by Jeff Wheeler
The Rike looked at him with a preposterous expression. “You believe what you want to believe. What you have been trained to believe. Mirrowen does not exist. It is a fool’s legend to bind a fool’s mind.”
“You condemn yourself with your own logic,” Erasmus said. “What do you know but what you have been told and trained to believe?”
Annon nodded firmly. “My mentor was a wise Druidecht. He said that there are many men who wished to deceive, but not one who wished to be deceived. Since they are unwilling to be deceived, they are unwilling to be convinced that they have been deceived.”
“I know that precept,” Lukias responded flatly. “I tell you, boy, that you have been deceived. I can feel the passion in your words and can discern that you have not knowingly told me any falsehood. Your attempt to stop the Plague is misguided.”
“Why is that?” Annon challenged. “What does the Arch-Rike say causes the Plague?”
Lukias looked at him with disdain. “It is obvious to anyone with a mind for research that the Plagues are caused by bad air. And it does not require an oracle to predict that Havenrook will be the next kingdom to succumb to it. You have traveled there yourself and can vouch that it reeks of corruption and insufficient means to drain away its own excrement. The Arch-Rike knows this and has begun making preparations to replace the trade routes. The Romani are part of the corruption and have long violated even the most basic laws of commerce. Yet I am certain you would say that the Arch-Rike is overseeing the fall of Havenrook. Wisdom often appears as evil to those who do not have it.”
Annon shook his head. “I see how powerful he is in persuading his own followers. Truly, your mind is imprisoned as much as the spirits.”
Lukias chuckled. “There are no spirits, boy. What you have been taught is a tradition, nothing more. Even your power over fire, in the end, will be understood after sufficient research is complete.”
Nizeera, Annon thought forcefully. You must help me persuade him.
With pleasure, came a soft, purring reply.
“You say that Mirrowen is a hoax,” Annon said. “You are convinced that there are no spirits being imprisoned by the Paracelsus of Kenatos. Not only did I learn this from my uncle, but I learned it from another Paracelsus who quit the order and became a Druidecht. I learned it from Drosta.”
Lukias’s eyes widened with concern. “He is dead.”
Annon approached him. “He and my uncle were friends. They were like-minded. Drosta forged a weapon for the Arch-Rike, a blade known as Iddawc. I have held it in my hand. I have heard its whispers through the talisman I wear. Believe me, Lukias, that the spirits of Mirrowen are real. There’s one in this very room with us.”
Lukias smiled sickly. His expression exuded doubt. “I will not fall for your superstitious tricks, Druidecht. I must have evidence. No one but the Druidecht can see these beings. That is the very nature of deception, is it not?”
“Not all spirits are invisible,” Annon replied. “Some take the form of birds or insects. Some are as tiny as pollen. But there are others more powerful. Nizeera, welcome our new companion. He travels with us to Basilides.”
The growl from Nizeera’s mouth caused Lukias to turn in fear. She padded up to the table, leapt on it in a single bound, and pressed her whiskered nose directly up to his forehead.
“It…is…a…cat. A trained…cat. You gave it a signal…I could not see.”
“Stubborn,” Annon said. “You require more proof. Whisper a name into Nizeera’s ear and I will hear it. Choose whatever word you wish. And to assure you that I cannot read lips, I will turn around.”
“It cannot…be…”
“Choose your word wisely. Choose a phrase. I can hear her thoughts and she can hear mine. Only a Druidecht can do this, Lukias. Say what you will, and I’ll hear it.”
Annon turned around, but not before noticing the subtle nod of approval from Erasmus and Khiara. He waited a moment before he heard the whisper.
I believe you. The ring on Annon’s finger confirmed it.
“A Rike once told me a wonderful proverb. A thing is not necessarily true because badly uttered, nor false because spoken magnificently. Men deceive and are often deceived in turn. I do not fully know the tradition of when the Rikes of Seithrall began wearing rings that divine the truth, but I do know that doing so made it possible for the city to complete its construction and to become a prosperous kingdom in its own right. I do not know if the rings actually work. What I do know is that just the thought of them working make men more honest. For once trust is broken within a group or amongst individuals, you can be sure that only evil will result.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
When Hettie and Paedrin emerged from the Dryad tree in the midst of the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos, it was crowded with workers intent on rebuilding the broken edifice. The transfer from the Prince’s garden in Silvandom had been instantaneous and it was early in the day still, though crowded and full of dust. Scaffolding had been erected throughout the inner courtyard and workers of all types carted wheelbarrows, baskets of chisels, and fragments of stone. Dung from cart animals littered the way, bringing with them the buzzing of flies and the smell of manure.
Paedrin stood gawking at the commotion in the inner courtyard and Hettie grabbed his sleeve and tugged at him impatiently. He had no idea how to blend in with a crowd or make himself unseen.
“Stop staring,” Hettie whispered. “It makes us conspicuous. We need to get out of this courtyard. The gate is over there. Haven’t you been here before?”
He jerked his arm away from her, but he did follow her to the gate leaving the tower courtyard. There were individuals up on the scaffold already, hammering fragments of stone and rubble away to prepare neat flat surfaces for the replacement stones. As they passed outside the gateway, Hettie saw the Cruithne soldier look at her and Paedrin, his eyes narrowing. So many people passed the gates day after day. Would he recognize her as Tyrus’s niece? She had to assume so.
“Faster,” Hettie murmured, increasing her pace. Her ears were frantic for the sound of pursuit. Her heart raced with panic. It was a bold move coming to Kenatos after what had just happened in Silvandom. However, it would be the last place the Arch-Rike would suspect them to go.
Outside the gate, an enormous wooden structure had been erected, with long beams fastened to it and rigged with counterweights. The structure was as tall as the outer wall and reminded her of the equipment used at the docks to unload ships. There were numerous workers around it, mostly burly Cruithne who were managing the chains and ropes and counterweights. It was impressive how quickly the repair was underway. The city was truly a hive of activity.
“I did not know there was a Dryad tree in the midst of Tyrus’s tower,” Paedrin said. “It did not even seem alive. Few if any leaves.”
“Are we speaking to each other again?” Hettie asked with an edge of anger in her voice, but she kept it low. “I was under the impression you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“You understand correctly,” he answered. The look in his eye was full of venom. “I was making an observation.”
“You are too simple, Paedrin,” she said. “For all your talk of the Uddhava and anticipating motives, it stings that you were outwitted. Your pride is injured. Pain is a teacher. But Tyrus thought we would be more successful working together.” They were both walking at a very fast pace, heading down from the tower heights toward the Bhikhu temple.
“Working together would require trust, which is something we lack between us right now. At least I lack it. Perhaps in your culture, it is acceptable to betray someone and then continue on as if nothing happened. Maybe you feel you deserve praise for doing such a wonderful job?”
“Am I the only one who betrayed us, Paedrin? You led the Arch-Rike and his men into Silvandom to destroy us.”
The look he gave her in a short glance showed the depth of his humiliation and pain. It was too raw a wound still. She should not ha
ve pecked at it.
“You are such a fool, Bhikhu,” she muttered angrily. “Why do I even bother trying?”
It took several long, furious strides before he had mastered himself enough to speak again. “My will was not my own,” he said tautly. “That ring he tricked me into wearing made it impossible for me to tell you the truth. I think you saw it in my eyes. I wanted to tell you, but I could not.”
“In many ways I felt the same. I betrayed you deliberately. I lied to you—”
“Here, this way. The alley is shorter.”
The shade from the alley brought a relief from the sun for a moment. It was narrow and full of rubbish and garbage, but no one was there except for pigeons examining the refuse. They fluttered and hopped to keep away from them as they walked. Wet clothes hung from poles extending from the upper windows, causing an almost rain-like pattering to descend, bringing with it the smell of laundry.
When they were far enough in, Hettie stopped and stared at him, hands on her hips. He looked wary of her, his eyes tight. She wanted him to say something humorous again, a quip or an insult. Something that showed the spark of who he truly was. This sulking, hurt creature was not her Paedrin.
“I did those things,” she said in a low voice. “I admit it. You were being forced by the Arch-Rike’s ring on your finger. I have a ring piercing my ear. It was forced on me when I was little. I am due another ring because of my age, but the debt has been paid. Kiranrao has what he wanted. He sent me to Kenatos to trick Tyrus. He promised me my freedom if I succeeded, which is more than Tyrus ever offered. But now I have been given my freedom, a chance to live in Silvandom.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “I want you to break this earring off. I am no longer a Romani.”
Her emotions were swelling inside of her, almost uncontrollably. All her life, she had wanted to be free. Only a Romani man could break the ring off of her. She knew she was violating the customs. She knew it could cost her her life. But if their quest was successful, they would remake their world, and it would be a world without the Romani curse. If what Tyrus had said was true, many Romani would be removing their earrings.
He looked at her sternly. “You said you did not know what would happen to you if you removed the earring. Was that a lie?”
“Of course it was a lie,” she answered impatiently, wanting to choke him. “You do not fully understand how good I am at lying. But this is the truth. This is the truth now. I wanted to tell you, Paedrin. I wanted to confide in you. I was not sure if I could trust you. I was not sure I could trust Tyrus. I knew I could trust Annon because he is my brother, but he’s not strong enough to save me from a man like Kiranrao.”
Paedrin nodded slowly. “What you are saying is the girl I thought I knew is a lie.”
She let out a pent-up breath and then stared him hard in the eyes. “The best of me was real. The rest was a lie. I was playing a role, Paedrin. He who pays the piper calls the tune. Kiranrao called the tune. I was dancing for my freedom. But I have been offered an opportunity to spend the rest of my life living in Silvandom. Freedom, at long last. I will snatch it! That’s the one place where the Romani cannot find me. Now break this earring. I don’t want to wear it a moment longer.”
She stared into his eyes, willing him to obey her. Words would not persuade him to trust her again, only actions would. And this act, something he had admonished her to do when they first met was one she hoped would begin to soften his heart to her.
Hettie turned her cheek toward him and smoothed the dark hair away from her neck. She thought she saw him swallow, but she kept her eyes locked on his.
“What will Kiranrao do to you for this? I need to know the consequence.”
“I don’t know what he will do for sure. He may do nothing.”
“I doubt it.”
She sighed. “The punishment for disobedience among the Romani is poison. There is a cruel poison called monkshood. Only Romani men and only a few of them are taught the antidote. When I was a child, I saw one of my sisters poisoned for disobedience. They let her suffer a long time before administering the cure. The symptoms are horrible and painful. Break this earring, Paedrin. The Romani will be the Arch-Rike’s next victims.”
Paedrin touched the earring as if it were a slug or a disgusting insect. His finger brushed her earlobe. He used both hands to find the spot where the ring had been welded together. Looking her in the eye, he snapped it.
“You are free,” he whispered.
Hettie bent the hoop wider and unattached it from her ear. She studied it in her hand, noticing the dull gleam from the tarnished gold. The feeling of nakedness on her ear was startling. She touched her skin gingerly.
Then she stared Paedrin in the eye. “I will never lie to you again,” she promised, crushing the hoop in her hand and throwing it down on the ground.
His gaze narrowed. “Someone just entered the alley behind us.”
Hettie turned and saw the Preachán immediately. He saw them, turned, and ran.
Paedrin started to go after him, but Hettie grabbed the front of his tunic. “We don’t have enough time. You said you needed to see Master Shivu to learn where the Shatalin temple is. This may be our only chance.”
His look turned to anger and he shook his head with frustration. “How I despise it when you are right.”
Paedrin had been raised in the city of Kenatos and he knew the streets and byways. He wore the traditional tunic and sandals of a Bhikhu that made him an ordinary sight in the city. Even escorting Hettie would not seem that odd, since the Bhikhu were known for their charity and integrity and she looked more like someone raised in the woods than a Romani girl. He glanced back at her for a fraction of a moment, unable to stop the pain in his heart every time he saw her.
He had been fighting his growing affection for her for some time. He had buried it beneath the layers of his duty, but still felt it squirming to break free. It was her betrayal that had finally forced him to come to terms with how he truly felt about her. When she was Tyrus’s abandoned niece, struggling against the odds to find a treasure to buy her freedom, she had been nearly irresistible to his sensibilities. That she was Aeduan by race had caused him some concern, but having grown up amidst all the races in Kenatos, it was not that unusual. She was beautiful in a natural way, not as the painted faces in the city in their expensive gowns. And her Romani accent had grown on him, along with all its witty sayings. Now that she was unmasked as Kiranrao’s tool, the entire facade crumbled. The basis of his feelings was as shattered as the Paracelsus Towers they had just left.
But Paedrin was not as hasty as the city to begin rebuilding it straightaway.
Despite his anger and resentment, her apology rang true and she did genuinely seem interested in mending the breach. It would take time to regain her standing. What troubled him was the kind of character she had developed. They were truly as different as chalk and cheese.
But there was one thing he knew they could agree on. Tyrus’s quest to banish the Plague was an effort they could unite on. That needed to be the top focus and they could sort out the nuances of their relationship afterward. Tyrus had charged him to find a lost relic—the Sword of Winds. Master Shivu had mentioned it to him while he languished in the Arch-Rike’s dungeon. Now he understood that Tyrus had made a pact with Shivu to help restore the lost Shatalin temple and that his master had been training him all along to face the dangers of the Scourgelands. It had been subtle training, but always his master had hinted at greater things beyond the walls of the city. As a child he had been encouraged to float up to the roof of the temple and gaze at the lake waters surrounding the city.
Defeating the Arch-Rike. Ending the Plague. Traveling the world. It was everything that appealed to Paedrin. When it was over, he was certain he would be allowed to live anywhere he chose. A hero among his own people, the Vaettir.
He stopped the thought, remembering Master Shivu’s training. He could almost hear the old man’s words in his mind, so often he had hea
rd them repeated. A desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired by his fellows is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man. Beware of those desires.
Paedrin had always been ambitious. He had felt destined to do great things, being one of the few Vaettir orphans in the city. It was important to check that ambition, to be sure he was doing it for the right reason, lest he become a true renegade like Cruw Reon who had stolen the blade and brought on the downfall of the Shatalin temple.
“There it is,” Hettie said. “How should we do this? Should we go in together?”
“The temple has so few visitors that the bell ringing brings an inordinate amount of attention. Let me float over the walls and see if I can find Master Shivu alone. You watch for trouble and ring the bell if any comes.”
“What information do you need from him?” she asked.
“Where to start looking,” he answered. “The Shatalin temple could be anywhere. I did not even know it existed.”
“Agreed. I will stay hidden near the front gate and ring the bell if trouble comes. But I will meet you outside the wall at the back of the temple, not the gate, when I ring the bell.”
He nodded and they parted ways. As he approached from the east, Paedrin’s heart filled with warmth when he saw the moldering walls, the broken tiles on the roof. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine himself as a boy, perched up there and overlooking the city. He increased his pace, feeling a sense of restlessness. It was nearly midday and he could not hear the clack of staves or shouts from the students training. That was odd and made him wary.
Paedrin reached the edge of the outer wall, examining the tender vines that snaked the surface and made curving patterns on the stone. The training yard should be on the other side. Where were the students? Where were his friends?
