Only the Bold. Морган Райс

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СКАЧАТЬ done so much,” he said, clambering unseeing over a stand of obsidian and not even feeling the spots where it cut into his palms. “I thought…”

      He could see exactly what he’d thought. First, he’d thought that the priests were right, and he’d done what they commanded. He’d done what the signs had seemed to suggest, even when it had meant killing people who had not been his enemies, who would never have been a threat to him. Even when he’d realized the games of the priests, he’d made choices that would hurt people. He’d poured ill fortune into a ring to cause chaos. He’d come hunting Royce…

      “I deserve to die,” Dust said. “I deserve it.”

      He staggered on, trying to work out the best way to do it, trying to work out what he should do. He wandered through a field of glasslike shards, not caring if they cut his legs. From the corner of his eye, he saw something running at him.

      Dust turned without thinking about it, swaying aside from a spear thrust aimed at his heart. A lizard creature hissed at him, drawing back its spear for another blow. Dust stepped in close to it, striking up with stiffened fingers into its throat. It stumbled back gasping, and now Dust was on it, stabbing into its heart with a knife, so close to it now that he could feel the heat of its blood on him. It seemed to be the only thing that he could feel right then.

      Even as the beast toppled, Dust cursed himself for fighting back. He could have stood still then; could have let the creature kill him the way he deserved for everything that he had done.

      “You can still do it,” Dust said. He regarded the knife in his hands, the shine of the sun off its edge almost mesmerizing in spite of the dark blood that coated it now. It would be so easy to run the edge across his own throat, or across the spots where the body’s blood ran close to the surface. Would-be Angarthim he had trained with had done it before, when the efforts of the priests had driven them to madness.

      If not the knife, then there were a hundred other ways to die. He could lie down at the feet of the lizard beings, or throw himself from a cliff. He could stand in the path of a falling boulder, or walk into a field of fire. He could even simply sit where he was. On an island like this, it was harder to keep living than it was to die, and yet Dust somehow managed to keep going.

      He wandered, and as he wandered, he tried to make sense of all that he had seen, but there was no making sense of it. He’d thought in terms of one pure line of fate that he could pick out, but instead, there were choices, spreading out in a latticework of possibilities, until no one could say that this thing or that would always happen.

      He’d seen all that he had seen before, with Royce’s brightness, and the darkness and blood that might follow, but Dust had also seen all the ways that it might not, and all the light that might lie beyond even that. He’d learned of his own freedom, but he’d forgotten that of every other being in the world.

      He’d forgotten hope.

      “Hope?” Dust demanded of the air. “What hope is there here, on an island falling into the sea? What hope is there to undo what I’ve done?”

      He already knew the answer to that. He’d seen a moment more powerful than the ones he’d seen in the priests’ smoke, more certain, more crucial. He’d seen a battle, and a figure standing in shining armor, wielding a crystal sword with almost impossible skill. He’d seen that figure cut down, and he’d known that moment was the one that mattered.

      Dust looked around and realized that somehow he had reached the coast of the island. There was a boat there that wasn’t his, but it was light, and it had oars, and it was easy for him to push into the water while behind him the island collapsed.

      He bobbed in the boat, looking up at the sky, trying to decide what to do next, but in truth, Dust already knew what he had to do. He sat up, staring out over the water, looking at the island he had passed on his way here, and contemplating what would be needed to save the world.

      He started to row.

      While he rowed, he considered the central problem of the next thing that had to be dealt with: a foe who seemed so well protected that it would be impossible to defeat them, that even attempting it might destroy him.

      Dust didn’t care about that though; he craved that destruction. If it came to him, he would welcome it with open arms.

      “No,” he told himself, “not before I have done what I must do.”

      As for the prospect of actually doing it, he would find a way. He was Angarthim, with all the training that came with that. Perhaps he was the only one who could do this. He could slip silently onto the island, and…

      “That will not work,” Dust said. One glance at the clouds above the island he sought told him that. The signs there were filled with death and the prospect of it. He could be stealthy, but he would fail, and he would die. He needed to find another way.

      Dust let the boat drift now, knowing that the currents from the spot he was in would take him to the island he sought. Taking one of the oars and the sharpest of his knives, he started to carve. He could make another if he survived this.

      He whittled at the wood with steady hands, shaving curls of it from the oar’s haft until it started to come to a point. Dust refined that point steadily as the current dragged him in toward the island, turning it into something almost as sharp as the steel he carried, producing a javelin that was light, and balanced, and deadly.

      Taking a pouch from his belt, Dust mingled the contents with sea water, then dipped the tip of his makeshift spear into the results, the wood hissing as it contacted the potion he had produced. He threw the pouch out into the water, too dangerous to touch now that the powder had been wetted.

      He came in close to the shore, and already, Dust could feel the pull from the island, in the heady, sweet scent that seemed to fill every pore, making him want to draw closer.

      She stepped from the forest there, and she was the most beautiful woman Dust had ever seen, although a part of his brain also saw past that in the same moment. He saw a woman who was everything he had ever wanted, and at the same time saw the claws.

      He flung his javelin. It sailed through the air, and she twisted, fast as a snake, so that his throw barely grazed her. The point did break the skin, and Dust could only hope that the poison on it did its job.

      The creature didn’t fall, though. Instead, the scent around Dust intensified, and he knew that he had to throw himself forward, diving into the water and dragging his boat to the beach.

      She was waiting there for him, and now he realized that she simply was. She was impossible, because her beauty hurt Dust to look upon. He would have done anything for her in that moment. Anything.

      “I am Lethe,” she said, in a voice like molten honey. “What do they call you?”

      “Dust,” Dust said.

      “And do you love me, Dust?”

      “I love you,” Dust agreed.

      Lethe stepped toward him, arms open, her beauty complete, perfect, absolute.

      “Did you really think that your little spear would kill me?” she asked. Her mouth was open in a smile that was both beautiful and too full of teeth, all at once.

      “No,” Dust admitted.

      “No?” That seemed to take Lethe by surprise.

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