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Scyld
“I do not know. Not another kidnapping,” answered Scyld in a quiet, strange tone. My friend. Not since he had come to Sorn’s house thirteen long years ago had anyone deigned to call him friend: none of Sorn’s other employees or acquaintances, and certainly never Sorn himself. But this woman – this noblewoman he held prisoner and from whom he withheld all but the barest kindnesses – she did?
He had been trying to make her into an ally, or even something less than that: a tool to be used for achieving his own ends. Never in his wildest schemes had he thought to make her a friend. A friend. She trusted him. He had never sought her trust, only her good will. He should have been elated. Her trust could be his trump card – only able to be played once, perhaps, but to astounding gain.
Instead, her friendship terrified him. He had no experience with it, no past experience from which to judge. How could he in good faith even contemplate betrayal? Wait – in good faith? Scyld could not remember doing an honorable deed in the past decade. Why change now? Because of two words: my friend. He could not return the favor, nor could he forget it or let it sit. He did not want this burden.
“Perhaps murder is his intent,” Scyld continued harshly, “and if it is, I care not.”
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