“Either way,” William
continued, then his eyes lost focus for a moment before he was able to speak
again. “When Vincent ... left, the master brought me into his private
chambers. I told him ... I told him that I’d done my best, but ... he wasn’t
interested. He said to me—he said:
‘Your best? Well, that’s
wonderful, my son. I’ll just tuck your best into my hope chest, shall I? Feed
your brothers and sisters with it? Why, I think I’ll donate some of your best
to the refugees living out in the abandoned farmsteads!’”
William’s voice grew in
power as he recalled his tormentor’s words. His eyes grew haunted, distant, and he
clearly didn’t want to remember this, yet his mind was trapped inside the
memory and couldn’t escape.
“‘To the Black Cradle
with your best, boy! Out from me, or I’ll feed your teeth to you!’”
Sythius perked up at the
words "Black Cradle," but when it became clear that they weren’t actually talking about the huge forest
that dominated half the continent of Callistora, he lost interest again and
went back to his carving.
“... What happened
after he sent you away?” Sithe asked.
William flinched. He
reached up and bared his midriff. He pointed to a small black dot just above his heart. “I
woke up, the next day, and found this. The mark. His mark.”
“Scratch,” said Vincent savagely. “Akar’s
prized baby-killer.”
At Cell’s questioning
look, Sithe said, “A lot of people thought he was an urban legend. A scare
tactic. His legend tells that, the night before he chose to strike, he would
mark his victims. He would then use that mark to aim his weapon. Arrow, needle,
bolt, sword. Whatever he decided to use, he would always strike that mark.”
“It was a challenge,”
William said. “Just being an assassin was too easy for him. He made it into a
game.”
Cell watched Sythius
carve, and shook his head in disbelief.
“A living legend, crushed
to death by a giant’s fists.” Then his eyes lit up, and he started scrambling
for his pack. “That would make an excellent ballad!”
* * *
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