22 – 6

Time passes.

I don't know how much.

There was sunlight before. There's sunlight now.

My eyes are salt-stung and lidded heavy.

I could open them. I could.

Every short, shallow breath smells of straw and sweat, of hay and horse.

Every short, shallow breath hurts, scraping a sob-scoured throat.

I want to sleep. Goddess and Lost, let me sleep. I forsook You both, I know, but please. Have mercy. Take pity. Let me sleep. I'm so tired. Please. Please.

Silence. Of course, silence. What did I expect? A warm touch? A guiding hand into deep, dreamless slumber?

An iron-shod hoof scuffs the hay strewn stable floor. Peanut snorts his deep-chested snort. Twitches his wispy tail. A warm touch. A guiding hand. I kept him; he'll keep me.

My bones are leaden, my muscles molten. Too tired to cramp or ache. Sleep isn't far. It won't be deep or dreamless, but it will be; and that is enough. It is. It is.

I teeter on the edge of it, blessed oblivion in the offing, when there comes another scuffing. It isn't a horse's hoof shod in iron or a man's foot clad in leather, but the soft, slight drag of wool.

There's someone in this stall with me. They're sat as still and quiet as they can, but I hear them. Is that you, Pike? Have you come to spare my life a third time, or has your mercy finally run out? If it has, could you wait? Not for very long, it's just that I have some things I want to ask you. I don't care if you lie to me, I just want to know.

Silence. Of course, silence. What did I expect? I hadn't said any of that aloud.

Time passes. Not much.

They're either being louder or getting closer, I don't know which.

I could find out. I could.

Salt-stung. Lidded heavy.

Every slow, deep breath smells of straw and sweat, of hay and horse.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Every slow, deep breath hurts.

I don't want to find out. I want to sleep. It would be a monumental effort to open my eyes. I teeter on the edge of blessed oblivion. It would be a matter of a moment to fall into it.

“I know you're awake.”

I know that voice.

“We need to talk.”

It is you, isn't it?

“Open your eyes, Zira.”

Fine, then. Fine. Have it your way.

Slowly, miserably, I drag heavy lids away from salt-stung eyes, lashes gummy and world blurry-bright. I blink once, twice, and again. My sight clears. Across the stall, through the thick, sturdy trunks of Peanut's legs, sits Roland Pike, his gray eyes empty, his face blankly patient.

My voice is a thin croak, each worn word scraping a sob-scoured throat. “How long?”

“You shot well,” he says, “for someone new to shooting.”

It's answer enough.

- - -

I'd wanted this, hadn't I? I'd wanted to confront him, to get answers from him. I'd wanted to make him fear me like I feared him. I remember wanting that. There to await me, I'd thought then.

Well, here I am, I think now, so – tell me.

He doesn't. Instead, “She wasn't your first.”

I shake my head. “Fifth. Why?”

He reacts, surprise not on his face, but in his voice. “Who?”

“Windrunners,” I croak, then, “Why?”

“Why what?” he asks. Peanut swishes his tail through the air, the wisp almost louder than our words.

“You killed her,” even at a whisper, it hurts to say aloud, “but not us. Why?”

He studies me, measures me with gray, empty eyes. Peanut drinks from his trough, great gulping mouthfuls of melting snow. The air smells of straw and sweat, of hay and horse. Eventually, he says, “You'll hate the answer.”

To that, I have nothing to say, so I wait. I stare, and I wait. He'll figure it out. Eventually.

“Merigold paid me to kill the knight,” he says, “so I killed the knight. She paid me to get rid of you, so I did that instead. I don't like killing kids if I don't have to.”

“Would you kill me,” I feel compelled to ask, “if she paid you?”

He doesn't so much as blink. “Yes.”

That same morbid curiosity compels me further. “Would you feel anything?”

“Satisfied.”

And further. “Because you got paid, or because you killed me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. It's smile enough. “Yes.”

To that, I have nothing to say, because there's nothing that can be said. Instead, I ask, “Why'd you let me kill her?”

“You'll hate this answer, too,” he says.

“Just tell me,” I answer tiredly.

He shrugs, as if to say on your own head be it. “I was going to, but then I saw you and thought 'why not let her do it, and save me the trouble?'”

“That's it?”

He nods. It's almost funny: not only is Roland Pike, one of my many monsters, a greedy, empty-heart killer, he's also lazy.

He was right. Twice over, he was right. I hate his answers, I hate him, and I am so, so tired. “Are you going to kill me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches again. Smile enough. “Not today.”

“Then leave,” I say, voice thin and scraping. “I never wanna see you again.”

He rises to his feet in one smooth motion. “You won't.”

“I'll kill you if I do.”

He stops at the stall door. “It wouldn't help.”

I burrow into my nest of straw and thick winter cloak, my eyes closing. “How would – you – know?”

To that, he has nothing to say, because he leaves, the only sound of his departure being the stall door sliding closed. Peanut's snout brushes my hair, his warm, feed-stink breath washing over me. It's the last thing I feel before I sleep.

Coda

In the fork of a tree near the mortal settlement on the riverbank, there sits an owl. It's a magnificent bird, with plumage of purest white and eyes of keenest, sharpest green. It is the lord of this snow-dappled wood, and as it takes in all that transpired among that pitiful cluster of human hewn hovels, it congratulates itself. What fun, it thinks!