Kelven Strall thought he’d left the life of thievery behind him.
Now he’s dying. The black lung ravages his body, and with two young daughters to think of, he makes one last theft. Pursued by the hunters of the Stone Seat, he flees toward home and what’s left of his life—until a chance encounter with the magus known as the Ravenwalker.
He offers Kelven a deal. One last job, in exchange for the Ravenwalker’s help. All he needs to do is sneak the magus into the castle of a rogue sorcerer.
The Melding Thief
Life had taught him a dozen ways to kill a man. Kelven could only think of one; he stabbed him.
It was an oddly peaceful experience, surrounded as he was by the fog of his fortification. Kelven watched in fascination as the battered iron knife bit into the hunter's exposed side, shearing through his flesh on its brief but fatal journey to the heart. Blood flowed freely, like a sour and velvety honey, staining the sleeves of Kelven's coarse woollen tunic. The single thought that bloomed in his mind was of Cyana scolding him for being so careless.
He could almost hear his wife’s voice. What have you done? she would have asked. Didn’t you think of the trouble this would cause me? She’d always been so pragmatic. He wondered if the dying hunter would meet her in the Afterlands beyond the Morning Gate. The man would be making that journey soon. He sank to his knees, grasping weakly at Kelven’s wrist in a vain attempt to dislodge the knife. His life was abandoning him all too quickly. Already, his mossy eyes were turning to glass, reflecting the dim image of a ruddy bobcat. Like its master, the totem was dying. The hunter gasped, one last choking sound as the final breath danced across his lips. He collapsed in a heap, smothered beneath the quiet blanket of death.
When it was over, Kelven released his grip on the knife and examined the fleshy ridges the rough bone handle had imprinted on his palm. He didn't bother to retrieve the blade. It seemed more at home in the hunter's flesh than it ever had in his hand. He thought that perhaps the knife had found its proper place in the world. It seemed a shame to disrupt it.
Instead, he staggered to his feet and went about pillaging the corpse. He retrieved the hunter's knife and short, double-edged sword, strapping both to his belt. With the weapons secure, he turned and trudged deeper into the forests of the Turn.
Three days to the Bitterblue, he thought. Three days until freedom and the hope of home.
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