Free Maledicte by Lane Robins Page B

and great, and men died, churned into mud and blood, screaming for Haith’s mercy and hearing
nothing.
That
sword
is nothing—stolen from some incautious aristocrat, nothing more. The boy has a magpie heart, we’ve seen that.” Vornatti tugged his dressing gown closer across his shoulders; it sagged where his flesh had once filled it, revealing the great, pitted scars over his spine and hip, the source of his pains and problems, the place where a warhorse had danced across his back with rough iron shoes.
    “But—” Gilly started, remembering the feel of the sword beneath his hand and shivering.
    “The gods are gone,” Vornatti said. “Baxit Himself gave us that gift. Though some swear it was His curse. To live at our own behest. To answer our own prayers.”
    Gilly nodded, obediently.
    “My superstitious Gilly, I am an old man,” Vornatti said. “I grew up in the god times. And I saw one god-possessed…. If this boy were Ani’s, he would have slaughtered us both rather than falter in his forward steps. There is an old book of such histories in the library, should you doubt me. I think you merely mazed with nightmares. Haven’t I heard you call out in your sleep while you dream of dead things?”
    Gilly nodded, this time with more belief. Maledicte was likely nothing but a clever actor, skilled in evoking dread. It would serve him well, should he ever come to grips with Last, Gilly thought. He refused to think on the sword and the feeling it left in his skin.
    “But you learned his name?” Vornatti said. “Tell me.”
    “Maledicte,” Gilly said.
    Vornatti threw back his head and laughed.
             
    A SHADOW CROSSED G ILLY’S LINE of sight as he crouched beside the shelves, pulling out the books rarely read. His hand closed on the spine of one old enough to have grown foxed and spotted, the leather cracking.
The Book of Vengeances.
    Vornatti, Gilly thought, had never succumbed to the worst affliction of old age, that of a faulty memory. The book opened in Gilly’s hands to an illustrated page black with ink and a raven’s eyes, to a man battling, though knives pierced his flesh. The shadow moved over him again, and he twitched, closing the book reflexively.
    The boy stood behind him, eyes calculating. “You don’t guard your back very well.”
    “I’m only a servant,” Gilly said. “I don’t need to.”
    “I suppose that’s true. And you don’t have to fight for your food, your clothes, or your hair as Relicts children do.”
    “Is that—”
    “Where I come from? Of course. You’ve known that all along,” Maledicte said. “Or did you think Ani birthed me from an egg?” His lips curled in amusement.
    Gilly sighed in embarrassment. “Vornatti told you.”
    “Vornatti found it funny; you, fearing me.” Maledicte’s face darkened. “I could take you, though.”
    Gilly said, “I shook you once, and I can do it again.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact, and the boy slid away from the confrontation.
    “Your hair’s all over cobwebs,” he said. “No one would buy it in that state, not even for pillow stuffing.” The boy set the sword down, reached out, and tugged the ribbon from Gilly’s hair with agile fingers. “Turn around.”
    Hesitantly, Gilly did. Maledicte moved behind him, unfastened his hair, and stroked cool fingers through to Gilly’s nape. Gilly tensed; the boy’s gentler moods all too often presaged a sting so delicate that only later did it smart and bleed. “What do you want?”
    Maledicte backed away, spread his arms wide, and said, “Tell me what you see.”
    Gingerly, uncertain of Maledicte’s mood, Gilly said, “A boy pretty enough to attract attention, disconcerting enough to repel, and very young.”
    Maledicte’s brows snapped down. “Not dangerous? And why so young? I am near a man’s age.”
    “You are not wearing the sword,” Gilly said. “And your slightness, coupled with your light voice, will always strike men as