reason
your friend is alive ... is a hunter from the Dark Lands who just happened to
be in the city.”
Vincent turned his rapt attention to Sythius.
* * *
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