A Sellsword's Wrath (The Seven Virtues #2)

by Jacob Peppers

Aaron fell back a step so that he was walking in line with the princess, the others lagging a few paces behind as they made their way through the city. “People are simple, selfish creatures, that’s all.” She turned to him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and trying a smile that didn’t come close to touching her eyes. “My brother wasn’t. He was a good man, and it seems only weeks after he died they’ve forgotten all about him. It’s as if they don’t even care that the man who killed him is ruling their city.” Aaron shrugged. “You have to understand, Adina, such matters are far above the average man. He spends his time worrying about what his family will eat or how to keep his wife from discovering he has a mistress on the side, maybe wondering if the crops’ll come in, or if he’ll be able to pay when the tax collectors come a calling. Such things leave little room for worrying about who’s sitting on a throne they’ve never seen and probably never will. Such things are too high up, too big. What’s an ant care for the decisions of men?” He shrugged again, “A man takes a step to the left instead of the right, and the ant gets squished where he might not’ve, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it—better to keep your head down and hope than to look up and see the boot coming.”

It is no weakness, Co said in a long-suffering way, to know compassion. Nevertheless, I will not argue it with you now. Any man or woman who possesses one of the Virtues will share certain similarities, such as what you so stubbornly refuse to see as anything but a weakness. After all, I am the embodiment of Compassion, not the embodiment of stabbing holes in people and laughing like a maniac while one does it.

“Sir,” Gryle spoke, his voice thready with anxiety, “my lady is quite kind and generous. For a man who would help her back to her rightful place, I’m sure—” Festa waved his hand, dismissing it. “Oh, you can stow it, chamberlain,” he said, not unkindly. “The gods know I’ve told my wife a lie or two when we’re in the sack and I’m after a husband’s wants—such lies were how my first son Wellum was born, after all. Aye, and the words are pretty enough, I’d say. Shit, when the mood’s on me, I guess I’m just about the most poetic son of a bitch alive, as is every husband. Still, when we wake up the next day, our house still ain’t a palace, and when washin’ needs done, my wife still ain’t got no servants to see to it, do you catch my meanin’?”

Adina’s hands knotted into fists at her side. “That is your prince and your princess that you speak of, Captain.” Festa grinned. “Not mine, Princess. Sheza is the only ruler I claim, and it don’t stop me from knowin’ that the Sea Goddess is a real bitch, anyway. Her storms kill those that follow her like anyone else, and I’ve never heard tell of a shark keeping his teeth in check for one of her own. The water takes what the water will, after all. It always has. She’s much like mortal rulers, in that way, the old sea hag, but at least she’s honest about it.”

better to split gold with friends than to have a coffin all to yourself.

On me, they want to enact Kevlane’s Bond. To be used by such a person … trust me, Aaron. It’s better to be dead. Aaron grunted, his mood growing sour as he considered. Not making me feel any better, firefly. And as for better to be dead, I’m going to have to disagree with you. Where there is life, there is always the hope that things will get better again. False hope more often than not, but hope just the same. The world of the dead is bereft of such hope—the worms eat it and, believe me, they gorge their fill. There are worse things than death, Aaron. Only a thing the living say; I think, perhaps, the dead would disagree. If they could.

The greatest truths, the most terrible ones, were not found in books, could not be discovered by endless debate and rhetoric. The greatest truths were not learned, they were felt. They were not understood—they were lived.

Anyway, what is she the Virtue of, exactly? All I can say is that, just now, I’m enjoying the virtue of her absence.” Leomin grinned, “Ah, yes. Well, Aliandra is, of course, the Virtue of Charisma.” “Charisma, huh?” Aaron asked, “So she’s supposed to be able to make people like her? And you?” Leomin frowned, “Well, there is, of course, more to it than that, but I suppose it is an accurate enough definition … if a bit rough.” Aaron grunted, “I think she’s broken.”

Which Virtue is it that you possess?” Aaron sighed. “Well, Leomin, I’ve got the Virtue of getting weepy when I see a hungry dog in the street.” “Ah, Compassion, then.” Aaron shrugged, “A shorter name for it, anyway.”

“I wonder,” May said as she drew close, and Balen noted all of the sailors turning to glance at her as she passed, “if I might have a word with you before we reach Avarest.” Her words and voice were casual enough, but there was something almost predatory in her green eyes, predatory and amused. “Of course, my lady,” Thom said, swallowing hard. “What can I help you with?” “Oh,” May said, “it’s so loud out here, with the waves and the gulls. I wonder if we could speak below?” She nodded as if he’d agreed, “I’ll expect you in a few minutes,” she said, then turned and sauntered off, escorted by the eyes of every sailor on the ship until she disappeared below decks. “Damn.” Thom said, and Balen couldn’t help but laugh. “No worries, old man,” he said, “as you say. All storms can be weathered.” “Aye,” Thom said, running a hand through his graying hair, “Aye, as you say.” Then he turned and started toward the cabins and despite all his complaints, Balen couldn’t help but notice the eagerness in the old man’s step. If that was a man walking to his own death, then he was doing it gladly.

He and a childhood friend had been playing at a game of chase, his father away visiting another part of the kingdom. He’d made his way through the castle, looking for a place to hide from his friend—a boy whose name he no longer remembered. He was running, his eyes searching frantically for some likely nook or cranny, when he came upon the formal dining room, a room his mother had told him was no place for children, forbidding him to go into it when not accompanied by an adult. Of course, he had gone in, as children will when given such orders. His friend had found him there, and in his haste to get away, he’d knocked over an ornate porcelain vase, breaking it. Later, his mother had led him back to the room, made him study the broken pieces. “Irreplaceable,” she’d said, her voice not scolding, only tired and resigned and all the worse for that, “A beauty from a kingdom that no longer exists, now broken and shattered.” She’d turned to him then, and he thought it had been something like hate in her eyes when she spoke, “Why, Belgarin, must you always break things? Why must you always destroy?” That had been all. No whippings or beatings—not for the firstborn prince. Not even any scolding, no more than that, at least. Only those words, said in a weary, tired tone, those eyes studying him. Only the words. But they’d stayed with him, always. Why, Belgarin, must you always break things? After that, he rarely played games with the other children. Instead, he’d put his effort and ...

Belgarin sank into the room’s only chair, cupping his face in his hands, “Please,” he said. “Please just tell me what you want.” “Please,” the creature mocked, “well, very well, Belgarin. How could I say no to such a request? What I want is a new one to look after me. One that speaks and hears and knows. Do you understand?” Belgarin swallowed hard and when he spoke his voice came out lifeless and dull, “You want someone that you can murder.” “Murder?” The thing in the bed asked. “Oh, not murder, Belgarin. How might I do such a thing, when I’ve long since lost the ability even to wipe my own shit? No, it would not be murder. And if it were, I, certainly, would not be the killer. No, knowledge, perhaps. The gaining of it is never easy, as I think you now see.” “Fine,” Belgarin rasped, “Fine, damn you. You’ll have your victim.” “A girl,” the creature said, cocking his head, “a young one.” “Gods be good but you’re a monster.” “Oh, words that wound, my king,” the thing said. “Not a monster, not me. But I will have my payment, or you will leave as you came—with nothing and understanding nothing.” We all do what is necessary. We all do what is necessary. Why must you always break things? “Alright,” Belgarin said, his mouth unaccountably dry, “alright. You will have her. Now, tell me what I need to know.”

The bearded man stared at the cloaked figure before him, its face in shadow. He took in the bloody sword it held. Then he screamed. “Oh not yet,” the figure said, “don’t scream yet. We’re just getting started.” And although Adina could hear Aaron’s voice in those words, she heard something else, too. It wasn’t the familiar voice she knew—full of sarcasm and cleverness, confidence and fatalism. This voice, this one was different. It made her think of dark places and dark things, of blood pooling on slick cobbles, of people running and screaming, of children crying and looking for their parents. It was a voice devoid of mercy or kindness, the voice of a true killer, one who enjoyed his work.

I believe it may be wise for you to consolidate your position here in Baresh for a time. The guilds truly are quite remarkable, and I think there is much benefit and profit we can gain. I spoke to your brother, Eladen, about this once before, but he would not hear reason. If we were to take a year, perhaps two—” “Benefit,” Belgarin spat, “Profit. You are a fat man, Claudius, and you have a fat man’s thoughts. Wars are won with men and steel and courage. Not profit, and you will not speak of my brother again.”

The general cleared his throat, straightening his tunic as if the damned thing wasn’t already as straight and stiff as a board. “Forgive me, my king, only I had not expected for my opinion to be sought on the matter and had not thought to speak on it.” Then what the fuck are you doing here? “Well,” Belgarin said, forcing himself to keep his temper. Fools or not, those seated around him were all powerful men and women in their own right, any one of which could cause him problems in the future, should they choose. “Let us acknowledge that you now have been asked for your opinion.”

Belgarin watched them all file out, Caldwell included, then sat back and took another drink of wine. Soon, mother, he thought. Soon, you will see—I do not always break things. Not always.

Fools could be used. A smith didn’t wonder at the intelligence of the hammer when he used it, didn’t care for knowing its thoughts, only wanted to strike the metal, to shape it and form it. Such tools could be useful, so long as they were understood.

“All men are capable of killing, Leomin,” Adina said, “if given the right motivation. If the wars with my brother have taught me nothing else, they have taught me that. Belgarin wasn’t always cruel, you know? Sure, he was always stiff and rigid, always wrapped up in the picture he painted for others of himself. So much sometimes that you could almost see him painting it, could see him working out each nuance of his speech and his words, so that they always rung false, somehow. Contrived. He was pompous, but he was not cruel. Not evil. At least, that is, until my father did not gift him the inheritance he thought he deserved as the firstborn. And now three of my brothers and sisters are dead by his word if not by his hand.” She shook her head, “No, Leomin, the world can make murderers of us all.”

Still, Co said, he does seem … unusual. There’s something about him that seems somehow … off. You’re a fucking floating ball of light, firefly, he said, what by all the gods is more unusual than that? Aaron, the Virtue said, the concern obvious in her tone, look. He glanced up then and was surprised to find Owen studying him, an intent look of concentration on his face.

Boyce Kevlane and all the rest?” “Of course,” she said, clearly puzzled by the abrupt change in topic, “everyone’s heard the tales. Seven virtues an old king and his wizard made to create the perfect warrior. What were they … strength, intelligence, speed…” “Compassion,” Aaron said. “Yes, that’s right. Compassion … I forget the others.” “Charisma, for one,” Aaron said, “the others are perception and adaptability.

Adina wasn’t paying any attention. “So which one?” She said, “Which are you?” “I am the Virtue of Compassion,” Co answered. Adina glanced between the ball of light and Aaron’s face then let out a laugh, “Compassion? And you’re with him?” “Yes, well,” Co said, “let us say it’s a work in progress.” Adina laughed again and Co joined her. Aaron frowned, “If there’s a joke, I don’t see it.” “Oh, come on, Aaron,” Adina said, “surely you have to see the humor in it. You, of all people, are the one that gets the Virtue of Compassion? The Virtue of Grunting and Cursing a lot sure, but compassion?” She laughed again, “It’s just not the one I would have guessed, that’s all.” “Well,” Aaron said sourly amid their laughter, “you’re not any more surprised than I was, I guarantee you that.”

“And might I just add that those really are fine uniforms. Quite pretty.” The two men smiled at that, but she went on, “I wonder how it is that the two of you manage to keep the filth that comes out of your mouth from staining them. It must cost a fortune in laundering.”

“Gag him as well,” the captain said, his face alight with cruel joy. One of the guards pulled out a kerchief and started forward. “Is that really necessary, captain?” Brandon said, “his feet and wrists are bound. He can’t cause us much trouble with his mouth.” “Do not forget yourself, sergeant,” Francis said with a sneer, “there is only one captain here. Now, unless you wish to be chained up beside this bastard and the rest of the lot, you’d best keep your mouth shut.” “Maybe you could cover my ears too,” Aaron said, “at least then, I won’t have to hear your fucking bitching and moaning you pompous little bastard.”

The two crime lords stared at her for several seconds, stunned, and May smiled. Good. Stunned was good. Keep them off balance, keep them guessing. “My, but I love me a woman takes charge,” Hale said finally, “Surely, I do.” “But … how?” Grinner said, “My men—” “It wasn’t an easy thing,” May said, nodding, “had to rent out the whole street, in fact. I knew you’d both bring them along, hide them somewhere or another with instructions to come when you called or after a certain amount of time.” “That,” Grinner said, scowling, “must have cost you greatly.” May favored him with her best smile, “Not so great as you might think, Grinner. In fact, when they heard that you would both be coming, they damned near offered to pay me.”

Aaron— I know, I know, he snapped, I’m going. He grabbed hold of a couple of protruding stones to the side of the window and then, cursing himself for a fool, jumped. There was a stomach lurching, heart wrenching, wild-eyed scared as shit moment when his feet were touching nothing but air. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when they hit the castle, and he managed to get a toe hold on the stones. What I was going to say, the Virtue said, was that you could have taken the stairs. Aaron laughed then, and if it sounded a bit wild, a bit like a scream, then that was understandable, given the circumstances. “Sure,” he grunted, moving his right foot up then reaching another stone with his left, “and I’m sure all the guards would be fine, letting me go, letting some stranger head toward their queen’s quarters.” Oh. Right. Because a few men with swords are way worse than this. I don’t know what I was thinking. Aaron grunted. You know, firefly, he thought, you can be a real pain in the ass. Anyway, he glanced up at the man or whatever it was, scaling the wall above him, he’s doing it. Well, he also has hooks for hands and apparently heals nearly instantly. But, hey, you’re doing great.

“You’re not him, you bastard!” Aaron shouted, anger flooding him, “You can’t be him!” “Oh, but I can,” the creature said, “and I have, Aaron. I have been thousands of people at thousands of times,” and as he spoke, his body shifted from one visage to the next in such succession that Aaron thought he would go mad. Now, a short, balding man Aaron didn’t recognize, now a young woman with aristocratic features, an old man, a fat woman, a thin child, all looking down on Aaron, all with that same bloody, cruel grin, and the blade in their hand. It went on for thirty seconds, a minute, and in that time Aaron saw a hundred different people, a hundred different souls. Men and women and children who had died, maybe, so that this creature could take their place, or who’d never existed at all, yet still he felt the loss of them. Finally, when he thought he could stand no more, the creature settled on an image. “I was your friend,” the woman’s mouth spoke, “rubbing ointment into your flesh, feeling the sting of the headmaster’s switch. I was the servant,” it said, gesturing at itself, its form that of a heavy-set, middle aged woman with a confused, scared expression on her face, “who witnessed your Leomin as he killed the old man.” It’s grin widened, staring at Aaron and there was madness there, dancing in its eyes, “I was Leomin,” it said as its flesh changed and suddenly the Parnen captain was staring back at him, “as he dug the knife into the old fool’s throat, and oh, the blood, Aa...

‘Boyce,’ he told me, ‘all men die. But men who are not willing to sacrifice everything for those they love, for others, never live.’

“There is one thing you do not understand, Kevlane,” the Virtue said, finally, “for all your wisdom, for all your learning, you have never understood it.” “Oh?” He said, his eyes narrowing, “and what’s that?” “Without sadness,” The Virtue said, “there is no joy. Without pain and suffering, there can be no relief, no true pleasure. It is not their end that defines humans, Kevlane. It never has been. It is their journey. Beauty is found among the dross, is created among the dross. And not just beauty but power. When a starving mother gives up what little food she has to nurture and feed her child, that is beauty, Kevlane. True beauty, is not found in appearance but in purpose. There is beauty in sadness, as there must be. Beauty in pain and, yes, even in death, for death is not the story, nor is it even the ending of the story. Death is only the proof that the story was. The journey, the life, the pain, the heartache and heart break, these are the story. A man is not defined by the substance or the manner of his death but by the chronicles of his life. Even anger has its beauty for just anger is the blaze of a flame in the darkness, the flowering of petals in the desert. Life is beauty, Kevlane. You did not understand this then, and you do not understand it now. To want something you cannot have, to need it, is not suffering; it is to be human. You do not see it, even now. But you will. You will be made to.”

Beauty is created among the dross. Things must die so that others may grow. People are not their own stories, they are all one story. And the story is never truly over.