Champion Kevintor Neverloss's Arc

Chapter 42 of 42

Kevintor left the small room with the name in his head and nothing in his hands. Astella walked him to the gate and stopped there. "Dawn," she said. "Not after." He asked where the man would run. She drew on the pipe and let the smoke out slow. "I gave him no warning. He felt the room turn. He took a horse from the south stable." She tapped the blade under her sash. "Pick the road yourself. I do not choose for you." Then she shut the gate. He needed walls and a table. The temple under the falling water sat a half mile down the slope, empty at this hour but for an old keeper who knew his face and asked nothing. Kevintor took the side hall, swept a low table clear, and laid out what he had. Eleven knives. The yellow-stoned dagger. The killer's map. Three roads ran out from Astella's land. North to the pass. East to the river towns. South to the altar clearing where he had spoken the seven words. He stared at the three lines and could not pick. Wrong guess and the named man would reach a port, or another blade would take him first, and the altar would stay shut. The keeper brought tea. Kevintor asked if any rider had passed in the last hour. The keeper said one had stopped at the south stable below to water a horse and trade plate for a lighter coat. He had left a heavy chestpiece behind a rain barrel because he could not ride fast in it. Kevintor went down to the stable and found the armor where the keeper said. It was dented and scratched, the straps cut clean with a knife, one red mark across the breast he had seen at Astella's table. The cut straps faced south. The horse tracks faced south. South was the altar. The man was running toward the stone the seventh art needed, not away from it. Kevintor understood then. The man knew the rule. If he reached the altar first and bled there by his own choice or another's blade, the art opened for him, not for Kevintor. He went back to the temple. A sundial stood in the courtyard, its gnomon throwing a thin shadow across worn numerals. He read the hour. He had until first light. By his count, six hours of hard riding, less if he cut the creek bend. He drank the tea standing. He rolled the knives into a cloth and tied them at his belt. He pocketed the dagger. Kevintor took a horse from the temple post and rode south at a pace the animal could hold. He did not need to guess the road now. He needed to beat a man with a head start to a stone he had already touched once and failed to open. The deadline was set. The direction was set. Only the killing was left.