The two men stood outside the Cuckoo's Nest, where the night before they'd nearly killed each other all because of the song sung by the woman they now both gazed at through the window. She was dancing and flirting with a man in his fifties, craggily handsome for a man his age, but with the acid green eyes of a lynx. His sleeve was finely embroidered with a rampant wild boar, identifying him as the philandering husband of Dayven's patroness. And he held Dayven's wife in his arms, his fingers gripping her arms so tight, her brown skin went white beneath them.

"Why her," Dayven was muttering. He was not in good shape. The hole in his gut had been closed by the skillful and long suffering priest that Kath had paid for, but he was shivering and twitching something awful. "Why'd he have to pick her." It was not a question. It was a monotone entreaty to a God he didn't really believe in. Kyrwan would have mentioned to him that if Cyric were real and listening, this was exactly the sort of perverse luck the Mad God would bestow upon even the most faithful of his followers, but thought better of it. He now knew he could take his mentor in a fight, but didn't really feel like it. Not twice in two days.

"You were going to kill her anyway, one of these days," Kyrwan said.

"Fuck you, Bishop," Dayven responded, but didn't make a move to start another fight. He wasn't terribly eager, given what had transpired the night before.

"No," he said, "It's true. You wouldn't have meant to, but one of these days you were going to lose your temper and smack her head in the door or shove her down the stairs or accidently cut her where it won't stop bleeding." He was quiet a moment. "If you can't bring yourself to do it proper, I'll do it for you." The words slipped from his mouth before he really thought about it.

"You will?"

"After the bullshit she pulled last night?" He scoffed, "She's dangerous. She had us at each other's throats with nothing but a tinkling little mandolin. Imagine what she could do sober."

"You have to understand, Bishop. I just can't… we were children together once. I could maybe kill her. Head in the door maybe. But… the bit where Torio wants her heart in the box. I couldn't do that. She'd look at me while I was cutting into her.," he said, "Together, her and I, we were so happy. And then my parents died. And then the war happened. Your childhood, you must remember being carefree."

Neckbones crackled in Kyrwan's mind.

"Not really," he said.

"I suppose not," Dayven said. He was silent a long moment, staring through the window, looking for a trace of his childhood sweetheart in the haggard woman in the bar. The smile on her face was as false and painted as the overfull eyelashes and red lips she wore. "You know why they wanted you, even as a boy?" He said to his apprentice.

"Who wanted me?"

"The Circle," he said, "Why they wanted you?"

"I'm a fucking wastrel from the dock that was going to grow up to be one of three things," he said.

"It's more than that," Dayven said, "You're special. They believe - I do too I guess. You're the purest form."

"What in the everloving fuck are you talking about, Elhandrien?"

"You were born for this," he said, his sunken, mossy eyes taking on a mad glow, "The son of a man and his daughter…"

Kyrwan whirled on him and caught him by the collar, his voice quiet and dangerous, "Don't fucking say another word, I'll cut your heart out too."

"You know it's…"

"Yes I know it's fucking true," he said, "You think I didn't hear the whispers? You didn't have to say it out loud."

"That's why you belong with us, why you belong to Cyric," Dayven protested, his voice going high as he struggled in his apprentice's grasp. For the first time, Kyrwan saw how shrunken he was. How much smaller he was than he'd been even a few months ago, let alone compared to the strapping lad he'd once saved from a murderous Hosttower mage.

"I already told you," he said, "I'll do it. But I want my initiation. I might belong to Cyric but I won't belong to you."

"You'll have it," he said.

He loosed him and put him down. "Get out of here, you don't want to see this." You cowardly, weaselly little shit.

Dayven handed him a box. It was made of rosewood, cube shaped, only a little larger than his fist. They'd learned that the human heart is about the size of its owner's fist. He thought about the cold, callused little fingers that had touched his so briefly the night before. This box would fit her heart with room to spare.

"Fucking freak she is," he muttered to himself. He'd never been to the Claven's estate, though he'd thought about it sometimes. He wondered if its mistress had rooms full of body parts. Girls she'd had killed for being in the wrong bed at the wrong time.

The lamps were burning low as he watched them leave and mount the stairs. He moved, quick as he could. The narrow alley between the Cuckoo's Nest and the boarding house next door was narrow enough, and he knew the handholds on the wall. He wasn't a terribly graceful climber. Not like Arky had been, shooting up walls or trees like an alleycat. He was tall enough to jump and catch the bottom of a second story window, pulling himself up and where the sill was just wide enough to hold him. The third floor was harder, since he didn't trust himself to jump for the next window without losing his balance and toppling backwards. It took him an embarrassingly long time to figure it out. He reached back, his wingspan long enough to brace himself between the two walls and ascend that way, his muscles protesting that this was not what they were for. He was out of breath by the time he reached the roof of the Cuckoo's nest. There was a fourth floor, tacked on haphazardly and about half the size of the other three floors, where only the richest johns went. You haven't thought this one through have you, he thought as he lay gasping on his back on the roof of the third floor, staring at the stars and hoping nobody had seen that rather pitiful spectacle. Were you going to kill her? No, of course not, that's how you get a face known to the dockside whores, that's how I catch a knife in my own back. But now what? Wait til he leaves. Take her to the city gate. Tell her to get the fuck out. Get a piglet's heart from the offal pile, give that to that sick fuck Torio.

A crash came from the window. He sprang to his feet and closed the distance in seconds, peering in the window. And what then? If he's beating on her, what are you going to do about it? The fuck are you doing? But it was utterly dark within, the moonlight reflecting on the filthy glass so he couldn't see a damn thing. He could hear nothing anymore. Maybe that noise was the door as he left. He struggled with the window, finally able to force it open. He stuck his head inside.

"Holy shit…" he breathed. Two bodies. One on the floor, one on the bed. Both bleeding prodigious rivers of blood. The john on the floor face down, the whore on the bed, her face tilted towards the moonlight. She looked like she had when she'd miscarried, one eye swollen shut, nose bruised. He crept through the window.

He checked the john first. He was warm, but no life pulsed beneath the dry scaly skin. Well, Mrs. Claven, he thought, Seems your husband got more than he bargained for. He took a breath, steeled himself, and went to check the whore.

She was alive, at least. He shook her gently. Her good eye opened and she started to talk, but he put his gloved hand to her mouth. He opened the box, took the contract letter out, and gave it to her, hoping she could read it. He let her read it, looking back at the corpse. From this angle, he could say that a very fine throwing knife was protruding from its forehead.

"So why'd you kill him?" He asked.

"Dayven," she purred, the first time he'd heard her say her husband's name with anything but fear or disdain. Of course, she thinks I'm him. She can't see a damn thing can she. She sounded… like she was comforting him, "You didn't know? He's the one! He killed Kyla."

He forced himself to stay still as the cold shock hit him. He nodded slowly.

"They sent me to kill you," he said.

She chuckled, a painful sound. "It's probably best if you do. I'm for the gallows, anyway."

He stood up, the shock in his breast melting into hot energy. He strode across the room, taking his hunting knife. He rolled the corpse over with a grunt.

You see, boy, how the pig's got ribs? His dad's voice said. He was eight years old and his old man was showing him. They're strong, stronger than steel, stronger than the sharpest knife. So if you want to get the heart out, you've got to cut below them. You know, people are just the same. He saw in his mind, Dad take the bloodstained knife out of the pig's carcass and put it against his upper belly, just where his ribs left ended and left the rest of him unprotected. Right here. You cut right here. He'd made a move with his knife, and the boy had run.

But the boy was a man now, with a knife of his own, and this corpse in front of him had murdered the only person in the world that had ever cared for him. He stuck him without remorse. There wasn't much blood left in him. He put his hand in the carcass and found the still heart, fibrous beneath his hand. He yanked with all his strength, and it came loose. He put it in the box. Stripped off the bloody glove. Turned to Addie, who was now standing over him.

"You're going to want to run," he said.

"Where?"

"Doesn't matter. Just go."

She wobbled to the door. She won't get far will she.

He stood to follow her. He held Evendyn's heart under his arm, knowing how she had fought and killed and near been killed, all to avenge his sister. She loved Kyla too. We were the only two. Suddenly, the wasp sting of longing he'd felt the night before as she sang the song about the boy and his master's wife hit him. And it broke again. Only she wasn't singing this time, she wasn't casting a spell on him. This was happening all on its own. He reached out and grabbed her by the wrist. She was so small. He pulled her to him, scared he'd hurt her worse. He held her a moment, searching for the face beneath the bruises. He kissed her then, put his arms all the way around her, protecting her for one brief moment before he had to let her go again. He gave her a push out the door. There was strength in those skinny arms, in that bruised and bloodied mouth. Perhaps she would survive.

He watched her hurry down the stairs, heard her open the back door to the alley, and flee into the darkness of the Luskan night. He turned to the body.

"Well," he said, "Let's see how much I remember, Dad. Shoulder, belly, leg, and loin. Let's turn you into meat, you lecherous old shit." His knife flashed in the moonlight. The man who killed Kyla is dead. Who is left for me to hate?

He grinned to himself as he butchered his prey as swiftly and efficiently as his father had butchered pigs and sheep. Dad, he thought, chuckling, Dad's next.