by Jeff Wheeler
“Come, Bhikhu!” Hettie said, appearing out of the darkness on a big roan. The beast trotted up and she reached out her hand to him.
He looked around at the fallen Outriders.
“Yes, I’m impressed,” she snapped. “Take my hand!”
He sucked in his breath one last time, allowing her to pull him up and straddle behind her.
“Hold me tightly, fool. We ride hard for Silvandom. If the furies are not chasing us yet, they certainly will be by dawn!”
The roan stallion was well lathered. Hettie had driven it mercilessly throughout the night and hard the next day. It was a big beast, and he was surprised at her skill in handling it. They rested it periodically, but the ride was hard and fast. In the distance, they could see the Outriders pacing them, closing the distance slowly but inevitably. It could not be otherwise, for their beast had two riders and the others did not. Thankfully Hettie had grabbed for the strongest animal, not the lightest.
They were hungry, but they had neither food nor time to forage. Every stream provided an opportunity to drink, but they were not plentiful. There was an enormous savanna on all sides. Mountains loomed to the southwest, several days off. Each hill brought another stretch of interminable plains. No cover. No woods. It was a race against the Outriders, and Paedrin realized they were losing.
As dusk started to fall and his stomach reminded him of their lack of meals that day, he noticed plumes of soot in the air.
“A village?” he asked, pointing.
“Good eyes,” she said. “I’ve been looking for that sign. We crossed many leagues today. But I had hoped to be within sight of it before nightfall. That is Fowlrox. It is the gateway city to Stonehollow.”
“Each kingdom has a gateway city then. Like Minon that we saw last night?”
“Yes. They are the furthest border city belonging to the kingdom, and they hold the wares for shipment to Kenatos. Stonehollow is where the stone is quarried and carried to the city. They also sell timber, wine, and oxen. Heavy things that make for slow caravans.”
“We haven’t seen any oxen yet. We’ve met no one.”
“That is because the road is over there. See it? It is the shortest distance between Fowlrox and the docks. It is well worn, and there are traders day and night because the cargo is so heavy.”
“Have you ever been to Stonehollow, Hettie?”
She shook her head. “No. I might have as a child, but I do not remember it. The Romani work all of the roads. Everywhere there is a shipment to be made. We know the best routes. Of course, it helps when you are quite ruthless.” She glanced back at him, deliberately brushing her hair into his face. He was sure it was deliberate.
“So we are riding to Fowlrox then?”
“No, to Silvandom, which is to the northwest. But we must make our pursuers believe we are escaping their lands so they will stop following us further. There is a river to cross, but there are bridges in Fowlrox. Our stallion is too spent to be able to swim it. We’ll sell him in the city and cross the river.”
“I have a better idea. We wait until nightfall and then leave the horse and cross the river alone.”
“The river is wide, Paedrin.”
“You can’t swim?”
“Of course I can swim. But what is the purpose of swimming when there is a bridge?”
He could not believe she did not see it. “Because I have noticed in Kenatos that there are always people on a bridge. People who are watching to see who crosses it. People who will sell information about us. If we truly do not want the Arch-Rike knowing our destination, then we should deprive him of the opportunity to find out.”
She gave him a serious look.
“Our horse is exhausted. They are closing the distance and will try even harder to overtake us before we get to the city. If all they overtake is a bone-weary nag, they will have no idea where we went from there. It is the Uddhava. We will have a better sleep tonight knowing that they do not know where we are. And besides, I’m hungry.”
“Hungry enough to eat a rabbit? I see one over there. I could probably get it from here.”
“I’m almost tempted to eat the nag. But no. Let’s cross the river tonight and try and rest on the other side. If our nag can’t swim it, neither can theirs.”
“What bothers me is that it actually sounds like a good idea. I must be too tired. You rarely make so much sense.”
“I’ll try not to make it into a habit. Ride hard. Let’s see if this plan actually works.”
She gave him an approving nod and a smile that pleased him more than any compliment could have.
“It would amaze you how many maps occupy shelves in the Archives. For each kingdom, there are maps dating back centuries. I am always melancholy after reviewing them. When those ancient cartographers had put ink to the quill, you see, those cities and towns were alive and full of husbands and wives, sons and daughters, parents and families. One may as well scrape the ink off with a knife blade now. Entire cities have succumbed to the Plague. Small towns are lost forever, and only the Romani brave the ruins in search of ducats or other treasures. Each generation it seems to strike. In the end, I wonder if there will be but one map remaining. An island kingdom called Kenatos.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
It was a grace among the Vaettir to be able to control their breath. That grace made it particularly useful when crossing bodies of water, for rarely did a Vaettir sink unless he chose to. Paedrin’s ability could not extend to Hettie, but he carried her bow, quiver, and pack and transported them across the wide, sluggish river while she set out with strong strokes to reach the other side. The river felt wider than it looked, as is often the case, and he found her drifting downstream despite her stamina. He reached the other side first, which was only natural since he could walk across the lapping waters as if they were merely puddles, and after depositing her gear, he went back to help her, even though he knew she would refuse.
“It is not much farther,” he coaxed, watching her strength flagging as she swam. The bank was a bit farther off, but he stayed near her, in case she floundered. He could see the determination in her eyes, though, and knew she would never ask for help.
It was dark and cold by the time she reached the far bank, so exhausted she could not speak. Lying on the sandy bed, she gasped for breath and lay still. Her clothes were soaked through and her hair drenched.
“You smell better,” he offered with a smile. Her glare was vengeful.
He crouched near her, almost able to hear the pounding of her heart except for the ragged breathing. After several moments of rest, the smell struck him. Wood smoke, from a fire.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
She lifted herself a little, rolling over a bit and resting on her arm. Then she nodded. “It is nearby.”
“Though we could use the warmth, we should probably go farther upstream. I’ll fetch your things.”
She agreed and stood, clutching herself and trembling with the chill of the water and the night air.
Paedrin went to the bushes where he had stashed her gear. It was no longer there. He stopped, confused, and the smoke shape coalesced near him, almost making him flinch.
“I put her things by the fire,” Kiranrao said. “It is in the woods a little ways, a cave of sorts to hide the light. Over in the trees that way.” He pointed with a gloved hand.
Paedrin did not like being surprised, but he kept control of his expression. “Thank you.”
“Gratitude? What a surprise. Let me see your hand. Is the goose grease still there?”
Paedrin had not given the ring much thought, and looked down at his hand. It felt only like cool steel. “It has not bothered me since we left the city.”
“With some spirit magic, there is no distance.” He removed a small tub from a pouch at his waist and opened it for Paedrin. “Another layer of grease will not hurt. You must keep it from touching your skin. Foolish of you to put it on, Bhikhu. May cost you your fin
ger in the end.” The last was said with a smirk.
“I had hoped we lost you by now,” Paedrin remarked coldly as he applied more of the salve to his ring finger. “But we do not always get our wish. You followed us then?”
Kiranrao nodded and said nothing more. “I travel faster than you do. There is other business to attend to. Romani caravans to gain news from. The Arch-Rike hunts us still, but we are quickly passing beyond his reach. There is a comfortable caravan wagon not far from here where I will sleep tonight. Enjoy your cave, and I will see you in the morning. We enter Silvandom together. Brother.”
Paedrin nodded reluctantly and turned to find Hettie approaching. She was shivering uncontrollably.
Kiranrao gave Hettie a mock bow. “Even a tin knocker shines on a dirty door. At least you are clean now. Get her warm any way you choose. But remember that she belongs to me.”
Paedrin glowered and said nothing.
“Praise the ford when you have crossed it,” Hettie said through chattering teeth. “And I have…with no Vaettir trickery.”
“I will drink to that,” Kiranrao said, smiling. Then he vanished.
Paedrin stood for a moment, savoring his displeasure. He would kill that man someday. Or be killed by him. One of the two outcomes was becoming more and more inevitable. Though in all truth, he would prefer seeing him maimed beyond recognition. Alive enough to breathe and little else.
“You are freezing,” Paedrin said, motioning her to follow him.
“I’m glad you noticed,” she said mockingly. “Where is the fire?”
“This way.”
He led her into the tangle of trees and into a gulch. The glow of the fire could finally be seen then, reflecting off the trickle of a stream in the gulch’s belly. He breathed himself down the embankment and then reached up, helping her jump down. The cave was little more than a sloughing of earth that had collapsed long ago during a rainstorm. Trees sheltered the area on all sides and provided cover for sound as well as shielding the light from the fire. Kiranrao had chosen the place well.
Hettie hurried forward and crouched by the small tongues of heat. She bathed her hands directly into the flames and they did not burn her. Her face showed the first signs of relish.
The inlet was small but it could fit both of them, sitting close together. He joined her next to the fire, savoring the light as much as the heat. She twisted a clump of hair and quickly began drying it. He watched her, fascinated.
“Quit staring,” she said, not looking at him. “Would you fetch my blanket?”
Behind them, he found her pack and opened the buckles. He withdrew the blanket and spread it over her shoulders.
“Not yet, fool,” she said sharply. “I want to warm it by the fire first while my clothes dry, otherwise I’ll be sleeping in a wet blanket tonight.” She sighed deeply. “I am hungry but too tired to hunt. It was a hard swim.”
“You did well,” he offered.
“I wasn’t looking for praise.”
“Can I say anything and not offend you? I have often wondered that.”
“Your silence least offends me,” she said. “I am in no mood to banter tonight. I am exhausted and cold.”
“You have always been cold,” he pointed out. “But I understand the exhaustion part.” He was curious about something and decided to venture further. “I notice that you and Kiranrao trade Romani sayings. They are clever. Like the one you used about fording the stream. You have more, I presume? Teach me.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
He wanted to understand Kiranrao better. He wanted to understand her better. Little sayings and catchphrases were common in every culture. But he wanted to understand his enemy better. To understand the way his mind worked. What better way than to study from his traditions? It would also help him understand Hettie as well.
“I really am tired,” Hettie said sullenly.
“Only a few then. I won’t keep you up long.”
She sighed, which he took as surrender.
“There are so many,” she said. “Hundreds, probably. It is a point of Romani pride to be able to speak a saying that the other person does not already know. If that happens, you nod your head in deference. Since I have spent the last ten years training as a Finder, I do not know all the latest sayings. But some have been handed down for generations.”
“Like?”
“Patience cures many an old complaint. Patience is a plaster for all sores. I think every kingdom has its own version of that one.”
“Indeed. Pain is a teacher. But the best teacher is wisdom. Wisdom is learning from the pain of others.”
She looked at him in surprise and then gave him a slight nod. “Well said.”
“Thank you.”
“There are others that can sound strange to a foreigner. Do not mistake a goat’s beard for a fine stallion’s tail. Do not build the sty until the litter comes.”
“Or count chickens before they hatch.”
“Exactly. As honest as a cat when the meat is out of reach. A little dog can start a hare, but it takes a big one to catch it. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey.”
Paedrin smiled and leaned backward. “So many are about animals. One would think the Romani are farmers.”
“We were all farmers long ago,” she replied.
“Are there any that talk about enemies?” Paedrin asked, and she nodded emphatically.
“The Romani forgive their great men when they are safely buried. Speak well of your friend, of your enemy say nothing.”
“Ahh,” Paedrin said, smiling, savoring the wisdom in the words. “Yes. That is true.”
Hettie rubbed her arms, more slowly this time. He could see little trailers of steam rising from the cloth.
“Can I fetch you anything to eat?” he asked her. “Mushrooms? Slugs? Bark?”
“Sharing your meals again?” she replied with a wicked smile. It was the smile that tore into him the most. So rarely bestowed, so much the more valuable. “Thank you, but no. I am tired, as I said before. If you would take the first watch…”
“I will,” he answered. “One more question. Are there any sayings about…secrets?”
The question startled her. He suspected it might. There was something in her eyes in that moment, something that warned him. Exhaustion had a way of producing true sentiments.
She was quiet a moment and then stared into the fire. Her voice was distant, almost a whisper. “It is no secret that is known to three. Never tell your secret even to a fence.” Her voice fell even lower. “A secret is a weapon and a friend.”
That was it. That was the one she valued the most. He could hear it in her voice. He had used the Uddhava against her and managed to get her to reveal part of herself to him. She stared at the fire, her eyes focusing on the flames, as if she dared not look at him. He could almost feel the emotions roiling inside of her. She was struggling with her feelings. Without knowing her as he did, it would not have been noticeable. But there was a little bulge in the corner of her jaw. A clench of muscle. Her gaze was so intense at the flames. She was mastering herself. She was almost failing.
Good.
“Thank you, Hettie. Get some sleep. Do you think we will reach Silvandom tomorrow?”
She nodded absently. Then taking her warm blanket, she nestled near the fire. Her cheeks were flushed. She stared at the flames, as if drawing in their heat through her eyes.
Tell me what is troubling you, he nearly whispered. Trust me, Hettie. You can trust me.
She said nothing. Soon her eyelids were growing heavy. A few moments more, and she was asleep. He studied her face. He longed to stroke her hair. He swallowed the pang, mustering his will to save him from his feelings.
How many times had Master Shivu taught him? To be prepared for his life’s journey as a Bhikhu, he needed to purify his thoughts and feelings. You have the power to decide, deliberately and intentionally, what thoughts you allow in your mind and what emotions you feel in your heart. By
patient and persistent practice, he knew he could gradually gain control over his harmful emotions. The discipline and effort involved would be worthwhile, for it would bring greater harmony internally—in his own mind—and externally, in his relations with others.
He sighed deeply. In the temple, in the confines of the training yard, the lessons were so easily accepted. But since leaving Kenatos, he had experienced stronger emotions than he had ever imagined existed inside him. Hatred of Kiranrao. Jealousy of Annon. Even desire for Hettie. He recognized these as base emotions. They needed to be controlled.
Staring at her sleeping would not help him gain control of his emotions. Instead, he stared at the ring on his finger. The markings on it were intricate. It was a work of great craftsmanship. It was a prison. He despised it. He was willing to lose his finger if Tyrus could not find a way to remove 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.
The whisper in his mind was so real. He could hear the Arch-Rike’s voice as fresh as it had been in that horrible, stench-filled cell.
Of course you can hear me, Paedrin.
His eyes widened. Was he going mad?
Not mad. Naive. Believe me, boy, a little salve cannot save you from my influence. I let you go. You are my servant. I let you escape. You will become a Kishion, and you will serve me. No, do not try to stand up. Stay where you are. You will say nothing. You will speak nothing of this discovery to anyone. I bind your tongue. Here are your instructions. When you reach Silvandom, you must take the dagger from Tyrus. You must kill him with it. And then you must hand it to me. Is that perfectly clear to you? Those are my orders. I will prevent the blade from destroying your mind.
Paedrin felt the terrible compulsion overwhelm him. It thundered in his mind and screamed at him in a long, desperate howl.
You are my pawn. You are my creation. Tyrus must be stopped. It is better that one man should perish than a kingdom. He will unleash the Plague on us all. More virulent. More devastating. He must be stopped, Paedrin. You will stop him. Your first killing will bind the ring to you forever. It cannot be undone.
