(1)
Someone was shaking Roran. Someone was always shaking him awake. Why couldn't the world let him sleep. Why couldn't he be allowed to rest. Ever since he was ripped from his home, it had been one nightmare after another, a never ending string of events as the world unraveled around him.
"Hey kid, you alive?"
Roran groaned and rolled over. It was unusually cold and the ground beneath him was hard. Groping around, he realized that he had been sleeping on cobblestone. Roran had passed out in an alleyway somewhere in the city.
A man was standing over him, an annoyed look on his face. "You shouldn't sleep here, you might get robbed or killed."
"Sorry," was all Roran said. He forced himself into a sitting position and rubbed his face. He felt awful, not surprising given that he'd slept outside on the ground. "What time is it?"
"Time for you to leave. Come on, let's go."
As much as his ego protested at being treated like a vagrant, Roran forced himself to his feet and stumbled out of the alleyway. Brushing himself off, he tried to find his bearings. He remembered his encounter with Murrin and leaving the immediate area, but from the moment he let go of his godspell everything became a blur. The snapback effect had left him utterly drained and disoriented. Matriarch Gwendalyn was going to scold him when he got home.
The sky was overcast and gray, again, making it impossible to tell what time of day it was. The chill wind had subsided, which was a blessing, but the weather was unseasonably cold. It felt like a bad omen. He wished he could have asked someone about it. Sarah and Karyn would both have answers. Sarah had centuries of knowledge tucked away inside her like old memories, and was always happy to share them. If Sarah didn't know something, then Karyn could divine knowledge out of thin air. Both of them had been so magical in their own ways. He missed them dearly. Roran pulled his hood down low and tucked the robes around his body, hugging himself. Someday, if he survived, he would get Sarah back.
Roran found that he'd passed out on the border of Mount Balaki and Mount Vassilis. He must have followed the slope down into the little valley between them before his body finally gave out. Knowing where he was told him where to go and he made the trudge home.
As arrived at the front door, he was surprised to see Kell walking up the street as well. She was covered in dirt and dust, with fresh bruises on her chest and neck. She looked like she'd been thrown through a building and out the other side.
Kell gave him a once over. "You look like shit."
"You too," said Roran.
"Made some poor decisions and lost a fight. You?"
"Ran into some people from Millgrove. Ended up passing out in an alley on the way home."
Kell grunted. "Since when did we become so pathetic?"
"We've always been a bit scruffy."
"Speak for yourself, I used to be a proper lady."
Roran grinned. "Emphasis on the past tense, unless you're about to swear off violence and start wearing poofy dresses again."
"Oh shut it," said Kell, opening the door and heading inside. "And I still like those poofy dresses! Even if they're not good for fighting."
As Kell and Roran walked in the door, they nearly ran into Matriarch Gwendalyn who gave them both a horrified look.
"I thought I heard you two outside. Where in the heavens have you been? By god, you both look awful."
Kell shrugged. "Just out tramping around. Is there food?"
"Lunch was a couple hours ago, and dinner won't be for some time." The Matriarch sighed as she remembered who she was dealing with. "Not that it matters, I'll have some food made up for you two. For now, you both need a bath."
"Appreciate it," said Kell.
"Don't worry about me," said Roran. "I'm going to get some rest."
"You smell like shit," said Kell. "You're taking a bath or you're sleeping outside."
Roran knew better than to argue with Kell when she was in one of her moods, so he shrugged. "Fine."
They trudged up to the washroom on the same floor as their bedrooms. Kell surprised Roran when she followed him into the same washroom.
"I thought you would use the one on the upper floor?" Roran said. It was bigger and more luxurious, normally reserved for Kell and Darling.
"Don't want to run into my sister," Kell muttered as she started undressing. Colored dust fell out of her clothes as she pulled them off, giving more credence to the theory that she'd been thrown through a wall.
"I'll wait till you're done," Roran said.
Kell turned on the water and said, "Get in the fucking tub."
Knowing better than to argue, Roran began stripping down. Already undressed, Kell climbed into the large tub, the water raining down from spouts hanging overhead. She sat down and let the water cascade down her body. Swirls of dirt and dust washed off her in waves. Fresh bruises covered more of her body than Roran realized.
Pulling off his robe and gently wrapping it around his wrist, Roran stepped into the tub after her, the hot water sluicing over his body. Cleanliness wasn't as important to Roran as it was to Kell, but he couldn't deny that the hot water felt amazing after a night of sleeping in the streets.
"What happened?" Roran asked.
"I was fighting."
"In the arena?"
"Yes...and no..."
Roran ran his fingers through his hair. It was longer than he was used to. Karyn used to cut it for him but that had been most of a year ago. All three of them were looking scruffier and scruffier as time passed.
"Who did you go after?" Roran asked, thinking he already knew the answer.
Kell climbed to her feet and grabbed a bar of soap to begin washing herself. "Destra."
"He didn't kill you?"
Kell shook her head. "He said he wasn't allowed to. I wish he had though."
Roran didn't know how to respond, so he didn't.
"I'm the strongest I've ever been and he stomped me down like a dog. I'm the greatest Champion to ever step foot in the arena and I'm a bug compared to him. I hit him with everything I had and gave him little more than a black eye and a cut to the forehead."
"You injured him?" Roran was surprised. "You actually managed to injure a demi-god?"
"Oh fuck off. He was holding back. If he'd been allowed to kill me, he would have ripped me in half without a second thought. I'm useless, Roran. I'm completely helpless. I've dedicated my entire life to becoming the greatest Champion this city has ever seen. And even in claiming that glory, I'm a failure. I'm nothing compared to you and Nul."
Kell's shoulders started to shake and her muscles flexed as she clenched her jaw. Roran realized that she was crying, silently and underwater so no one could see her tears. Stepping in, Roran wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, silently accepting his shoulder to cry on. Roran rested his chin on her head.
His throat tight, Roran said, "Please don't do dangerous things like that. I can't bear to lose anyone else."
Her voice low and hoarse, Kell muttered, "I can't make any promises."
(2)
Once clean and secure in the knowledge that Kell had been shuffled off to her room for food and rest, Roran returned to his own room. He untied the damp robes from around his wrist and let them fall to the floor. They reappeared around his shoulders, perfectly clean and dry and settling into place like flowing silk.
He still needed to talk to Nul about adjusting his etchings. As much as he liked the robes, he needed to be able to take them off and he needed to be able to hide his aspect of death whenever he called on Sarah's powers.
Settling down at his desk, Roran started picking through the plate of food the Matriarch had left him. Properly thanking her for all the trouble they put her through was also on his list of things to do. That list never seemed to get any shorter, no matter how much they accomplished.
Next to his plate sat a golden envelope. He tore it open and found a letter from Pelkha. His duel with Destra had been officially announced and they were to face each other in combat in four days. Roran felt nothing at the news. No joy, no anxiety, no fear. Simply, nothing. He would kill another person in a week and that was simply that. Another task for the Reaper.
Next to the gaudy missive was his mother's diary. He still hadn't managed to read any further. There was so much going on that he wasn't sure he had the stomach to read any further, the last thing he needed now was to question his mother's entire history.
Finishing his food, Roran picked up his mother's diary and crawled into bed. Sitting against the wall, he drummed his fingers along the cover.
His voice little more than a whisper, he said, "I wish you were here, Sarah. I wish I could ask you to read this for me. I know it's cowardly of me, but I don't know what I'm going to find in here and I'm so scared that reading it is going to hurt. Everything else already hurts so much, I don't know if I can take it."
He looked around the room, as though his plea might have somehow brought Sarah back. It hadn't, he was still alone and Sarah was still dormant within him, draining him of life so that she might one day return.
Sighing, Roran opened the book and picked up where he'd left off.
I suppose a bloody confession isn't the most appropriate way to begin a diary, but I can't help myself. My hands still tremble with elation and joy. Never before have I felt such happiness, such freedom, such relief. My nightmare is finally over, those rotten souls can no longer reach me.
They kept me as one keeps an animal, locked away and bound in chains. One would expect it to just be the lord of the house to exercise this cruelty, but no, it was all of them. Every soul under that roof was malignant. They have none of the base qualities that make a person a person. I suppose I should say 'had'. The only quality they have now is how quickly their bodies decay in the charred remains of the place they called home. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself. I should start from the beginning.
My name is Alira Floss, and this is my story.
I was born and raised in the small farming community called Millgrove. My parents were florists. We bred specialty flowers that could be used for all sorts of things. Some were medicinal, some were used in mystical rituals, many were cultivated to attract bees and help farmers with pollinating their crops. Naturally, all of our flowers were beautiful.
My favorite flowers were the ones that could be brewed into teas. I helped my father select which teas matched our flowers best and they let me choose what flavors we stocked for our customers. Together with my family, we ran a little shop and lived comfortably.
It was an idyllic life. The three of us lived in a cottage a short walk away from our shop. I was a young girl entering my maidenhood, spending my days helping grow and tend to flowers, weaving bouquets and sampling teas. I don't think I could have asked for a more perfect childhood.
Sadly, that childhood came to an abrupt end in the summer of my thirteenth year. I met a charming man by the name of Ja'Salle. He came into the shop looking for medicinal herbs. We only had a select few but the ones we had were rather potent, all of our flora were. While I put together his order, he struck up a conversation. He told me he was an outlander that had traveled the world.
Being a naive girl who'd never left Millgrove, I was enchanted by his stories. I loved the idea of seeing the world. I wanted to travel to Stormfall and see the ships that crossed the seas. I wanted to Travel to the Esmun Isles and taste food from strange and far away places. I wanted to visit the King's City and witness its grandeur with my own eyes. I wanted to see the world and everything it had to offer.
Ja'Salle offered to take me with him, to show me all of these wondrous things. All he asked in return was my companionship. I laughed in his face and told him to try some other fool's daughter. I was a naive girl, but I wasn't blind. I knew fake gold when I saw it and wouldn't be taken in by his offers of adventure. He took my rejection with grace and I thought that would be the end of it. Unfortunately, it wasn't. My father may not have raised a fool, but growing up in peaceful farmland had made me careless.
Ja'Salle returned a week later. My father was tending to business at a farm several hours away and my mother was at home with a cold. I was left to run the shop by myself, something I had done countless times in the past. I suppose my luck was bound to run out eventually.
Ja'Salle had a small bundle of flowers that he wanted me to identify for him. He said that he'd never seen anything like them and wanted me to tell him what they were. Always happy to flaunt my knowledge of the local flora, I was more than willing to look through his flowers. He showed me a bundle of river tulips, there was nothing particularly unique about them. I told Ja'Salle as much but he insisted that they had a unique scent to them. Naive little me put my nose into the bouquet and took in a hearty breath.
The scent was sickly sweet and familiar. It was from a flower we made for the physician and the herbalists in the town. We called it Goddess's Moonlight. It was an anesthetic. I recognized the scent just in time to feel my legs go numb and crash to the ground. The last thing I remember seeing is Ja'Salle standing over me before the world went dark.
(3)
My world stayed dark for many days. I was kept in some sort of barrel or drum or chest. It was cramped and painful. I was finally set free after we had traveled well away from Millgrove and the surrounding provinces, after we were away from anyone that might recognize me and come to my aid.
Free was a relative term. I was kept bound and watched at all times. Ja'Salle had met up with some comrades and together they were transporting myself and four others to some unknown destination. Together, we were three girls and two boys, all roughly the same age. I believe I was the only one who gave Ja'Salle trouble as the others hadn't been locked in a trunk for days on end. The price of common sense I suppose.
We stayed off the main roads, marching through forests and valleys. Our minders bid us to keep quiet lest they take a lash to us. Once, to test their threats, I rebelled, crying out and causing a fuss. They indeed took the lash to me, but only to the point of bruises and no further, even when I continued to rebel. That was when I realized that they needed us unharmed. Again, a relative term.
We traveled for little less than a fortnight before the five of us were stowed in a large chest on the outskirts of a large city. This was the first time I had been alone with the others and we were able to talk amongst ourselves without fear of the lash.
We traded stories in hushed voices. They were all like me, from families across the country. Ja'Salle had come to them with sweet words and convinced them to ride with him, if only for a short while. Once they were out on the road, Ja'Salle would lead them to a small camp a few days away and they were put in chains. We had been harvested for the flesh trade.
Two of the older ones insisted that we would be able to escape so long as we kept our heads down and behaved. All we had to do was wait for the right moment and our freedom would be dangled in front of us like candy, then we simply had to snatch it. I was less optimistic.
I had been noting the flowers as we traveled, using them as a means to track where we were and how far we had gone. The last flowers I had seen before we were smuggled into the city were a hearty strain of geranium that thrived in coastal areas. We were close to a port. We were very likely being shipped out to sea.
I kept that information to myself. There was no need to terrify the others. The lies they told themselves were like nightshade tea with honey, a little sweetness before the end. I did nothing to escape and held on to little hope. I have always believed you should control what you can and leave the rest up to fate. Struggling to control things beyond your grasp is a waste of energy.
We were smuggled into a small house where we were stripped, scrubbed clean, and dressed in fresh clothes. I had hoped to catch a final glimpse of Ja'Salle but I was to be disappointed. We were once more bound in chains and led to a small room and put up on an auction block.
It reminded me of the auctions I attended with my parents in the city. Goods were put up for sale, a price was stated, and people bid against each other until they won and claimed their new property. The only difference this time was that I was now the property.
The five of us were auctioned off. Only two of us started to cry during the auction, for which I was grateful. I didn't have the fortitude to keep myself together and console another. By the time my final price had been set and I was officially sold, I was so disconnected from myself that I felt only relief at having the ordeal over with, along with a strange smidgen of pride that I had fetched the highest price by a small margin. I suppose our minds do funny things to deal with horrifying circumstances.
I was introduced to my owner, Mr. Owen Devereux. He was a sweaty man that wore fine clothes a size too small for him. He was shorter than my father, though was more robust in frame. I guessed that I could outrun him but would suffer severely if he did manage to catch me.
Once the introductions were complete, I was ushered away and locked into a small room until it was time to go. Ja'Salle's associates came and put me in another crate and I spent another day and a half bouncing along in darkness before I reached my destination, Mr. Devereux's home.
Owen Devereux was a minor lord in a province that nestled up against a mountain. He was married, with two children and a collection of dogs. They made their living from the farmers that owned vineyards on Devereux's land. Their home was at the furthest edge of their province, deep within the woods and built at the base of the mountain. Though the road in was nice, it was a comfortably secluded home.
I was introduced to the family as the new house girl. A gentle enough title to ignore the nightmare it truly was. I was instructed to refer to the senior Devereuxs as Sir and Ma'am, and to the children as young lord and young miss. I promised myself then and there that the moment I was free, I would never address them as such ever again. I swore that I would never even think of them by those titles ever again.
And yet, as I sit here, my hands stained in their blood, I can't address them in any other way, not even to myself.
My role in the house was established quite quickly. I was to handle the cleaning, assist with the cooking as my skills allowed, perform the tasks necessary to keep the house running, and see to the needs of the family.
Simple enough on paper but I find that the words lack the cruelty that came along with my new position. As far as everyone in that house was concerned, I was a work animal. I was there to perform whatever labor they needed and was expected to show obedience and gratitude, lest I be shown the lash, and they were far more willing to apply the lash than my previous captors had been. I would say that I was little more than a dog to them, but they often treated the dogs better than they treated me.
(4)
The first week was the most difficult, not only because I was still becoming accustomed to my responsibilities, but also because I was something new and shiny. I was an object of interest. Mrs. Devereux summoned me frequently for little chores and errands, only to scold me for getting them wrong. The children constantly called me to play games. Not children's games mind you, tormenter's games, where they asked me to do impossible tasks then either whipped me for failing or found some other punishment to inflict upon me.
It was strange dealing with the children. They were only a few years younger than myself. In a couple more years, they would be of a similar height and build as me. In another life, we could have been considered peers.
When I wasn't busy working about the house or being tormented by the children, I was kept locked in a small cellar. I was stowed away like an unnecessary object whenever it was time for sleep or when company was over.
I like to think of myself as a practical person, and as such, I never made any initial attempts to escape. I was frequently watched or kept bound during the day, and even if I were to slip my bonds I would have nowhere to flee to. I had never learned to ride upon horseback and the lands around us were vast and sprawling. Even if by some miracle I reached a farmstead or someone's home, there was no guarantee they wouldn't side with their lord and return me immediately. So I kept my head down, bit my tongue, and I did the only thing I could do, learn.
I had learned at an early age that knowledge is a tool. It is the most universal tool in this world and with enough of it you can accomplish anything. Those first few weeks I learned the house and how it was run. I learned how to cook and serve tea the way Mrs. Devereux preferred it (weak with an abundance of cream and sugar). I learned how to be boring in the face of cruelty. I learned how to hide pain and tuck it away for later. I learned how to satisfy the needs of men, as well as women because it seems the seed of cruelty can blossom anywhere. And, most importantly, I learned how to pick locks.
I was in service to the Devereux's for a moon and a half before I finally mastered that vital skill. I already understood the basic mechanism of a lock thanks to a boring summer spent alone in the shop while my parents were away, so it was only a matter of gaining the tools and refining my skills. I snuck away two bits of thin metal and stowed them in my clothes. Whenever I was locked in the cellar, I would wait until the entire house was asleep and then carefully practice picking the lock and relocking from my side. Once I had perfected the skill, I began sneaking into the house while the others were asleep.
While it was tempting to use these opportunities to flee, I was still stranded in a small province far from any sort of assistance, so instead I went to increase the only resource I had, my knowledge. The Devereux's had a lovely library filled with books. It wasn't a large library, but the shelves were stuffed from top to bottom.
Whenever I cleaned the library, I would pick books that I wished to read and return for them late at night. At first I snuck the books back to the cellar, afraid of being caught out and about. But after a time I felt confident in my stealthy abilities and began reading in the library itself.
I learned so many things from that library. I found maps of the surrounding territories and learned exactly where I was and how I might be able to get home. I learned about the people of the world through the eyes of explorers. I learned how to traverse many terrains, whether on foot or horseback. I learned which plants were edible and which were poisonous. I even improved my carnal skills through a handful of books Mrs. Deveruex had tucked away. A distasteful talent but one that has proven all too useful.
I gorged myself on knowledge until I was bursting with it. I read the contents of that library and then went back for more. When the library no longer held new knowledge, I became bold and snuck into Mr. Devereux's office. I read through his ledgers and accounting books. I found his personal diaries and letters to confidants. I tallied his money and perused his secrets. I dare say that, by the time I was done, I knew Owen Deveruex better than he knew himself.
All told, it was five years that I spent in that house, suffering under the Devereux family and devouring their secrets. Five years being nothing more than an animal, a tool for their convenience and pleasure. Five years of torment and pain tucked away into the deep recesses of my heart where it would fester and grow.
The day I decided it was time to leave was a particularly cruel one. Mr. Devereux and the young lord, now entering his own manhood, were out in the yard enjoying an early summer evening. I was in the kitchen, preparing supper with the window open, their conversation drifting in on the summer breeze. The young miss had come into the kitchen to fetch something when the young lord commented that I was an ideal woman.
Both the young miss and I froze at this statement. The young lord went on to say that I was docile, obedient, and loyal, just like a well behaved dog. He then commented that I was also prettier than any of the other girls he knew.
Unfortunately, the implication was not lost on the young miss. Without word or comment, she grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out into the yard. She dragged me in front of the Devereux men, so that they were aware of what was happening, and then out to the kennel where she threw me in with the hounds.
Dusting her hands, she turned to her brother and said, "If she's like a dog then she can stay with the dogs!"
A fight ensued between them but I missed most of it. Coming out of the kitchen, I smelled of fresh meat and was still covered in splatter from the day's cooking. The dogs, who I'd never gotten along with on the best of days, piled on top of me. They bit my hands and tore my clothes. I tried to fend them off but that only incensed them even more. They jumped at me, clawed me, and bit me, driving me into the corner of the kennel where I curled into a small ball and cowered, waiting for someone to come rescue me.
The two siblings bickered back and forth over whether or not young sir thought his sister was pretty while Mr. Devereux smoked his pipe and Mrs. Devereux came out to see what the commotion was.
In the end, nobody came to save me. I cowered in the kennel until I was bloodied, battered, and bruised. The Devereux's grew tired of their argument and settled into idle chatter while the dogs mauled me. Every now and then, I caught Mr. Devereux glancing over at me, looking bored. When the dogs finally left me be, I was made to strip and wash outside, lest I bring in the dog smell.
(5)
I was used to the Devereux's cruelty, I'd been suffering it for years, but something inside me broke that day. I think it was the impersonal nature of it. Before, their cruel acts had always had intention behind them, whether that was lust or boredom or sadism. This was done for no other purpose than to spite another. The young miss had simply wanted to start an argument with her brother and decided that tormenting me was the appropriate way to do that. My own behavior and actions were of no consequence. I was merely a tool to break at their convenience. All things I had known before, but now felt down to my bones.
That night, I snuck out and collected a handful of items I would need. The poison that we used to kill rats. A sharp knife for skinning game. A spare fire poker kept in the broom closet. Spare wire for the young miss's harp and some wooden dowels. I piled all of these in an out of the way location, all together so they would be within easy reach when I needed them.
The following day, I kept my head down and said as little as possible. Nobody treated me any differently. Yesterday's nightmare was a forgettable occurrence for them, a simple squabble between siblings. I went through the day like any other. I made them breakfast, did my chores, prepared lunch, cleaned the house, made supper, tidied the kitchen, tended the fireplaces, then prepared the house for sleep. As I was snuffing out the lanterns and candles, I slipped away to my little hidey hole and collected my tools, hiding them in my skirts as best I could.
I served Mrs. Devereux her evening tea, as I did every night. Tonight she wrinkled her nose and commented that it was brewed too strongly and threatened to beat me if I failed her again. I simply apologized and assured her it wouldn't happen again.
The night wound down and Mr. Devereux took me to the cellar for the evening. He hesitated before locking me inside and I feared that he would wish to avail himself to my services. He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head and closed the door, locking it. Ever since that moment, I've wondered if he was going to offer me an apology. For his children's behavior if nothing else. He had, strangely enough, been kinder to me than the others. If he had apologized, I wonder if that would have changed what happened next.
Finally alone, I took the wire and wrapped an end around the dowels, creating a weapon I had seen in one of the many books. I took the fire poker, which had been a misery to conceal under my skirts and left my leg bruised from where I had tied it, and slipped it through a loop in my dress. Finally, I unsheathed the knife and kept it at the ready.
Prepared as best I could be, I used my worn little tools to pick the lock one last time. It came open with a snick and I left the cellar, my knife at the ready.
I moved silently through the house. Though I had done this hundreds of times over the years, I felt scared. It felt like I was sneaking out for the first time all over again. I gently padded to the master bedroom and slipped inside.
Mr. Devereux was snoring loudly. He'd always been a heavy sleeper. I was more worried about Mrs. Devereux. I slipped through the shadows as quietly as I could and checked on her first. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. Taking a risk, I felt her neck for a pulse. It was all but gone. The poisoned tea had put her on death's door.
Leaving her, I returned to Mr. Devereux. He was flat on his back, mouth open, sleeping peacefully. Gathering my courage, I gently laid my hand on his forehead and placed the knife on his throat. I made a hard cut, as though I were carving meat for that night's dinner. The knife was sharp and slipped through him with ease. He sputtered and gurgled for a few moments, splattering me with blood, but he fell silent quickly, his eyes never opening. Then I went to Mrs. Devereux and finished what I had started.
The parents dead, their still warm blood soaking my clothes, I headed for the young miss's room. I sheathed the knife and drew the fire poker. As I entered the room, I heard the young miss begin to stir. She had always been a light sleeper, easy to startle in the middle of the night. I sacrificed stealth for speed, letting the door close with a thud and hurrying across the room.
She sat up in her bed, disoriented from being pulled out of her slumber. She turned to face me, confused. I wasted no time. My heart was pounding in my ears as I swung the poker, bashing her over the head. She fell back, raising her arms to defend herself. I attacked again and again, each time trying to knock her unconscious. I lost count of how many times I hit her, but stopped shortly after she fell limp.
I tossed the poker aside and ran to the door, pressing myself against the wall beside it. This was the moment I feared most. In my efforts to murder the young miss, I had caused a racket, one that was sure to rouse the final Devereux. The door opened and the young lord entered.
He padded into the room, demanding to know what was going on and what his sister was doing at this miserable hour. Though he was a few years my junior, the young lord had grown tall and wide. He was much larger and stronger than I, and much more capable in a fight thanks to an arms master that visited once a fortnight. All I had was the element of surprise and a cruel weapon to aid me.
As he took in the scene of his battered sister, I snuck up behind him and slipped the garrote around his neck, pulling it tight. His reaction was immediate. He struggled and tried to break away from me. I pulled the wire tighter. Blood spurted as it cut skin and he thrashed against me, bashing my ribs with his elbows. I held fast. It felt like an eternity had passed before he staggered and fell forward, taking me with him. I had won.
The Devereux's had taught me to be thorough in my work and so I revisited each one of them, using the knife to ensure that they would never bother me, or anyone else, ever again. Then I went to the kitchen and collected every morsel of fresh meat they had. I applied liberal amounts of poison to it and tossed it into the kennel with the dogs.
Roran closed the book. There was more to read but he'd had enough for one evening. He hugged the book close to his chest and curled up in his bed. So the children weren't quite as young as he'd feared. Still, they were in their early teens...as though that made anything better. His mother had brutally slaughtered an entire family. Most people would call it justified, Roran included, but the weight of it sat heavy on him.
Not just because of the murders, but because of how far removed it was from the woman Roran had known. He hadn't even known that his mother had a surname. She'd never mentioned it to him before and she'd certainly never used it. Reading the diary was like reading a story about another person altogether. This wasn't the woman he'd called mother.
And yet, it was her handwriting, it was her diary. This was his mother's history. The same woman that had shown the world nothing but love and kindness had once been chained down in the trenches of brutal misery and clawed her way out through murder.