Chapter 4: Release
Nathaniel
Well past midnight, and I am dozing softly, dressed in light and warm woolens, stretched out in a small chair.
Léonie pads past, her boots in one hand. "Nate," she whispers, one hand on my shoulder. "It's now."
Quite.
I strap two knives to my back. You can never be too sure.
The guard on night watch is easily subdued — a slab of cheese and a flask of wine, both laced with a good strong sedative, which I bring to him with a story about being unable to sleep, and hungry, and in want of company. When he wakes I will tell him that he fought bravely when that dangerous apostate he guarded cast some kind of charm on us both. I will ensure that he is paid well for enduring such a danger. His story will become a tavern favourite — for the good of this order I will make sure of this.
Anders is out of it, off with the sprites somewhere, when I let myself into his cell. I pick him up and sling one arm around my shoulders. He is as light as a boy, and I'm honestly unsure if he's fully conscious until his bare feet hit the cold flagstones outside the prison.
"Where…"
"Ssh," I tell him.
Down, down to the cellars underneath the Vigil, the ones that I played in so very long ago. The gateway to the Deep Roads has gone unused here for such a long time — not even all of our Wardens know of these passages' existence. Since the end of the Blight and the passing of the Architect there has been nothing much here but quietness, and maybe the occasional blighted rat or two, caught by one of the keep's mabari hounds. Some of the more accomplished fighters have been here, though not far.
The cellars are long, dark, damp. I struggle with a torch in one hand and the other arm supporting Anders. He is by no means a heavy man but he is weak and he struggles to keep up. But we cannot slow down.
"I've been here before," he says.
"We both have, Anders. Do you remember?"
He coughs, scratchy and weak. "Your nanny."
"Yes. Adria." I have thought of her much in the last day or so. Of her grey skin, of the wail in her voice. It might have been easier to have dealt with if I'd seen blind animal rage in her eyes. But it wasn't just that.
No, there was still a flicker of recognition there, and in the end we had to do the kindest thing.
It happened right here, at the very end of the hallways, where the ancient passageways give way to hard, raw stonework.
Here, where Léonie waits with a pile of things.
A staff, discarded by one of our wardens, languishing for months on Master Wade's rainy-day list, waiting for just the right metal sheathing to come along. He will probably have forgotten about it by now, I expect. If not I will be sure to make it up to him.
Some light leather armour, the lightest we have, barely more than leather and thick wool underlay. I remember how he hated the very idea of wearing it, but in this state — well, if he is to choose the manner of his passing, then he will have a better chance of doing so if he can protect himself.
A skin of water, and some dry provisions, for whatever good these may do him now.
The worn old coat he'd been wearing when we found him.
"You are always a Warden, Anders," she says. "Your Joining sees to that, even if you leave us."
He looks at it all, takes it all in.
"Why?" he says, barely audible.
"What are my alternatives?" Léonie asks.
He knows, of course. He knows what can happen.
"They will still be looking for me, you know," he says.
"Yes."
"What will happen if they find out that you've done this?"
"They will never find out," I tell him.
He is shaking — from weakness, from being near his goal at last… I don't know.
"Find peace on the long road, brother."
He says nothing as goes into the long night, no hesitation, not even to turn around and look.
In the dark I curl my fingers around Léonie's and my heart aches.