The Webbing Blade

A HOBBLESMAN NO LONGER

ALL OF A SUDDEN, Lou felt very cold.

It felt like his body was floating away from him.

He was aware of the rub of his tunic on his stomach, of the residual chill on his fingertips, and of the gentle warmth in this room—certainly not coming from the sun since it had set long ago.

And he felt light as he took a step forwards, moving closer to the girl . . . the woman, that knelt down with her back towards him, the cloak still clinging to her frame.

She didn’t turn round, and he took in that hair one more time.

It truly was like staring into a scarlet pit of a long-burning wood fire. That hair reminded him of the middle of winter, when he’d brought in the first sack of wood with his winter’s supplement, and the looks on his parents’ faces, the healthy red glow that would appear in their cheeks as they warmed themselves round the fire.

And now they were dead.

And this . . . this, fire mage had done it to them.

And yet the anger seemed to have dissipated, to have diluted into Lou’s bloodstream. He couldn’t help but observe this woman before him, that hint of pearl-smooth skin he could see of her face in profile.

He simply couldn’t get over the delicacy that seemed to linger over the whole of her, to make her seem vulnerable . . . impossible of inflicting harm.

But she had.

She had inflicted terrible harm, on everyone Lou had ever known.

Murdered his parents.

She continued to face away from him as he approached. His brain told him that this was his opportunity, that he would never get another one like it again. That he had to finish off what he’d started. That he had to break that flimsy, slight neck of hers. Crunch those delicate bones in his grasp.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it because, he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t a murderer. This wasn’t a cursed animal he was dealing with. This was a being of flesh and blood, just like him. And now that he’d ridden out the first flush of fury, he knew that he would never be stricken enough to do it.

She kept her head tilted down, staring into her lap.

Lou caught sight of her face in a mirror placed across the room. He stopped in his tracks, still about four or five steps from her, and stared at her reflection.

Her face was just as delicate as the back of her neck, and he saw, through her half-closed lids, that she had emerald-green eyes, bright and shined-up. Her skin reminded him of snowflakes, the way they settled together, and her nose was thin and a little pointed. He waited there, holding his breath, seeing if she was going to cry. He anticipated that single, snaking tear winding its way down her cheek. But that tear never came.

But she did speak.

“Please, make it quick,” she said. “You’re just as entitled to your revenge as I am to mine.”

* * *

Lou stood there, still staring at that dainty face of hers. And he found himself wondering where that impossible strength of hers had come from, how she’d summoned up enough force to wield that sword, and to instil fear in him.

He waited for her to meet his eye, but she never did.

She just continued to stare down at her upturned hands in her lap, as if she was merely sitting here, in her room, on her own.