by Jeff Wheeler
“Stonehollow,” Phae answered. “But my mother was not. She is a Dryad from a tree in Kenatos. The Paracelsus Towers. My father is Tyrus Paracelsus.”
The look on the girl’s face gave away much. She stared at Phae with open astonishment, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as well. “I sensed the presence of kindred magic in the woods. I summoned the stag to lead you here, but I did not realize who it would be. You are…Tyrus’s daughter?”
“I am.” Phae bowed her head.
The girl stiffened. “Who is it that is with you? Speak his name?”
Phae looked startled. “He has no name.”
“The Kishion,” the girl hissed.
Phae held up her hands placatingly. “He no longer serves the Arch-Rike.”
The girl had a panic-stricken look on her face. “And I helped lead him to my tree? Call for him. I must take his memories. He cannot remember this place. All would be at risk.”
“No, please!” Phae implored. “He is no threat.”
“His presence is a threat,” the girl answered, looking fearful. “The ring he wears—”
“He no longer wears it,” Phae replied. “He shed it days ago. There is too much to say and not much time, sister. Can you…can you see my memories? It would help you understand. Do not take them, but I give you permission to see them. I need your help. I don’t know how…to be a Dryad, even though I am Dryad-born.”
“Look into my eyes,” the girl said. “I promise that I will not steal your memories if you promise not to steal mine.”
“I promise,” Phae said gratefully. The two girls clasped hands and stared into each other’s eyes. Phae felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, a churning feeling that made her dizzy and nauseous. The world seemed to tip and she felt herself wobble, but the girl’s grasp on her hands steadied her.
It was finished.
Phae blinked, feeling as if she had dozed. She looked up and saw tears glistening in the other girl’s eyes. The girl rested her slim hand on Phae’s cheek.
“What strong memories,” the girl whispered to Phae. “You are Dryad-born.”
Phae shuddered. “Can you help me? I must learn how to be one of you. If I am to go to the Scourgelands, I need this knowledge.”
The girl nodded slowly, dropping her hand. She suddenly squeezed Phae’s hands with her own. “I could help you, but I shouldn’t be the one to do so. I was taught of this life by my mother. She prepared me for what I could not know any other way. Mothers and daughters share a special bond. These trees are portals. We daughters are the guardians of these portals. They connect this world to Mirrowen. They also connect us to each other. Your mother is the Dryad in Kenatos. I will trade places with her. She will guard my tree and I will guard hers. Just for a moment. If you should be taught of our ways, it should be done by her.”
Phae gasped with astonishment, her heart shuddering with emotion. “Can you? Can you do such a thing?”
“I can. And I will. Stay here.” Suddenly the girl’s eyes widened with surprise and a flash of sudden intense emotion. “Annon!” she gasped, as if seeing something Phae could not. Her fingers dug into Phae’s. “No,” she moaned, her face turning livid with emotion.
“What is it?” Phae asked, her own heart panged.
The girl shook her head, her expression engulfed in misery. “He is…there is danger. So much danger! I feel it.” She started gasping, struggling for breath. “He…is…no! No!” The Dryad girl crumpled to her knees, hands covering her face.
“What?” Phae begged, dropping to her knees, clutching the girl tight. “What do you see?”
The girl moaned, shaking her head. Then her eyes blazed. “Serpents! The Preachán is dead. They are coming. Annon, don’t move! Don’t move!”
“There is great agitation at the Temple of Seithrall in Kenatos. The war crisis between Havenrook and Wayland is threatening to spill over across all the lands, Boeotia included. There are reports of barbarian incursions into Silvandom, once again threatening our great city. If the southern kingdoms are not united, it will leave the city practically undefended against the treachery of the invaders. Always it is civil unrest and tumult. Gratefully, the Arch-Rike is wise in sending a delegation to mediate with the Preachán. There is even talk of asking the Druidecht of Canton Vaud to settle the dispute that we may unite against a common enemy. All is in an uproar.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
When Paedrin was a child, he had watched the older Bhikhu fight amongst themselves. They did not hold back in punches or kicks, knowing that the temporary pain of an injury would lead to swifter reflexes after the healing was done. He admired their unwillingness to express pain and he strove to emulate it amongst his own peers. Paedrin had always been a quick learner and he noticed how Master Shivu gave him special attention, as if they shared some unspoken secret that acknowledged that Paedrin truly was the best student in the temple. The memory touched his heart with sadness, but it did not diminish his determination.
As the young Bhikhu crouched on the temple walls of the Shatalin temple at dawn, bathed in dewdrops from the swirling fog, he watched the activity in the courtyard below. Just before dawn, the interior doors had opened to the training yard and a group of twenty men emerged, of various races. A tall Vaettir master led them through a curt series of training exercises to warm up their bodies, speaking the commands in sharp, crisp language, but not participating himself. Paedrin was struck by the immense discipline of the men. There was no joking or jostling. They were riveted at attention and followed the drills with audible claps and grunts, in perfect unison and harmony. The tall lanky master walked amidst the twenty, head slightly bowed, and snapped orders, which were obeyed promptly. The tall master was a Vaettir with long flowing hair.
This went on for a good while and Paedrin continued to crouch, invisible amid the crenellations. He counted the men by races: five Vaettir, five Aeduan, five Cruithne, and five Preachán. The symmetry was not lost on him. The tall master snarled a quick command and the men lined up along the interior walls. He barked out two words and a Cruithne and Preachán emerged from the line, facing off against each other. The size difference was immense, for the Cruithne towered over the smaller Preachán. Paedrin leaned forward slightly, watching with fascination.
Another curt command—a signal to commence fighting. The Cruithne was bulky but he was quick. The Preachán was even quicker. Like a blur, the smaller man ducked and tumbled, diving out of reach, flitting around like a hummingbird to strike at the bigger man’s calves, the back of his knees. The Cruithne swiveled around and tried to snatch the puny opponent, but could not touch him.
Paedrin rubbed his mouth, watching the fury of the exchange. The little man ducked away from a solid punch aimed at him and suddenly the Preachán had his wrist and the big man flipped down, crashing on his back. Like a bee coming in for a quick sting, the Preachán somersaulted over him and landed by his head, hammering down on the Cruithne’s nose. A fountain of blood spattered from the blow. The Cruithne grabbed the Preachán’s leg and wrenched, jerking the smaller man off his feet. There was a sickening crack as the leg broke. The Cruithne swung the body and hurled it across the yard where he slammed against the far wall before slumping to the ground.
The Cruithne, wiping the blood on his sleeve, rose ponderously to his feet.
The crumpled Preachán did not move.
A pit of disgust welled in Paedrin’s stomach. No one went to the fallen Preachán to see if he were even alive. The Cruithne lumbered back to the line, taking his place again. Blood smeared his face.
Paedrin stared at the crumpled body. The tall master gave another order and an Aeduan and two Vaettir were summoned. It was clearly a mismatch but with a whistle the three launched into combat, the two Vaettir against the one fellow. Not a favorable contest, but the Aeduan attacked like a mountain cat, leaping with grace and kicking down one of the Vaettir as he tried to float away. The other was defeated only moments later,
brought down by a vicious punch that knocked his air away, bringing him crashing down. He did not stop until both Vaettir were unconscious at his feet. He saluted to the lean master and went back to the line.
Glancing again at the fallen Preachán, Paedrin saw him start to twitch. He was trying to sit up, his head hanging low.
They were in the practice yard, fighting and maiming each other in various combinations of brutality. There was no discussion or instruction. Sometimes they were given weapons. Other times they fought with wrists tied behind their backs. Paedrin watched and studied them, feeling the mist roil around him. He did not shiver though. He willed his muscles to be calm. He waited.
Just before midday, or what Paedrin assumed was such without the presence of the sun, there were only several men left standing. Each had been called to fight multiple times. Their chests heaved, faces bathed in sweat and some with blood. The tall master, the Vaettir, whistled again and all went rigid. He barked a curt order, which sounded like a question. No one moved. The tall man paced in the midst of the square, hissing at them like a snake. He asked the question again, so low that Paedrin could not hear it. He paused, waiting. No one moved.
The tall master clapped his hands twice and the men started back toward the doors leading inside the temple. There were at least a dozen left behind, sprawled out in the training yard, either unconscious or unable to get up.
Paedrin did not think he would get a better chance than that. If the Kishion in training beat themselves up every morning before the midday meal, what better time would there be to challenge the tall master’s authority than just after? They were tired and spent. They were used to fighting each other. They were not used to fighting someone like Paedrin.
The tall master started back toward the doors, pausing every few steps to walk around one of the crumpled bodies sprawled in front of him. Paedrin’s legs were burning from holding the crouch so long, so he delicately stretched and let the ache in his muscles wane. He waited until the tall master was almost to the doors.
“Cruw Reon!” Paedrin shouted.
The tall master froze in place as Paedrin’s voice echoed throughout the courtyard.
He did not turn. He stood erect, almost aloof. He was long and sinewy, his hair a curtain of black. The long hair sent a nagging memory in Paedrin’s mind. He looked…familiar. Too tall, but familiar still.
“Who challenges me?” snapped a voice from the courtyard below. It was like a whip crack and echoed sharply.
“I do,” Paedrin said, taking in a deep breath, and jumped up, floating above the courtyard like a gray raven. “I am Paedrin of Kenatos. I am Paedrin Bhikhu. I am the last Vaettir of the true temple. I come to claim what is mine. I name you a thief. I name you a traitor.” He exhaled sharply, letting himself come down hard in the center of the courtyard. “And I can smell your bad breath from over here.”
The tall master stood like a granite slab. “I have been expecting you, Paedrin Bhikhu,” replied the voice. The man’s voice was suddenly familiar. A growing sense of dread welled inside of Paedrin’s stomach. From above, he had not recognized anything special about the sharp commands or the tone of voice. His mind began to shriek at him to flee. He stood still though, willing himself to face the worst. His goal was not to defeat the man. It was to provide Hettie sufficient time to steal the sword.
“Yes, I have expected you. But you are somewhat mistaken.” He turned around, his hair swishing. “My name is not Cruw Reon. It is Kiranrao. But you are correct. I am a thief. And I am a traitor.”
Paedrin would have recognized the voice anywhere. He stared into Kiranrao’s dark eyes, the wicked smirk on his mouth. There, at his side, was a sword that flickered in and out of view. He exhaled sharply, feeling his insides coil and twist with shock and surprise. Kiranrao of Havenrook. A traitor. A Vaettir. The man who trained new Kishion for the Arch-Rike? He reeled from the surprise, from the shock of it.
“I see by the gaping fish mouth that you had not figured it out before coming,” Kiranrao said with keen pleasure. “Oh, but how I have been waiting for you, little boy. Come to avenge the death of the Bhikhu temple. Poisoned by my orders.” He took a menacing step forward. “You’ve come for this weapon, have you not?” He motioned to his side. Looking at the sword made it disappear. Paedrin blinked furiously. “Or are you here for the blade Iddawc? You wish to take my place, to become who I am? Is that your wish?”
Paedrin steeled himself, feeling the sweat streak down his ribs. How had he not recognized Kiranrao before? The mist had obscured some of the courtyard, but the walk and the gait had not revealed him. It was too formal, not the lounging, lazy way of the Romani lord.
“You are unworthy to be a Vaettir,” Paedrin said in a low voice. “You are not even a Bhikhu. This shrine is no longer yours. Step down, or I will make you.”
“And how will you make me?” Kiranrao replied in a silken voice. “We both know that you were beaten by lesser men than me.”
“I don’t think it is possible for there to be a lesser man than you.” Every nerve in Paedrin’s body tingled with anticipation. He knew that most fights were won or lost in moments. By judging correctly or incorrectly how your enemy would first act or react. He knew that Kiranrao was trying to unsettle him, to make him act rashly. It was certainly working, but Paedrin was not a fool.
“If you wish to claim the Sword of Winds,” Kiranrao said, pulling the scabbard around. He tugged on the belt and the scabbard and blade unhasped. There was a glimmering green stone set in the pommel. “You must be able to draw it. It cannot be drawn by any man. You must defeat the one who holds it first. Is this what you want, Bhikhu? I could give you this sword, but it will not come loose from its sheath until you vanquish me. Is this what you crave? Is this the right you desire?”
“What I desire is that you eat your own dung and drink your own piss,” Paedrin replied with venom. “After I have made you do that, I will take that sword from you and use it to free this world of the Plague. When that is done, I will see you locked in chains in a dungeon with no light and nothing but gruel. You will be helpless and alone as you truly are. Do I make myself clear, Band-Imas? I know you can hear me. This is my promise to you, Arch-Rike. I will put you down, the lowest of men. Death would be too merciful for you.”
The cold eyes of Kiranrao went flat with hatred. Clutching the shaft of the scabbard, Kiranrao raised it so that the stone in the pommel met Paedrin’s gaze. A sickly green light emerged from the stone. Then it flashed suddenly, sending searing pain into Paedrin’s eyes. It felt as if his eyeballs were stabbed by hornets. He screamed in pain, shutting his eyes, but it was too late. The magic of the stone had already begun its work, causing agony inside his eyes. He almost crumpled to the ground, but instead, he jumped high, sucking in breath despite the torture searing his entire face and soared upward into the air. He had to get away. He had to flee.
A foot struck his stomach, right where he held his breath and he felt it gush out, dropping him like a rock to the courtyard floor. Despite the torturing magic, Paedrin lunged out, a whirlwind of fists and feet. He listened for the sound of movement, for any intake of breath. Then he dived to the side and rolled, dropping into a low crouch, arms brought into a defensive square, ready to block an attack. A fist struck him in the back. Pain ripped through his lower muscles, making his legs weak. In retaliation, he back-kicked and felt it strike the man, sending him sprawling. Like a tiger, Paedrin vaulted after, hammering down on the body until he realized it wasn’t Kiranrao at all but one of the Kishion in training.
The deft scrape of a foot behind him.
Paedrin flipped up in the air, sucking in painfully, and felt a body pass below him. He knifed downward, his face afire, and dropped the man below. As he was straightening, a meaty hand grabbed his wrist. It was a Cruithne. He knew his arm would be dislocated in a moment. Paedrin used Unbendable Arm and stepped in sideways, swiveling the Cruithne over his back, and hurled him to the ground. With a wrenching feeling, the g
rip on his wrist vanished and he was free.
Paedrin could sense the heat from the bodies as they converged around him. He struck fast and hard, squeezing his eyes shut to try to block the torrid pain, but he could hardly think past the scream he refused to allow out of his mouth. Dropping low and then high, he struck and parried, blocking the blows that rained on him from all sides. His knee was taken out from behind and he staggered down. A kick to his face brought stars as well as more pain. Flopping on to his back, Paedrin rolled back over his shoulder, shoved against the ground into a handstand and sucked in another gulp of air to start rising again. If he could reach the walls…
Something struck the side of his skull, and all went black.
“The delegation to Havenrook failed. The ambassadors were ambushed and robbed. It baffles me that the Preachán would do this, despite the advantage of their own interests to meet with the delegation. Several Bhikhu bodyguards were murdered. I fear that we are past the possibility of diplomacy now.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
As the first silver shades of dawn emerged through the immense fog bank, Hettie decided to start climbing. Her arms and legs were still weary from the ordeal of ascending the jagged cliff to the outer edge of the Shatalin temple, but it was a good place to conceal herself. Before Paedrin left, he had floated up the outer wall and discovered the highest tower directly above with a broad stone balcony set into the side, overlooking the vast ocean. It was tall enough that it protruded from the continual mist and provided a single overlook to the domain. Paedrin had taken the rope from her bag and tied one end to the stone buttresses supporting the balcony and brought the rest down to where she crouched. Scaling the wall would have been slow and dangerous without it.
She chafed her hands, fingers raw and still oozing from the climb the day before. Not even her blanket and cloak had kept her very warm and both were dripping with moisture. After rising slowly, she shook them off, rolled them up, and folded them away. She gazed up the slender rope that disappeared into the mist above. Paedrin was gone, scouting the perimeter and preparing to provide the distraction she needed. A gnawing, sick feeling—worry—grew tortuously inside her stomach. She knew he was capable and brave. He was also reckless and too sure of himself. A tiny spasm of fear accompanied the worry. She was not anxious to begin climbing again.
