by Jeff Wheeler
He pressed the sodden fabric against her cheek and she flinched with the sting. The Kishion set down the wad and turned, picking up a sprig with green leaves that was near where he had been sitting. He snapped off one of the leaves and offered it to her.
“Chew this. It will ease the pain.”
She stared at the leaf curiously and smelled it first. The aroma was unfamiliar, and it tasted bitter but not disgusting. She worked it with her teeth as he took up the rag again and started cleaning the blood from her neck. In a few moments, he had cleaned up the stains and then blotted around the tender areas of her ear where it had torn. It stung fiercely, but she clenched her fists and was determined to brave it. He studied her closely, examining the wound, and then nodded with satisfaction.
“Thank you,” she murmured, uncertain as to his motives.
He snorted, looking away from her at the first blush of dawn. They watched the sky together in silence as it began to turn green, then yellow.
He turned back and looked at her, his eyes wary. “I’m sorry I frightened you so badly.” The words came out hesitantly. “I lost control of myself last night. That doesn’t happen very often. I regret it.”
Phae stared at him in surprise. An apology was not what she had been expecting. He could have rebuked her for running away despite his warning. He could have justified himself in countless ways. For a moment, she wondered if her damaged ear had heard it wrong.
She looked down at her hands in her lap, struggling with her dread. “Why do you even care?” she asked.
“Because you are harmless. Innocent. A frown would have been enough to prove my displeasure,” he answered. “I acted last night out of…fear. I lost control. That has been happening to me…more and more.” He sighed, rubbing his mouth. His breathing started to quicken. He shook his head.
“Fear?” Phae asked, perplexed. “Nothing can harm you. You were stung by a hundred bees and then jumped off the roof. Trasen shot an arrow at you and it didn’t even pierce you. Look at you now. Your clothes are torn, but the bear didn’t harm you. You were afraid? Of what?”
The Kishion stared down at the matted grass. He plucked one and twirled the stalk between his fingers. “When I am near the Arch-Rike, my thoughts are always calm and orderly. I understand what is happening and how to interpret my feelings and the emotions of others. But I am far beyond the influence of his power right now, and I have found those thoughts and feelings less certain and—” He paused, thinking how to stay it. “This will not make sense to you. Never mind.”
“Please,” she said, almost reaching out to touch his arm, but she did not dare. “Try. You frighten me for certain. You are not…afraid of me are you?”
He met her eyes for a moment then looked down. “I’m afraid of my past. Of what I cannot remember.”
Phae swallowed. He was starting to open up to her. She had always had a natural gift for making people trust her with confidences. Even though she was terrified of the Kishion, her natural empathy had caused her to respond to his words, his confusion. The more she understood him, the better chance she had of escaping him. She did not ask him to elaborate. She just gave an encouraging nod for him to continue.
“A Kishion does not have a name. We do not have a past. I do not know where I was born. I cannot remember my childhood or anything beyond a few weeks ago when I was summoned…to serve the Arch-Rike again.”
She stared at him, keeping her expression neutral. “Were you an orphan?”
“I assume so. Part of the magic that binds me to the Kishion steals my memories.” He looked at her pointedly. “I think it is Dryad magic, in some way.” He shook his head. “Every kingdom requires men to fulfill its justice. The King of Wayland has several headsmen, paid to execute those who violate his laws. That is what we are. That is what I am. But the toll is heavy for men in my role. The Arch-Rike relieves us of the guilt of our actions by stripping away the memory of the deeds. He takes it upon himself.” The Kishion sighed deeply. “It helps, to be sure. But there is something awful in not being able to remember how vicious you truly must be. To know you have done horrible things that you would not wish to remember. The fact that I can’t means that I must suspect or wonder at what I have done.”
Phae’s stomach revolted at the thought. “You have no past,” she said with a frown. “With the bad memories, you lose the good as well.”
“If there were any,” he replied mockingly.
She could not imagine such an existence. Her entire life was a series of shared memories that had bound her to the Winemillers and all of her adopted brothers and sisters. What would it be like to not remember Trasen? To not savor the memory of trampling the grapes at harvest time? Memories sustained Phae when she was sad or discouraged. Stripping them all away would be a terrible punishment. It was why she had decided to stop stealing memories for the most part, even though she had the power to.
The sun peeked over the mountains at last, sending stabbing rays into her eyes. She saw the tattered shirt hanging over the Kishion’s body. She fumbled with the straps of her pack and dug around inside for a moment, finding a spare shirt she had packed. It would not fit him, so she dared not suggest it. But at the bottom was a spool of black thread and sewing needle set inside. Master Winemiller had always taught her to prepare for things.
“Let me repair your shirt,” she offered, showing him the spool. “I work quickly. It will not take me long.”
“I can get a new shirt in the city.”
“How far it is to Kenatos? I think it will take a week to get there, if I remember correctly. By horse it is faster.”
The Kishion’s mouth twitched. “We will be there in two days at the most.”
She stared at him. “How can that be? It takes two days just to reach…Fowlrox—” She stopped, her insides shriveling.
He nodded. “Fowlrox is the gateway city to Stonehollow. When we reach it, we will be within range of the Arch-Rike’s power. He employs certain devices that enable him to summon people back to his presence. With these devices, we will travel much faster. There are minions in the air that watch for us to approach.”
“I see,” Phae said, swallowing despondently. “Well, let me fix your shirt anyway. We can start walking soon if you wish.”
The Kishion stripped off his shredded tunic. He was in the prime of health, but she saw that the scars that had ravaged his face also inflicted his chest as well, as if some great beast had savaged him years before and he had healed from it.
She pulled out the needle and started on the first gash in the torn garment. She worked quickly and deftly now that there was plenty of light. “You do not remember how you got the scars on your face?”
“No.” His lip curled almost into a snarl. “But I have the suspicion, after last night, that it was inflicted by a bear. Or some other creature with long claws.”
“There are bears in Stonehollow,” Phae said. “We were warned as children not to stray too far and to make noise as we walk after they have finished their winter sleep. Their meat is delicious. Maybe this is your country. Maybe this is why your memories are starting to return?”
The Kishion shrugged. “When the creature attacked me last night, I feared it. I knew it could not hurt me.” He rubbed his forehead angrily. “Yet I feared it. It must have something to do with my past. Something to do with these scars. I had them before becoming a Kishion. That must be true. But I cannot remember anything about it.”
Phae secured the end of the line with heavy stitching and then bit the remaining thread loose before continuing her work on a ripped seam. “Are there other feelings you have had that were also from your past? Places that you recognize visiting? People that you have met?” She tried to make it look as if she was merely seeking conversation. She hoped to learn more about him and hoped it might provide an idea to escape. The looming threat of Kenatos spurred her on.
“The locket,” he answered, fishing it from a pocket. “I think it was the music that attracted the be
ar last night. My own fault, not yours. Something about the sound haunts me. As if I should know it.” He rested his chin on his muscled forearm. “It is maddening.”
“You said you took it from a man?” Phae asked after a long pause. “You said it was made by a Paracelsus.” She looked him in the eye but he would not meet her gaze.
He rubbed his chin back and forth across his forearm, his expression cloudy with turmoil.
She finished another tattered line and worked on another, letting the sunlight warm her face and hands. She bit off the thread. “It was my father.”
He nodded mutely, refusing to look at her.
“You said last night that I wouldn’t want to know more,” she said softly, working the needle and thread effortlessly. “I can see why now.” She sighed. “He is dead?”
The Kishion sighed deeply. “Yes.”
She was not sure how she should feel. Her father had abandoned her at an orphanage. Granted, he had made sure it was one that would not fear her heritage and magic, but he had done nothing to reveal himself to her and his own actions had violated the Arch-Rike’s trust. Now she was condemned because of him. The emotions were twisting and twining around each other, layer after layer. She resented her father. She craved to know more, even if it would wound her. What betrayal had he done to earn the Arch-Rike’s contempt?
“I never knew him,” Phae said, trying to keep control of her voice, to keep the conversation going. “I wish that I did. You do not remember your past, but what can you tell me of his?”
“You despise me,” he said flatly. “Don’t pretend otherwise. I do not begrudge you that emotion. I despise myself right now.”
“For killing him?” she asked, leaning forward.
“It was my duty,” he answered stiffly. “I am not entrusted with the reasons for my assignments, only to carry them out. I was first sent to arrest your father and bring him to the Arch-Rike for questioning. When I arrived at his tower, he used his magic to cause the tower to explode. I was left under a pile of rubble. Whether he knew the blast would kill me or not, I do not know, but it slowed me down. I began hunting him. His own actions labeled him guilty of treason. I fulfilled my assignment when I stabbed him and left his dead body crumpled near the edge of a pond. I don’t regret killing him. But I do regret that I am the one telling you about it.”
Phae nodded, tears welling in her eyes. It was so hard to listen to him speak of her father’s murder with so little emotion. Part of her hated him for it. Another part of her hated her father for betraying the Arch-Rike.
She swallowed and found her throat very dry. “What was—” She swallowed again. “What was his name please?” She brushed away the tears.
“Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. You look…like him. I see the resemblance.”
Phae blotted the tears on her sleeve. “When we are back in Kenatos, you will give me over to the Arch-Rike. Then he will take away your memories again. You won’t remember…me. Or this.”
He stared at the grass and nodded solemnly.
She struggled to master her own emotions. She wanted to start sobbing, but she fought against the despair. “I don’t think I could live without my memories. Even the painful ones. Even last night.” She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “I think you should stop being a Kishion. You have a name. Someone out there must know it.” She nodded forcefully. “When you are done with this assignment, you should seek it.”
He looked at her in silence, staring at her thoughtfully. “You do not ask me to free you.”
Phae shook her head, working quickly on the remaining tear. “I know you will not. Your duty binds you. But I do ask you to free yourself.”
“What if I cannot live with myself?” he asked. “What if the memories kill me?”
She bit the last thread. “That is probably what the Arch-Rike wants you to think.”
There was enough light now. He stared in her eyes, as if her words were sinking deep into his heart. She could blink and snatch it away. She could snatch away his memory of meeting her. She almost did. But Phae could not bring herself to do it, not after giving her promise.
There was the sound of groaning iron. The gate opened ponderously. Phae looked up and realized men had gathered on the battlement walls and were pointing in their direction. She saw the flash of metal in the sunlight as riders emerged from the gate, coming at them from a trot to a full gallop.
The Kishion snatched the shirt from her hands and pulled it on quickly. Rising to a crouch, he tensed with recognition. “Romani,” he said venomously.
“Every civilization has a history, typically an oral tradition, that defines how it came into being. Many of these traditions are remarkably similar and require the belief in an unseen realm ruled over by an entity that is good. There is another similarity amongst these many stories. That is the part of evil and how it came to be. The stories all say that pride is what introduced evil into the world. It is good beings that turn into evil ones. If this is so, and pride makes a good man evil, then it requires humility to make men good. So often man wishes to be happy even when he so lives as to make happiness impossible.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Even in Stonehollow, the Romani were recognized and feared. Of all the races or people, they were distrusted the most. Phae’s insides writhed with apprehension as she saw the horsemen emerge from the gate.
“What do we do?” she asked in fear.
“They already see us,” he answered, rising to his full height and brushing his hands together before fitting on his gloves. “They expect us to run. They expect us to be afraid and to barter for our lives.” He gave her a sidelong look. “If it frightens you to be taken to the Arch-Rike of Kenatos, consider yourself fortunate not to be abducted by the Romani. You are young enough. They would pierce your ear and train you in their ways before selling you at eighteen. If you disobey, they poison you.”
Phae gasped with dread and touched his arm. “What will we do then?”
The riders closed the distance quickly and the thundering of the hooves made Phae cringe and tremble. The Kishion faced the approaching Romani and stepped in front of her, blocking her with his body.
“The horses will not trample us,” he said. “If one of the men tries to grab you, drop low. They won’t be able to reach down that far. Stay near me. I will deal with them.”
“How?” she demanded, for at least twenty approached. She pulled her pack and slung it around her shoulders.
“Just stay near me,” he said as the first rider drew up to them. “Do not run.”
“I bid you good day!” a Romani said, leaning forward in his saddle to regard the pair. He had dark hair, a charming smile, but his eyes were ruthless. Other riders slowed to a canter and filled in around them, blocking them in on all sides.
The Kishion said nothing.
“Our people have a saying that you should never bid the evil one good day until you meet him. Again, I bid you good day.”
He was met with silence. One of the horses nickered softly and others began stamping.
“He’s a rude one,” said another man, one behind them.
“It’s the quiet pigs that eat all the draff,” said another.
The first one, whom Phae presumed to be the leader, looked askance at the Kishion. “Too proud to speak, are you?”
“Everyone is wise till he speaks,” chuckled someone else.
The leader puffed out his chest, folding his arms. “He thinks that he’s the very stone that was hurled at the castle. Look at him. He says nothing. Still no words for us? No begging?”
“She has red hair,” said another Romani. His stallion came close to Phae, its dripping nose nearly grazing her arm. “Worth something this season, I think. Let me see you closer, lass.”
Phae shrank as he reached for her, pressing her back against the Kishion’s, ready to drop low. The man suddenly lunged, trying to get a fistful of her cloak. The Kishion moved like a blur, grabbing the ou
tstretched arm and yanking him clear from the saddle. He fell so fast and hard he could not cry out before smashing on the ground. The Kishion snapped several of his fingers before whirling to face the leader again.
The Kishion’s attack stunned them momentarily and then all was in commotion. With a bark of rage, the leader shouted for the Romani to kill the Kishion and drew a tapered long sword from his scabbard.
“Stay low,” the Kishion whispered to her and disappeared. He sidestepped between two horses, his dagger whipping around and stabbing their flanks, startling them with pain and causing them to rear violently and pitch off their riders. Phae watched in awe as he moved, each step precise and measured, swaying with the rhythm of battle to avoid the clashing beasts and the sword thrusts coming down at him from all sides. He was never in one place for more than a moment, moving quickly and soundlessly, his tattered cloak fanning behind him as he stalked another victim, grabbing the reins from a man’s grasp and jerking the bridle around savagely so that the horse would react in pain.
Phae remembered in time to drop low, just as another hand reached for her hair. The man tried in vain to snatch at her, and Phae scuttled away from him, only to hear another horse coming up behind her. Her heart raced with fear and excitement. Twenty against one. Somehow, she knew the Kishion would win. He did not bluster or threaten. He did not need to.
A man suddenly grabbed her around the waist from behind and hoisted her off her feet. She had not heard him slip off his saddle and she started thrashing, trying to squirm free from his grasp. He clutched her tightly, swinging her around.
