"He's not like all the others," Nophel said, focusing on Rufus. And he'll give us more time, he thought. More time to talk with Rufus Kyuss. To discuss. And to decide which of us will kill the Baker bitch.
"Go fast," Dane said, waving his Blades forward. "Defensive line."
Alexia manifested, sighing and almost slumping to her knees. "Marcellan!" she growled, and Dane turned. A flash of recognition crossed his eyes. "There are two more behind us," she said. "Not Unseen. They'll not be expecting you."
"We'll watch for them." He glanced back and forth between Nophel and Alexia, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"We'll… move on," Alexia said, sensing the loaded air between the two men. She retreated into the shadows, fading again, and Nophel heard her and the others carrying Rufus between them.
"Why did you come?" Nophel asked.
Dane sighed, continuing to look for the retreating Unseen and the amazing man they took with them, but it was a distraction. Nophel saw the Marcellan's mind working, and he seemed to be at conflict with himself. Finally he lowered the torch and stepped forward, looking Nophel in the eye.
"To help you," he said.
"Why would you-"
"To help…" He seemed to struggle, chewing on words that might or might not come. "The Watchers," he said at last, but his voice was flat and unconvincing.
"And something more?" Nophel asked.
"I've always seen something in you I don't like," Dane said. "Bitterness. But whatever she did to you, she's dead now."
"It seems the Baker never dies," Nophel said.
"The workhouse was her idea!" Dane spurted, and Nophel had never seen him so out of control. "She couldn't keep you; you were a shock to her. And when you were born she tried to cure your affliction, but she failed. Weakened by childbirth, perhaps. You were too much responsibility for someone like her. And to begin with I agreed. If anyone were to discover I had a son…"
Son, he had said. Nophel's breath caught. Son.
"I've always wanted to tell you but never knew how," the Marcellan said.
"I'm your son," Nophel said. "You and the Baker…"
"She wasn't a good woman," Dane said. "Such unnatural gifts, and they gave her a need for acceptance. Companionship. But never love." Nophel had never seen Dane looking so sad.
"That's why you took me from the workhouse."
"When I could find reason, yes. We Marcellans needed someone to tend the Scopes, and I volunteered to find the perfect candidate."
"You took me because you cared."
"I took you because you're my son," Dane said, as open and honest as he had ever been.
"Did she know?"
Dane blinked a few times as if he'd never even considered that. "Maybe. But she didn't…" He glanced away from Nophel, embarrassed.
"Care?"
Dane looked ahead at the shadows where his Blades had disappeared. "I have to go," his father said, smoothing his uniform. Three Blades waited a dozen steps behind him, ready to protect him to their last breath.
"Why can't you come back with us?" Nophel asked.
"No," Dane said, shaking his head. "No. I can give you time. I can help you, because you have to leave. To survive. Don't be too harsh on the Baker. She's not like us." Dane reached out and touched Nophel's diseased face, so gently. And then he turned and started to run, and though Nophel called after him-once, loud, risking discovery in these darkening places-the Marcellan soon disappeared into the shadows.
Nophel turned and rushed after the Unseen, the place on his cheek where his father had touched burning, and as he tried to absorb the news, a flush of fury washed over him. His mother had abandoned him like a failed experiment, and eventually his father had rescued him and kept him in a tower, his shameful secret.
But the fury was a confused thing-hot and cold, rich and weak-and the tears, from both good eye and bad, took him by surprise.
Behind them, the sounds of death: screaming and hissing, shouts and screeches, the harsh impacts of violence, and the meaty thunks! of swords meeting flesh and bone. But Peer could not turn to see any of this, because Malia was dying.
The arrow had barely opened her skin, and the blood flow was slight. But it must have been dipped in poison, because the Watcher woman was thrashing on the ground, foaming at the mouth, and clasping Peer's hand so tightly her that Peer could feel her bones grinding together.
"Hold on!" Peer pleaded, but Malia could not hear. She'd dropped her torch and it shone ahead of them, casting only a small portion of its light across Malia's face. For that, Peer was glad. She had seen many people in pain before and had witnessed some dying in agony. But this seemed worse than any.
"K… k… k…" Malia choked, and one of her hands shifted quickly to the back of Peer's head. She pulled, and much as Peer resisted, she was no match for Malia's strength.
More screaming came from behind them as the Scarlet Blades fought with the Dragarians. The reasons and implications were far from her right now.
"Kill… me," Malia groaned, the effort immense. She let go of Peer and started to shake again, limbs and head pummeling against the ground, and the foam around her mouth grew darker. She was keening now, an unconscious sound of utter distress, and Peer screamed to try to drown it out.
Her short sword was on the ground next to Malia. Its blade was keen, its point sharp. With all her weight on the handle, it would take less than a beat to pierce Malia's heart and end her pain, but…
Peer grabbed the sword and stood, turning to view the violence behind her. She could make little sense of it-torchlight flickered here and there, illuminating a scene of confusion. Bodies darted and fell, the smells of blood and shit filled the air, and the screams were louder than any she could utter. Because I'm not dying, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.
When she looked again, something was coming for her.
It flew, large diaphanous wings flapping rapidly in the confined space of this Echo, and it carried something in its hands-the curved shape recognizable as it drew closer.
Bow! she thought, leaping to the side, but Peer knew she could never dodge the arrow.
The flying thing squealed and fell, thrashing on the ground as it tried to dislodge a crossbow bolt from its underside. She never saw the man or woman who shot it.
"Peer!" Malia gurgled, hand closing around her ankle. She pulled, and Peer knelt at her side again. "S-send me… to… Bren."
"I…" Peer said, but then Penler whispered in her mind, words he'd said to her soon after her arrival in Skulk. You're far from a coward, he'd told her as she hugged a bottle of cheap wine, wallowing in self-pity.
She picked up her sword and rested it against Malia's chest. The Watcher woman tensed, controlling her spasms. And though blood still bubbled from her mouth and her eyes rolled with agony, the corner of her mouth turned up in her familiar half-smile.
Peer reared up, crossed her hands on the sword's hilt, and then dropped her weight on top of it.
Malia grunted once and then died.
Panic took Peer. She withdrew the sword, picked up the torch, and ran, fleeing the scenes and sounds of battle, the stench of death, the violence that seemed to stain the very air she breathed. And she craved the fresh air of reality, away from these past times that still echoed with chaos.
He had told her everything and named her Rose. It was his mother's name. Then she had fallen asleep, leaning her head against his shoulder, twitching, and mumbling things he could not understand. While she slept he smelled her hair, and she did not smell like Nadielle. He touched the skin on her face, and she carried a different coolness. He stared into the softened gloom of the Baker's rooms and wondered where Nadielle was, what she was doing, but any possibility that crossed his mind was a bad one.