“And the darker truths?” Kylar asked.
“All human truths. Vengeance and hatred and glorying in destruction and ambition and greed and all the rest have power. The trick to being truly powerful is that your character be in line with the magic you attempt. Meisters make terrible healers. By the same token, most green mages have too much empathy to make war. The more fully human you are, the greater the diversity of your talents. The more deeply you feel, the more potent your gifts. That, Kylar, is why you called the ka’kari. You ached for love. Not only did you want be loved, as do we all, but you wanted to lavish love on your beloved. You wanted it with your whole being and you thought it had been denied you forever.”
The way he said it embarrassed Kylar.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” the Wolf said. “What is more human than to love and be loved? Between loving and thinking that love was denied you, that tension amplified your power.”
“That tension’s with me still, isn’t it?” Kylar asked. “For my love will always be dangerous to those I love.”
“Clever, isn’t it? Your power is tied to your capacity for love. The creator of the ka’kari gave you a gift and built into it the means to keep it forever powerful. No mean trick, that.”
“A mean trick is exactly what it is,” Kylar snarled. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“It’s a problem,” the Wolf said, shrugging.
But Kylar wasn’t listening. He could feel the blood draining out of his face. “Oh my God,” he said. His heart was a thunder in his ears, a rock in his chest. He’d meant he was dangerous to those he loved because his enemies could always threaten them. That wasn’t what the Wolf meant. He’d been telling Kylar for five minutes and Kylar hadn’t understood. Breathless, Kylar asked, “You mean every time I’ve died someone I love has died for me?”
“Of course. That’s the price of immortality.”
Kylar’s throat constricted. He was suffocating. “Who . . . ?”
“Serah Drake died when Roth killed you. Mags Drake died for Scarred Wrable’s arrow on the trail. Ulana Drake died when the Godking killed you.”
Kylar’s knees buckled. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to faint. Anything, anything to not be. But the moment stretched on and in the midst of the gale, he found himself thinking, thank the God it wasn’t Uly or Elene, and then he cursed himself for the thought. Who was he to weigh one life against another and be thankful that one should die, simply because he loved her less? He’d killed them. Count Drake had taken in a foul-mouthed, amoral guttershite and made him part of his family. And Kylar had murdered the Drakes through his carelessness, his arrogance. For every gift Count Drake had given Kylar, he’d repaid him with grief.
“And for my blasphemy? When I took money to be killed?”
“Jarl.”
Kylar screamed. He tore his cloak. He pounded the ground with his fists, but there was no pain here, no body to mortify. The tears rolled down his cheeks and there was no comfort. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Oh, God.”
The Wolf was astounded. “But of course you knew. Durzo left you a letter on his body. He explained everything. He told me he put it in his breast pocket.”
“I couldn’t read it! It was soaked with blood! I couldn’t read a damned thing!” Then the last revelation hit him. “Who is it this time?” he asked, desperately. “Who dies for me this time?”
The Wolf was aghast. His lambent eyes and scarred face softened, and he looked fully human for the first time. “Kylar. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I thought you knew all along.”
“Please. I’ll trade back! Let me trade back.”
“It doesn’t work like that. There’s nothing either of us can do. This time it’s Elene.”
58
Kylar woke on a cold stone slab in a cold room. He didn’t open his eyes. If he could have willed himself never to wake again, he would have. He was still except for his breath and the currents of his life’s blood rushing through his veins. As always when he came back from the dead, his body felt wonderful. Absolutely whole, powerful, bursting with energy. He’d stolen a life and it came to him abundantly. He was overfull, spilling life in every direction. His health was a mockery.
Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks to his ears. No wonder the Wolf had thought him a monster. He’d thought Kylar was throwing away the lives of those he loved and who loved him.
He lay on his back, but it only got worse, so he opened his eyes. The air was stale, dank. The ceiling was ornate, cool white marble. He was in a crypt. Only feet away, on slabs like his, were a man’s body and a woman’s. The man was big, holding a big sword. The woman’s throat had been cut, and from how she’d decomposed, Kylar guessed she’d been bled dry. The man had died around the same time, surely during the coup. They were Logan’s parents. Around them, the walls were filled with row upon row of Gyre corpses, stretching back centuries. Logan had put Kylar in his own family’s crypt.
Kylar stood, not even feeling stiffness from having slept on marble. He’d been dressed in a cloth-of-gold tunic and white breeches, and fine fawnskin shoes. It was, of course, pitch black in the crypt. There was no way of telling what time of day it was, and the mouth of the crypt was sealed with a massive rock cut into the shape of a wheel taller than a man. If Kylar remembered correctly, the crypt was located outside the city and sunk beneath the ground. If so, he had a good chance of getting out without anyone knowing. Regardless, he had to get out, so he grabbed the wheel and heaved with his Talent.
Slowly, the massive stone rolled a half turn and settled into another rest. Kylar went invisible and stepped outside.
It was night, but the harvest moon was bright and high overhead. In the narrow stairwell that led to the crypt stood a young girl, her eyes wide with fear. It was Blue, the little guttershite from Black Dragon guild.
Kylar stopped, still invisible, and rubbed his face. Blue didn’t move. He could tell she wanted to run but refused to. Brave little shite. “Kylar?” she whispered.
What was he supposed to do? Kill her? Avoid her and let her blab stories about the crypt opening? It was unlikely, but someone might open the crypt to check it out. And what would they do when they saw Kylar was gone?
“Kylar, I know you’re there. Take me with you.”
Staying invisible, Kylar asked, “Have you ever killed anyone, Blue?”
She gasped and swallowed, looking for the source of the voice. “No,” she whispered.
“Do you want to kill people?”
“I’d kill Dag Tarkus. He kicked Piggy in the stomach for stealing and the next day he died.”
“What if I told you that to be my apprentice you’d have to kill a dozen kids like Piggy? What if I told you you had to kill your whole guild?”
Blue started crying.
“You just want out, don’t you?”
She nodded her head.
“Then I need you to do two things, Blue. First, never—ever—speak about this. If you tell anyone, bad people will find out, and they’ll kill lots of good people. You understand? You can’t even tell your best friend.”
Blue nodded. “I got no friends, not after Piggy died.”