by Jeff Wheeler
Hettie’s heart nearly failed her. She was shocked to see him in the heart of Kenatos, in a city where he could be arrested and killed on sight. He had earned the Arch-Rike’s contempt many times over.
She responded to his quip with one of her own. “I don’t know. Is the saying true that a man who owns a cow can always find a woman to milk her?”
Kiranrao smiled pleasantly. “Well said, little dove. Well said.” His expression hardened. “I think it is past time that we had a talk about your loyalties.”
“One often hears of Seithrall as a religion. It may be called that, for thus has it evolved. But the term itself, as I have come to read in the Archives, is more likely a mistranslation. The earliest reference I have seen was written by the first Arch-Rike of Kenatos, Catuvolcis, who said that in order to survive, the populace must be held under the thrall of faith. Over the centuries, these words have been rewritten and copied inaccurately through laziness on the Archivists’ part. I abhor such errors. Some versions show that he claimed ‘the thrall of fate.’ Both Vaettir words—saith and seith—are one letter apart but have vastly different meanings. They are loosely translated as faith and fate. In our day, the Rikes have become less of a religion and more of a political faction. Their order was originally created because it was believed that the Plague was attracted by the thoughts of the populace. That is blatantly absurd. But centuries ago, the Rikes roamed the city, speaking platitudes to help reduce panic and instill confidence that those who lived in Kenatos would survive. Whether by faith or fate it makes little difference. It is now clear, and the Paracelsus would affirm it, that the Plague is transmitted through bad air. Thoughts have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
It was a prison, and Paedrin was trapped. The dimensions of his confinement were narrow enough that he could plant his palms against each wall. It was tall enough to stand, but too narrow to sleep stretched out. The door was made of tall metal rungs fastened into a mesh, the hinges capped in steel. A tiny privy hole was in the far corner; it smelt badly. There was no light of any kind.
When he awoke in the dank, shadowless cell, he did not remember his own name at first. Slowly the memories returned, flitting through his mind like butterflies. He stretched out his arm tentatively, expecting excruciating pain—but the injury was healed. So was his damaged shoulder. He had no recollection of his healing. He did not remember being placed in the cell.
Food arrived once a day, a watery gruel made of millet, the portion tasteless and not enough to strengthen a man. He was weak with hunger and thirst. Lights appeared in the hallway, so painfully bright he had to shield his face while the clomp of boots arrived, delivering the thin gruel, and then retreated. Then the darkness prevailed again and spots danced in front of his eyes.
The cell was too small to practice any of his Bhikhu fighting forms. It was too small to do nearly anything but sit cross-legged and meditate. That worked well for a while, but soon he was chafing because of the inaction. How long had he been trapped there? Why had they not sent anyone to interrogate him? There was no way of counting time. No stars swirling overhead. No rise and fall of moon and sun. The world was a void, and he was trapped inside it.
Maddening. The solitude was absolutely maddening. The air was stale and rank. He could hear no other prisoners, not even the scuttle of rats. He was completely isolated and alone. Being raised in the temple, he had always been surrounded by others. There was no one to talk to, and so he did not speak at all. All his life he had sparred with his fists and feet and tongue. He wanted an enemy to fight, even the Kishion.
How long would they keep him? How long had it been? Sleeping and dozing came fitfully. At least in his dreams there was sunlight and grass. When he awakened, he was met by the horror of the void. He wanted to scream. But maybe that was what they were expecting. Maybe they were trying to break him.
Paedrin exhaled slowly, beginning another round of meditation. His strength was failing. Hunger ravaged his gut. But still there was only darkness, and in the darkness and loneliness lay madness. He felt it there in the cell, crouched in the corner by the stink hole. Gibbering madness.
The flash of light startled him. He shielded his eyes with his forearm; he was used to the searing light by now. He gritted his teeth to avoid seeming too anxious for the gruel. There was the sound of boots on the floor, but it was a different sound. It was firmer. It had a clipping sound. A metal torch was fastened to a wall bracket. Silence.
Paedrin tried to look at the light, but it was too bright. His eyes throbbed in pain, but he forced them to remain open, to adjust to the searing pain that stabbed him. There was a shape beyond the bars. A man.
“Who are you?” Paedrin croaked. His voice was hardly a whisper.
“My name is Band-Imas. I am the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”
Paedrin flinched at the sound, the delicious sound of a human voice. He craved it desperately. Part of his mind warned him that he should not trust this man. The Bhikhu served the Rikes of Kenatos. He should not have been allowed to languish in a cell.
“Why am I here?”
“Paedrin.”
The sound of his own name startled him. He tried to stare past the glare at the man who was slowly coming into focus. A haze of frosty hair glittered on his scalp, little stubble that did not grow. Eyes that were so gray they were nearly white, except for the twin black pupils. He wore a magnificent robe and the jeweled stole of his office. A velvet doublet festooned with gold buttons and red stitching showed beneath the fur-lined robe.
“Yes?” Paedrin whispered.
“That is your name, is it not? Paedrin? From the Bhikhu temple?”
“Yes.”
A deep exhale came from the Arch-Rike’s throat. “I am sorry then. If you were a Bhikhu from Silvandom, then my ring would have warned me of the lie. When dealing with Tyrus, one must always be on his guard. I am sorry he ensnared you in his treasonous plot. There will be a trial soon, my young friend. Your life will most likely be forfeit.”
Paedrin tried to wet his lips, but he had no moisture in his mouth. “And what treason do you suspect me of? I was sent by my master on the mission. Surely you are not implying he is imprisoned as well?”
“There is much we can discuss, Paedrin.” His voice was patient, yet there was an edge to it. A man used to being obeyed and never mocked. He twisted a large garnet ring from his finger, the stone ink black. “I am sure you recognize the fashion of this ring. It is imbued with a spirit that prevents any falsehood from being spoken or one uttered in its wearer’s presence.” He offered Paedrin the ring.
He looked warily at the Arch-Rike but slowly extended his hand and reached for the ring. He had seen it come off of the Arch-Rike’s hand. The weight of it in his palm surprised him. He slid it on his finger.
“Tyrus of Kenatos is a traitor to Kenatos,” the Arch-Rike said. “He seeks to overthrow the religion of Seithrall. He conspires with the enemies of the city to do his bidding. He is a most dangerous man, Paedrin. He sent you to recover an artifact that was commissioned and paid for but never delivered. It was stolen. He was behind the theft. That weapon is very dangerous. Did he tell you what it does?”
Paedrin felt the compulsion to tell the truth. Drosta had told them, not Tyrus. He mastered his tongue. “He did not.”
“Let me explain it then. It is a most marvelous blade. There is only one of its kind. There can only be one of its kind. The spirit that powers it is stronger than death. It holds the very power over death. You are young. You do not understand the nature of the Plague and how death destroys knowledge. This city was created to preserve knowledge. The blade is a tool. Whoever it kills, it will preserve their memories and experiences and trap them inside the hilt to be used by the bearer of the blade. You must understand this, Paedrin. I cannot lie in the presence of the ring. That blade is the key to our survival. When the Plague comes again, and it will, for I have foreseen it, then those who are affli
cted will be relieved of their suffering and their memories preserved. Think of it! Even were the Plague to strike me, my essence, my knowledge, my wisdom would be preserved for the next Arch-Rike to benefit from.”
Paedrin felt sick inside. “What gives you the right to claim their memories?” he asked. “Are all of their secrets laid bare?”
“Yes,” the Arch-Rike answered, his eyes glittering with passion. “Their secret thoughts. Their secret treasons. Our rings cannot force a man to divulge the truth. The blade can. It was fashioned at great expense. It was meant to preserve knowledge.”
Paedrin scowled. “It would also make a great temptation to murder.”
“Yes. Yes, I agree with you. It requires great wisdom to direct its power. I do not wish to hold it myself, only to direct its wise use.”
Slowly Paedrin rose from his crouch. “What gives you the right? Why should you be allowed to dole out death?”
The Arch-Rike smiled, a thin-lipped, cold smile. “Because each time the Plague grows more fierce. Each time more lives are lost. Only through wisdom and unity will we survive. The Cruithne will die in Alkire. The Preachán will perish in Havenrook. The Vaettir will be dead. Even the barbarians of Boeotia will perish. All civilization will come crashing to an end, except for this city. I have foreseen it, Paedrin. Before the end comes, we must harvest the wisest from all cultures and preserve their knowledge. If you were the last of the Bhikhu, I would order you cut down to preserve the priceless knowledge that you hold.”
He paused, smiling wryly. “But you are not the last Bhikhu. You are merely a pawn in a game of power played between Tyrus of Kenatos and myself. He would send us back into the abyss of ignorance by freeing all of the serving spirits. Yes, I said serving. He and others claim they are slaves. They serve us. They are not our slaves. Every one of them will be set free when their commitment is fulfilled. They are preserving us, Paedrin. They will help us survive the coming onslaught. And Tyrus seeks to hasten it. Tyrus aids our enemies and undermines our ability to save as many souls as we can.”
Paedrin shook his head, hearing the Arch-Rike’s words but unable to understand what he meant. “By this ring, I can see that you believe you are telling the truth. But certainly there can be two opinions on this matter. Locking me in this cell is hardly befitting one who has been trained to serve Kenatos.”
“Of course you will continue to serve Kenatos. But you must die first.”
Paedrin shook his head. “How can I serve Kenatos when I am dead?”
“You will serve me best as a Kishion. They are dead as to things of this world. They do not marry. They do not have children. They have no past. They have no future. You will accept blame of your role in the theft of the blade Iddawc, and you will be hung for the crime. But of course a Vaettir cannot die by hanging, so long as he has breath. You will survive and you will be reborn. I have great need of you, Paedrin. You must serve Kenatos still.”
Paedrin felt a sheen of sweat appear on his back and trickle down. He thought of his master. He thought of Hettie. He thought of the man with the ravaged face who had broken his arm.
“I will not,” he answered. “I would rather die by hanging.”
“Or remain here in the dark for the rest of your life?” the Arch-Rike said with a small smile. “Come, Paedrin. You will serve me. Twist the black gemstone on the ring.”
An overpowering compulsion rushed inside his body. Unable to stop himself, he turned the gemstone on the ring. The stone detached itself.
“Give it to me.”
Paedrin tried to stop his arms from moving, but he could not. The compulsion was incredibly powerful, going directly through his arms and fingers. He reached through the bars and handed the stone to the Arch-Rike, who fastened it to a jeweled necklace around his neck. There were matching ink-black stones inset into gold.
“With this necklace,” the Arch-Rike said, “I control all of you. You are my servants. You will forget your name. You will remember being born in the darkness. You will say what I wish you to say. You will do what I wish you to do. Is that clear, Paedrin?”
The feeling was total and utter hopelessness. Every instinct screamed at him to resist, to defy the Arch-Rike. But somehow part of him was taken away when the stone left the ring. Some spirit magic was at work now. It crushed him.
“Yes, my lord,” he whispered in a choked voice.
“The Romani girl was snooping around the Paracelsus Tower today. What was she looking for?”
Again his tongue loosened without the ability to stop. “Tyrus sent her for spirit magic that he had left behind. A leather bag with three uncut gems.” Stop it! Stop speaking! he screamed at himself. The realization of his helplessness struck him with horror.
The Arch-Rike’s brow wrinkled. “Peculiar. We discovered no such artifacts when we searched the debris. Well, we will have a chance to speak with her tomorrow. She is at the Bhikhu temple, you see. When Master Shivu comes to see you in the morning, I will send a Kishion to fetch her. She is Romani, after all, and Romani are forbidden to enter the city. One cannot trust them, you see.” The glint of his smile revealed his triumph.
Reaching for the torch, the Arch-Rike gave Paedrin one last look before retrieving it. “You realize that removing the ring will kill you. I am certain you are clever enough to consider that, but just to be sure.” He walked back down the hallway, plunging him into blackness.
“I was once at a banquet with the Arch-Rike and some intimate associates. For all his vast wealth and lavish accommodations, he exercises the most amazing self-control I have ever seen. I saw him eat no meat, only natural things like apples and cucumbers and the like. He refused any attempt to refill his wine goblet. Some say he is overly suspicious of poison and that is why he eats so little. I propose that he will not take any substance into him that might addle his thoughts or control his emotions.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
When Paedrin was a child, he had broken a bone for the first time climbing a tall dresser. He had managed to pull out the drawers to act as rungs and thought it was a brilliant idea until the entire structure came down on top of him and smashed his leg. He was five years old. Paedrin remembered the brace, the tight bandages, and the crutches that allowed him to hobble around. Mostly, he remembered the pain, especially at night. While there were leaves he could have chewed on to remedy it, he was given nothing. Pain was a teacher. It was cruel at times.
The pain in the night was the worst tormentor. It was easy to be brave in the daylight. But at night, with his leg throbbing and swollen, it was easy to succumb to tears. In the blackness of the Arch-Rike’s prison, it was tempting to do the same. There was no one else to hear him cry. No one would tease him about it later. He almost did succumb, for never had he been so discouraged. He was going to become a Kishion. He would be bound to the Arch-Rike’s ring for the rest of his life.
He missed Annon at that moment. Perhaps some tidbit of Druidecht lore was needed. He did not believe the ring was poisoned in some way. It was likely bound with a spirit. Annon had freed a spirit from the blade and it had healed him as a result. Was there a way to free the spirit in the ring? Maybe it would require him losing his finger. He would gladly make that exchange. But certainly the ring would try to prevent him from cutting it loose or kill him in the attempt.
He hunkered in the darkness, victim to despair. The absence of light. The persistence of hunger. How many days had it been? There was no way of knowing.
A sound came in the distance, and he wondered if it were food. The thought of tasteless sludge did not arouse his passions. Light appeared in the distance, and he covered his eyes, knowing it would hurt. It did. There were several sounds of boots, but in addition, the clap of sandals.
Paedrin leaned forward, shielding his eyes. The pain of the light stabbed and hurt, but he forced his eyes to focus, to adjust. Was it? Could it be? He grabbed the bars and pulled himself closer, wincing with pain at the light.
Finger
s wrapped over his.
“Paedrin,” Master Shivu whispered.
The feelings in his heart. The voice in his ears. It nearly unmanned him with tears. He squinted, seeing only the shadow of the face kneeling before him.
“Paedrin?”
An immediate compulsion seized him. He began to sob mournfully and tap his forehead against the bars. “I am so sorry, Master. I am so sorry. Forgive me!”
“Hush, Paedrin. You must listen to me. You must listen to my words.”
“It is my fault. The Arch-Rike is just. I betrayed Kenatos. I was too proud. Too ambitious. I will be executed, Master. I will bring shame to the Bhikhu temple.”
“Paedrin, I know. I know. The Arch-Rike told me of the plot. He explained what must be done. Listen to me, boy. Listen to my words.”
Paedrin heaved some strangled sobs, unable to control his emotions or his words. He stared at Master Shivu, at the patchwork gray stubble on his head. He saw the tender look in his eyes, not accusatory but full of sympathy. He saw love and forgiveness there. A man who had invested all of his life patiently teaching the Bhikhu way. He loved this man. He was going to resist the Arch-Rike’s will. He would resist it all of his life until he found a way to be free.
“Yes, my Master,” he whispered, clenching his jaw and refusing to speak. His body shook and trembled as he fought the feelings that smothered him.
“This is for the good of the city,” Master Shivu said pityingly. “You were not alive when the last Plague came. You do not understand the terror that overcomes people when they all fear they will die. The savagery. Be grateful that you are spared it.”
Paedrin nodded, his heart shuddering with sadness and firmness. His Master did not know that he was not going to die. Rather, he would live a life worse than death.
