He reached for his breeches, tunic, leather vest, and boots, and pulled each on in turn. After that he strapped on his armor. Each fastened buckle was a nail in the coffin of Mister Cale the butler. When he snapped on his weapons belt, he could not help but smile at the familiar, comfortable weight of steel on his hips. His coin purse, which was filled with the hundred or so platinum suns Tamlin had insisted he take as severance, he stuffed into an inner pocket of his vest.
Fully dressed and in his proper skin, Cale gathered up his cloak and backpack. He felt... true, for the first time in a long time. He would pick up the sphere from the parlor on his way out. Most of the staff would be involved with dinner preparations, so he would be able to exit the manse without further ado or commotion. That was how he wanted it.
He took a last look around his quarters.
A tentative knock on his door turned him around.
He composed himself then said, "Come."
Thazienne pushed open the door. She wore an informal, sleeveless green dress and a soft frown. As always, she looked beautiful. Her skin shone in the light of the setting sun. Cale fought down the pangs of hurt and desire that he felt when he saw her.
She started to say something, but stopped when her gaze took in his weapons and attire, the cloak and backpack he held in his hand. Her frown deepened.
"You weren't going to say good-bye? To me?" Her voice was soft, diffident, the timid voice of the uncertain teenage girl she once had been.
He could not look her in the eyes. His hands fumbled absently with the straps of his pack.
"I hadn't decided yet," he said.
That was true. For two days he had vacillated between a need to see her one last time and a fear of what he might say if he did.
She looked at him sharply, and her voice changed into that of the confident woman she had become.
"You hadn't decided? What is that supposed to mean?"
He returned her sharp look and snapped, "It means I hadn't decided."
She took a step back, surprised by his harshness.
Hurt made Cale's words sound more callous than he intended.
"We said good-bye months ago, Thazienne. You did, at least."
He thought of the day she had returned to the manse with Steorf, the dolt whose bed Cale was certain she shared. His knuckles whitened around the straps of the backpack.
She understood what he meant. They knew each other too well for her not to know. A flash of red colored her face from chin to ear, though from shame or anger, he could not tell. She spun as though to leave, but stopped herself, turned, and faced him.
She took a deep breath and said, "You were my friend, Erevis. My dear friend."
She could not have known that those words cut him more deeply than if she had said she hated him. Her friend? Only her friend? He swallowed the emotion that threatened to burst from him. He knew that he had misread her for years, that he had been a fool. He felt his own face color.
"Your friend." He spoke the words as though they were an expletive. "That's all?"
She started to reply but stumbled over her tongue.
Finally she said, "When I returned from abroad my mother ... told me something."
She looked up at him and he could see tears pooling in her eyes.
His legs went wobbly. He held his breath.
"She said... that before you went to find the shadow demon..."
She trailed off and looked away, blinking. It took her a moment to recover.
"She said you left me a note."
His mouth went dry. He reached for his reading chair, to steady himself.
Shamur had found the note; Thazienne had never seen it.
He could not form words.
"She told me what it said."
He felt his whole body flush red. His eyes found the floor. For a fleeting, wonderful moment, he thought she might throw herself into his arms. She didn't.
"And?" he said.
She spoke softly, but Cale heard the firmness behind her tone. She had already had this discussion in her mind, tens of times probably.
"And? Gods, Erevis. What did you think would happen? We had a special relationship, but—Did you think I'd read that note and swoon? Did you expect me to fall into your arms at the power of your words? Did you—?"
"I don't know," he cut in. "I wanted you to know, that was all. Damn it!" He clenched his fist at his side. "What I expected was to die! Nine Hells, woman, I went after that thing because of what it did to you!"
The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. It shamed him to have stooped so low.
Her face reddened, and her forehead creased with anger. She strode forward into the room, right up to him, and looked into his face.
"How dare you even suggest that, Cale. Do you think I'm obligated to you for that somehow? You do, don't you?"
He didn't answer. Mostly, he thought the answer was "no." But at least some small part of him thought the answer was "yes." She saw the hesitation in his eyes and smacked him. Hard.
"I'm not a treasure to be won, you bastard." She put a finger on his chest. "Besides, you didn't go after that thing because of me. You went after it because it hurt you. Make no mistake about it. It may have hurt you by hurting me, but it was you—you—it hurt. Don't ennoble your motivations by cloaking your need for vengeance with ..."
She stopped before saying "love," but Cale knew what she meant. The word hung between them, suspended in the silence, heavier than her perfume.
Cale did love her. He still loved her, despite it all. But now her presence only hurt him, and that hurt came out of him as anger, no matter how much he wished it didn't.
She went on, merciless, just as he had always told her to be: "You don't know what to do with yourself if you're not killing things, Cale. I know what you are. I heard how you fought that demon. How could you ever have thought—"
He didn't realize what he was doing until he had already grabbed her by the shoulders and started to fling her away. He stopped himself before throwing her to the ground.
Shocked, he looked at his hands as if they didn't belong to him. She stared into his face, wide-eyed. He released her as though she were white-hot. His gaze found the floor, and tears formed in his eyes. He wanted to pull her to him and whisper an apology into her hair, but he felt paralyzed.
She had always brought out the best in him, and he had allowed her to see the worst. Shame and anger burned in him, shame that he had dared put his hands on her and anger at her words, which hit too close to his own thoughts. She thought he was a killer. She might as well have stabbed him in the gut and split him down the middle.