The Three Lands Omnibus Part 63

As he rounded the corner he felt the older guard join him at his side. "Sublieutenant Roe of the Royal Residence Watch," the guard said breathlessly as he strove to keep pace with Quentin-Andrew. "Sir, I can't stay away from my post for long."

"This won't take long," said Quentin-Andrew grimly and pointed to the slumped body ahead.

Roe reached the guard's side with a swiftness that caused Quentin-Andrew to rea.s.sess his views on the training of the Jackal's soldiers. Within a very few moments, Roe had checked the guard's pulse, had found and sniffed the flask, and had dragged the guard's body into the light spilling in from the corridor. His inspection of the body was just as swift.

"Drunk on duty?" Roe said, in the voice of a man making a tentative hypothesis.

"That's what you're meant to think." It had taken Quentin-Andrew only a second to change his tactics; his revision of plans arose from Roe's careful inspection. Helpfully a since Roe would have found the spot in the next moment anyway a Quentin-Andrew turned the guard's head to reveal the small lump at the back. "Look at this," he said.

Roe's eyes rose toward the empty corridor; then he looked back toward the dark corridor they had just traversed. "Has anyone gone past you tonight?" Quentin-Andrew asked.

"No one, sir." Roe rose from the unconscious body. "His pulse is steady; he's not badly hurt. Sir, I left Orrick alone-"

"You're right, we shouldn't leave that entrance with a single guard. We can talk there."

Before Quentin-Andrew had finished his sentence, Roe had started racing back to his guard post. By the time that Quentin-Andrew arrived, Roe was completing his explanation to Orrick of what had happened. The sublieutenant looked over at Quentin-Andrew and said, as if he had been asked again, "No one has tried to come past us, sir, and we've been on watch for six hours."

"The entrance upstairs?" Quentin-Andrew spoke absentmindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. This was not a hard feat, since he knew the answer to his own question.

"Locked at this time of night, sir, and within full view of the main corridor, which is always busy. No one could enter the royal residence in that way."

"In any case, the man we're looking for was planning to come through this entrance. He must have been scared away when I walked past, but he'll be back." Quentin-Andrew gave a small smile, the hardest exercise he had undergone all night, since he had to remember which face muscles to use. "Forgive me, sublieutenant, for interfering in business that is your own, but my guess is that we are dealing with one of my enemy colleagues. If that's the case, then the man we're waiting for is very dangerous and very clever. He'll be arriving here in disguise a he may already have been disguised for many weeks now. He may be a soldier you know and trust, perhaps even an official."

"Not even army officials can enter the residence unless we allow them to, sir," Roe said flatly.

"And your own officials? We should alert them to what has happened-"

"The Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch is in meeting with the Captain of the Palace Guard tonight," Orrick volunteered. His eyes had been darting from wall to wall all this time, as though antic.i.p.ating the moment of confrontation. "They'll both be in the royal residence."

Quentin-Andrew nodded as though he had known this already, as indeed he had. "And my official, alas, is out on a mission; that means I report directly to the Jackal. So we can receive no help there."

"If we called an alert-" said Orrick eagerly.

"The spy would take alarm from the noise and escape," said Roe. "That's what you fear, isn't it, sir?"

"Worse than that. I fear that whichever official we contacted about this would turn out to be the spy himself." Quentin-Andrew allowed himself to slump dejectedly against the wall. "The only men I would absolutely trust in this palace are my fellow thieves, and they happen to be the only men who could track down this spy or a.s.sa.s.sin or whatever he turns out to be. The trouble is, only the Jackal knows how to contact the other thieves." He raised his eyes and held them steady upon Roe's. "I'm sorry, sublieutenant, but it appears that either you or Soldier Orrick will need to enter the royal residence to let the Jackal know what has happened."

Blood welled as Orrick bit into his lip; the younger guard looked quickly toward Roe. Roe was evidently well versed in stoic expressions, but he said quietly, "One man can't hold this entrance, sir. Do you have experience in guarding?"

"None, I'm afraid." Quentin-Andrew tried a self-deprecating smile, and then abandoned the effort. "I'm trained only to defend myself through a quick killing. I take it that what we need in this case is to capture the spy so that he can be questioned."

"Yes, sir." Roe kept his gaze fixed on Quentin-Andrew, and Quentin-Andrew was careful not to allow his own gaze to waver. Hidden in the palm of his right hand was his thigh-dagger; if this plan did not work, he would have to kill the guards after all, and he could not allow himself that pleasure tonight. Dead guards would cause greater excitement in the palace than unconscious ones.

After a moment, Roe eased Quentin-Andrew by saying, "I'm sorry, sir; we're under orders to remain at our posts until we are relieved. I'm afraid that you'll need to carry the news to the Jackal of what has happened."

"Well." Quentin-Andrew swallowed in an obvious manner, and then cleared his throat. "No doubt he has a guard at his door who can give the report-"

"No guard, sir; the Jackal doesn't need one. We're only here to protect the other residents of the royal residence." Roe stepped back from the doorway. "Don't worry, sir. If he hears you knock at the door, he'll take the time to learn who you are, and he has met you before."

"Very well." Quentin-Andrew was intensely aware of the pa.s.sing minutes; he decided that it was time to look forceful again. Squaring his shoulders like a spy setting out on a difficult and possibly life-threatening mission, he said, "If he has any special orders for you, I'll report back. Otherwise ..."

"No one will pa.s.s through this doorway, sir," Roe rea.s.sured him. "Not even the subcommander himself."

Quentin-Andrew nodded, adding in a quiet voice as he stepped by, "I'll let the Jackal know how well served he has been tonight." Then he was through the entrance, and he was able to let the dagger lie loose in his hand.

Too long, he thought; it had taken too long to pa.s.s that keen-eyed sublieutenant, and if Roe had possessed just a few years more of experience, Quentin-Andrew would not have been able to pa.s.s him at all.

Now, of course, Roe would never gain that experience. By this time next week, the sublieutenant would be dismissed or dead, depending on how heavily he was punished for tonight's mistake. But that was a matter of no interest to Quentin-Andrew.

He climbed two flights of steps, pausing only to scoop up a loose chip of marble that he felt underfoot. The stairs were unlit; if the stories about the Jackal were true, the G.o.d-man needed no extra help in negotiating the night darkness. At the top of the steps, Quentin-Andrew hesitated in the shadows. No sound came from the corridor except a soft exchange of men's voices to the right; that would be the Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch in meeting with his official. Aside from the Jackal, only the High Lord and his family lived in the royal residence. The Jackal's heir had moved from the palace many years ago, purportedly so that he could raise his son in quiet isolation from palace politics.

Quentin-Andrew threw the chip of marble forward into the lighted corridor, then waited. No guard came to investigate. After a moment, he eased his way into the corridor, looked quickly toward the closed doors to the right, and walked equally swiftly to the left, toward the door at the end of the corridor.

The door was unmarked, and was lit only by the glow of the golden stones of the corridor's outside wall. Quentin-Andrew tested the latch cautiously before he began edging the door open at the same speed that a middle-aged tortoise would use when it was in no great hurry. The door had opened little wider than a hand's span when Quentin-Andrew slid inside the chamber and closed the door swiftly and noiselessly.

The shutters in the room were closed; a moment pa.s.sed before Quentin-Andrew was able to adjust to the patrol vision he had acquired as a child. There was little to see in any case: a table, a stool, a trunk, a bed, and the ruler of Koretia, curled up peacefully in his slumbers.

His back was to the door; Quentin-Andrew could just see the s.h.i.+mmer of his silver hair. The rest of his body was in clear outline against the light peering through the cracks of one of the shutters. On this warm summer's night, the Jackal had abandoned all blankets and lay only in his undertunic and breech-cloth. He looked as defenseless as a child. Not even a cus.h.i.+on lay under his head, the first place Quentin-Andrew had looked, since that was the best place to hide a dagger during the night. With his hand still curled around his thigh-dagger, Quentin-Andrew cautiously approached the ruler. He could see the other side of the Jackal's body now. The ruler's hands were empty and were beyond reach of any object or hiding place.

Quentin-Andrew raised his blade so that it was in line with the Jackal's heart. The light from the shutter shone upon the dagger, causing a small reflection to appear on the opposite wall. Hastily, Quentin-Andrew turned the blade so that the reflection now s.h.i.+mmered on the dark skin of the Jackal's arm. He raised his other hand in order to m.u.f.fle the Jackal's mouth.

His hand never touched the Jackal. A roar filled the room like the sound of fire eating the heart of a building. Quentin-Andrew saw a s.h.i.+mmer of light move toward him like a falling star, and then he was staggering back, his heart pounding from the pain across his right cheek, where five wounds had suddenly appeared.

Only his quick retreat saved him. The next swipe of the claws, aimed at his heart, fell short of its target, and the Jackal made no immediate effort to follow him. Quentin-Andrew could see the G.o.d-man's body only dimly, but his face was as clear as midday: his eyes shone like sun-sparks, his whiskers curled back like butchers' blades, and his teeth were honed to arrow-points. His mouth was smiling.

Quentin-Andrew did not notice that his own body was shaking; he was busy judging the distance between himself and the door. The windows were too far away to escape through, but it made no difference. On second reflection, he realized that any movement he made toward an exit would result in his immediate death. He wished that he had paid closer attention to the stories about the Jackal, as well as to Roe's veiled warning.

The Jackal's roar had diminished, but now a snarling began, like a warning sign given by a beast that is too polite to attack without cause. In the same moment, Quentin-Andrew realized that his greatest mistake had been to enter this chamber armed. With rapid calculation he weighed the odds against himself, and then he dropped the thigh-dagger onto the floor.

The snarling stopped, but the Jackal remained as he was, poised on the edge of his toes, ready to pounce. With a voice as deep as thunder and as soft as flames, the G.o.d-man said, "How dare you come into my presence, you who lie under my curse."

Quentin-Andrew was finding it increasingly hard to breathe, and he laid a silent curse upon himself for seeking out the one man he had most cause to avoid. His voice was cool, though, as he replied, "I came to seek your advice, Jackal."

In an instant, the room turned dark. Blind to all images, Quentin-Andrew waited with tensed muscles, straining his spirit to hear the Jackal's approach. A light flared. Quentin-Andrew shaded his eyes, and when he lowered his arm, the G.o.d-man of Koretia stood before him, emptied of his power.

His human face was in no way remarkable, except for his eyes, which were as black as dead coals. His face contained many lines from old age; his body contained many lines too, but most of these were old blade wounds. Quentin-Andrew realized, with rueful belatedness, that even without his G.o.dly power, the Jackal might not have proved easy to overcome. He stood stiffly, enduring the Jackal's inspection, but his breath whistled in as the Jackal raised his left hand. On the nails of the Jackal's fingers, the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek was still fresh.

The Jackal laid his hand on that cheek, turning Quentin-Andrew's face gently toward the candlelight. He said quietly, "Your wounds need to be washed."

He turned away, and Quentin-Andrew, without being aware of the fact, closed his eyes momentarily and let his breath out in a long sigh. After a minute, the Jackal returned with a basin and washcloth in hand. He raised the cloth and began wiping the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek, which continued to burn sharply.

With his gaze focussed on his task, the Koretian ruler said softly, "May I know your name?"

Quentin-Andrew's eyes narrowed. "Don't you know it already?"

"I know only what my powers tell me: that you lie under the G.o.ds' curse." The Jackal stepped back, dipped his left hand briefly in the water, and wiped the remaining blood from his hand before placing the basin on the table nearby. As he did so, he carefully nudged three objects aside. Quentin-Andrew made note of them in an automatic manner.

The Jackal took several steps back. His body was now full in the light, and Quentin-Andrew could see the sagging skin and the slight tremble of old age. The ruler was still wearing nothing more than his undertunic. In the same soft voice as before, the Jackal said, "No one places men under the G.o.ds' curse in our day except the priests of the Unknowable G.o.d, and they have done so very few times over the years. I remember one case that occurred twenty years ago, when they placed the curse upon a borderlander because he had killed a twelve-year-old boy."

"I tortured him to death," Quentin-Andrew said in the emotionless voice of a man who simply wishes to clarify facts.

The Jackal made no immediate reply. In the interval of silence a which seemed empty and cold in comparison to the fire-roar that had come before a a pounding began upon the chamber door. "Jackal!" shouted an accompanying voice. "Jackal, are you in there?"

Quentin-Andrew's estimation of Roe rose another notch. It had not taken the sublieutenant long to recognize the flaws in Quentin-Andrew's story. Unhurriedly, the Jackal walked to the door and opened it slightly. A low-voiced discussion followed, and then the door closed. When the Jackal turned back, his expression had not changed. He said nothing more than, "You could teach my thieves a few lessons."

Quentin-Andrew shook his head. "My only skills in that respect are in breaking into buildings and breaking out of them."

"Breaking out of them," the Jackal murmured. Then: "How many times have you been arrested?"

Quentin-Andrew made no reply, and after a moment the Jackal nodded. "You tortured the boy to death," he said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation, "and because you were a boy yourself, not yet sixteen, you were beyond the penalties of the Chara's law. So the priests tried at first to talk with you, and when you refused to answer their questions, they tried to show you the evil you had done, so that you would turn your face once more toward the G.o.ds. But all that you said was, *I cannot change what I am.' And so, seeing your cold refusal of all efforts to help you, they took the only path left to them: they placed you under the G.o.ds' curse and drove you from their midst."

Still Quentin-Andrew made no reply. His heart's pace was unhurried now, and his body was warm with the remembrance of what he had done. A smile entered into his eyes, and he saw the Jackal's expression flicker. Then the ruler asked, "Were you fond of the boy?"

"Why would I have been?" Quentin-Andrew replied tersely.

The Jackal raised his hands in a brief shrug. "I was trying to determine under what circ.u.mstances you would commit such a deed. Do you kill out of hatred? Or out of love?"

This was the first indication Quentin-Andrew had received that the Jackal's mind was as quick as his body. It took him a moment to formulate his reply. "I enjoy pain. Long pain most of all. And deep pain. If I know the person well, then I am able to drive the pain deeper."

"So," the Jackal said softly, "those who love you are in greatest danger from you."

"All are in danger from me."

The Jackal stood considering this. His hand was upon the table beside him, absentmindedly brus.h.i.+ng the faded colors of a cl.u.s.ter of autumn leaves. After a while he asked, "Why have you come here?"

"Not to request that you lift the curse." Quentin-Andrew's reply was quick.

"No," said the Jackal slowly. "No, I can see that is not your purpose. If it were, then I would not have reacted to your entrance in the way that I did. In any case, the curse lies too deep for me to reach. Only you have the ability to burn it away."

Quentin-Andrew ignored these words, as well as the pleasure caused by the sudden image he held of a brand-iron on the fire, waiting to be used on a prisoner. The Jackal asked, "What is your purpose, then, in coming?"

Quentin-Andrew raised his eyebrows and said dryly, "Only to seek the advice of a fellow torturer on where I should ply my trade."

The silence was absolute, but for the whisper of the candle. For one dark moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he saw the Jackal's eyes begin to glow. When the Jackal replied, though, his voice was matter-of-fact. "To advise you, I must know your skills."

"Then show me to one of your prisoners."

The Jackal shook his head. "I question all of the prisoners here myself, as you know. Our methods, I believe, differ too much to allow me to place a prisoner under your care. You must demonstrate your skills on me."

Quentin-Andrew wordlessly placed his hand on his cheek, where the blood was still drying. The Jackal said, "I will not use my powers against you. I promise you that."

"Promises can be broken," Quentin-Andrew replied.

After a moment, the Jackal nodded. Walking forward, he scooped Quentin-Andrew's thigh-dagger from the floor, cut his right palm, and swore his oath to the G.o.ds a the oath of a ruler, the most sacred kind possible. Then he handed Quentin-Andrew the dagger. Quentin-Andrew's hand was warm now, as was the rest of his body.

Two minutes were required, no more, before Quentin-Andrew had the Jackal stripped and in the position he wanted on the bed. It had taken that long only because Quentin-Andrew had needed time to extract from his thigh-pocket the face-cloth and thin cords that he always carried. Now he checked the Jackal's bonds and gag once more before placing the thigh-dagger edge-on against the Jackal's throat.

This was a Quentin-Andrew would readily have admitted a a hackneyed move, used by all the torturers of the Three Lands. Quentin-Andrew started this way partly because he knew that the greatest fear could be raised by using methods that would be expected by the prisoner. He started this way also because it gave him the opportunity to check the prisoner's heartbeat. The Jackal's was rapid a this was hardly surprising, given the manner in which Quentin-Andrew had subdued him. But the ruler's pulse remained steady; the Jackal stared up at Quentin-Andrew with unblinking eyes.

Quentin-Andrew let the dagger disappear into the palm of his hand. When it reappeared again, the hand was beyond the Jackal's view. A third reason for starting with the thigh-dagger was the weapon's reputation. The slightest touch of the razor-thin blade, it was said, could bring death. The Jackal, who was no doubt familiar with the blade's power, did not stir as Quentin-Andrew placed the dagger's edge against the spot he wanted. The flats of the blade were now pressed between two of Quentin-Andrew's fingers, allowing him to judge the blade's progress without moving his gaze from the Jackal's face. A moment later, he felt moisture against his fingers. A slight sound in the Jackal's throat confirmed that blood had been drawn.

Quentin-Andrew was watching the Jackal carefully, but the results were unsatisfactory. He could see the steady pulse of a blue tunnel of blood in the Jackal's neck. No, this was not the right place to start, Quentin-Andrew reflected. While most men in the Three Lands had no greater fear than the operation that Quentin-Andrew was delicately suggesting, the Jackal was a priest, and he had dedicated his manhood to the G.o.ds long ago. Nor would he react strongly to pain, Quentin-Andrew could see from his eyes. Some soldiers were like that, and the Jackal had fought in many battles.

Not very hopefully, Quentin-Andrew moved the dagger until it was over the Jackal's heart. The Jackal made no sound as the blade p.r.i.c.ked him with a forewarning of death; his pulse was as even as though he were still sleeping peacefully. Only one method remained.

As it happened, it was Quentin-Andrew's favorite.

He stepped back and let his hand drift over to the table beside him. The movement of the Jackal's gaze told him that he had been right. Smiling now with his eyes, Quentin-Andrew said softly, "You have a reputation, Jackal, for being excessively fond of your blood kin."

The only change in the scene before him came from the slight increase in pace of the Jackal's breath. That was enough to encourage Quentin-Andrew to pick up the first object he touched. He said without looking down at it, "A love basket a the sort of gift that a woman might give to an elder kinsman. This came from your ward, I take it. Well, she is with the G.o.ds now; I will not disturb the dead." His hand moved. This time he did not bother to pick up the object, for the Jackal's eyes were following his progress. "A braided sling a a gift from one soldier to another. May I hazard a guess that this comes from your ward's son, Perry-John? Your heir is said to return your affection, Jackal. Nonetheless ..." He changed course as the Jackal's gaze flicked toward the third object and then quickly back again. "Perhaps it would be best to leave him aside. Soldiers do not give me much pleasure, for they are used to pain. This is what gives me the most pleasure..." His hand moved until it reached the leaves. "Children," he finished softly.

The slight tensing of the Jackal against his bonds told Quentin-Andrew that he had guessed right again. He let his fingertips brush the dried leaves, reading from it what manner of victim he had chosen. "A leaf bouquet," he said, still watching the Jackal's face. "A very childish gift indeed, and young Dolan is now fourteen, only two years from manhood. Could it be, Jackal, that your heir keeps his son hidden because he is not the warrior that the son of an heir confirmed should be? But of course-" He lowered his voice and allowed the smile in his eyes to deepen. "*Hidden' is a word that only fools use, and you are not a fool, Jackal. You know that, despite all your efforts to keep Dolan's location secret, some men a even dangerous men a know where Dolan dwells. But that doesn't matter, does it? Young Dolan a innocent Dolan a sleeps peacefully tonight, knowing that he is immune from danger because the Jackal's powers will protect him."

The blue tunnel in the Jackal's throat leapt. A harder throbbing of blood followed. Picking up the leaves, Quentin-Andrew moved forward and said, yet more softly, "You are not fool enough to believe that Dolan is hidden from me, Jackal, but you are fool enough to have lifted the s.h.i.+eld you use to protect him. Did you really think that I would come here to seek your advice?" He let his voice grow scornful. "I could have taken Dolan any time during the past few weeks if I had not known that your powers protect him. And so I came here and very politely asked you to swear that you would not use your powers while I demonstrated mine a and you agreed. You agreed to Dolan's doom." He crushed the leaves in his hands. They fluttered onto the Jackal's face, causing him to blink rapidly.

"You disappoint me, Jackal," said Quentin-Andrew, his scorn uns.h.i.+elded now. "I thought that you would be more clever than to allow a G.o.d-cursed man a a man who has already killed a boy a unlimited freedom to use his powers against you. Did you think I would not know that your own torture and death mean little to you? The pain of others is what hurts you, and because you hold the powers of the G.o.d of death, you will know when Dolan dies. You will lie hidden in this palace, bound not only by my bindings but also by your oath, and you will hear Dolan cry out to you for help. And you will do nothing. You will allow him to die in slow torment and anguish, the victim not of me, but of your foolish trust."

Slowly, like sunlight creeping across the ground, the movement finally came: the Jackal's hands, bound above him, curled into two fists. Quentin-Andrew stood a moment, savoring the move which he knew was sharper than the scream of an ordinary man, and then he cut the Jackal's bonds. He placed the dagger in the Jackal's hand and waited.

The Jackal said nothing as he removed his gag, wiped off the blood trickling down his leg, rose from his bed, and donned his breech-cloth and undertunic once more. He kept his eyes averted from Quentin-Andrew. Finally he handed the thigh-dagger to Quentin-Andrew and said quietly, "You did right to come to me."

Quentin-Andrew slid the dagger into his thigh-pocket and waited as the Jackal gently brushed the crumpled leaves off his bed. After a moment more, the ruler said, "I cannot take you under my care, for reasons that you know; nor can the Chara. You have been to Daxis, I take it?" Quentin-Andrew nodded, and the Jackal said slowly, "The young Queen is mild of heart and rarely visits her palace's dungeon; she gives freedom to her torturers to proceed as they wish. You were right not to take employment there."

He moved to the broad-ledged window and pulled the shutter back, allowing light to flood into the room. Quentin-Andrew stepped back into the shadows, which were beginning to grow cold again. The Jackal was now looking out toward the black border mountains, many miles away at the northern edge of Koretia. He said, "My thieves tell me that Emor's northern dominions are planning to rebel against the Chara."

He paused, and Quentin-Andrew, now emptied of the warmth he had felt before, said coolly, "That is of no surprise."

"Yes, the Chara has given his dominions just cause for such a rebellion; his hand is heavy upon them. If the rebellion comes, it will be led by the head of the army of the Marcadian dominion: a soldier who is a few years younger than yourself but who has already acquired a reputation in his trade. It is said that he is a man of honor and a firm disciplinarian. He allows his soldiers to create as much harm as is necessary to win their battles, but no more."

The Jackal turned. His face was now in shadow, but his silver hair glowed white against the moon. "My advice to you would be to place yourself under the care of this soldier. Make clear to him that you require boundaries in your work, and make clear that he must supervise you to be sure that those boundaries are kept. Within those boundaries, if the coming war follows the pattern of previous wars, you will have ample opportunity to use your talents, but you will do so under the watchful eye of a G.o.d-loving man. The rest will be up to you."

Quentin-Andrew nodded. He had finished placing the cords and spittle-soaked face-cloth into his thigh-pocket, and now he turned his face toward the dark door leading to the corridor.

"Quentin-Andrew."

Twenty years had pa.s.sed since Quentin-Andrew had last heard his name, and it brought back the sting of his youth. As a young child he had been proud to hear his birth-name, since it evoked the father and grandfather for whom he had been named. His name had been the first thing he had discarded when he left the House of the Unknowable G.o.d.

Now he turned slowly, and only because the G.o.d-man had been released from his oath. But the Jackal's face remained human. The ruler said, "You have not asked me one question."

"Which is?" The words were spoken in a chill manner.

"Why the G.o.ds have done this to you."

A knife's edge of feeling, as thin and sharp as a thigh-dagger, touched the surface of Quentin-Andrew's spirit. It was immediately gone, and he watched without any great interest as the Jackal walked toward him. His thoughts, in fact, were on the tremor in the Jackal's body, and on the pleasure he would have received from increasing that tremor. He regretted that he had kept the Jackal bound for so short a time. As the ruler came closer, Quentin-Andrew made note of the blood tunnels standing out on his neck, the delicacy of his fingers, the gentleness of his eyes. Quentin-Andrew gave an inward sigh, like a bard who is deprived of making song.

"It is a question that all men ask," the Jackal said. "We all have some darkness that we must purge from our spirits, and purge again and again. Your darkness is greater than most. You must have asked yourself why the G.o.ds made you this way and why they have allowed you to remain this way. Surely, with just a touch of their powers, they could remove this demon that eats at you, destroying your spirit and forcing you to struggle with all your might to do what the average man can do with scarcely a thought. Why are you tortured with this burden? Why must you suffer this pain?"

"I suffer no pain," said Quentin-Andrew in the quiet voice of a man correcting a simple error. "Those who fall into my hands suffer pain."