by Jeff Wheeler
Phae breathed through her nose, smelling the fragrances of the woods around her. It was not Stonehollow. She would miss the beauty of her homeland. But perhaps the wonders of Mirrowen would surpass it? She hoped so.
“I make the choice,” Phae said. “If it can prevent the death of innocents, I will do so.”
The other Dryad smiled proudly at her. Then her eyes widened suddenly and she sat up straight, blinking rapidly. “He’s here,” she whispered, her voice filling with delight. “I sensed him enter the woods. He is coming this way!”
“Who is?” Phae asked, rising with the other girl as she rushed to her feet.
“Annon, my Druidecht,” she said, her eyes shining. “How did he get here so quickly? He was leagues away.” The girl’s fingers dug into Phae’s arm, her expression darkening. “There are others with him. I sense powerful magic coming from him. I cannot be seen.” She bit her lip, staring into the woods toward the sound of crunching foliage.
Shion appeared in the ring of trees and his presence made the Dryad vanish. He strode up to Phae purposefully, his hand on a dagger hilt. “Come, others approach,” he whispered, pulling her by the arm away from the tree.
He had that dangerous look in his eyes again, the look that made her insides shrivel with fear. It was a look that said he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. She wondered, deep down, if she would ever be free of him.
“There is a great Bhikhu proverb that I have always admired: I found thee not without, Wisdom, because I erred in seeking without what was already within.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
As Paedrin slowly became conscious, he was immediately aware that he was blind and that the blindness hurt. The pain was so intense that he feared his eyes had been gouged out and sought to touch his face to verify it, only he could not. His wrists were bound in iron shackles, his arms bent backward around a stone column. His chin rested against his breast and he felt drops of sweat or blood coming from his chin. His ravaged eyes were excruciating and he began to cough.
For a moment, he could not remember what had happened or how he had come to be trapped in chains. Then the images came back into his mind, darting like spiders and sinking their fangs into his mind. Kiranrao was at the Kishion training yard. He possessed the Sword of Winds. Everything they believed about him had been a lie. Paedrin flexed his arm muscles, testing the strength of the chain and the amount of slack. He heard the metal scrape against the stone, allowing him to shift slightly.
Pain was a teacher.
Paedrin wondered what lesson he was going to learn this time. Had they truly blinded him? Or was it magic of some sort that caused the pain? His breath became ragged gasps, his shoulder convulsing with the suppressed agony. He would not cry out again. He would bear it like a Bhikhu.
He heard footsteps in the yard. Several sets, in fact, the sound of training.
“You are too slow,” he heard the man say. “Lower! Feel the stretch in your calves. Push harder! Lower that stance. Lower! The Arch-Rike’s emissary is coming. He must see you working harder.”
The voice seared Paedrin’s mind. Kiranrao.
It was Kiranrao who had freed him from the Arch-Rike’s dungeon. The legend was that he was the only man who had ever stolen from the Arch-Rike and survived to flaunt the exploit. How had they missed his treachery all along? It was brutally clear now. When the battle had commenced with the Arch-Rike’s forces in Silvandom, Kiranrao had vanished after Tyrus had given him the blade Iddawc. It was a weapon that Kiranrao craved above all others. But he had stolen it the second time for the Arch-Rike.
Paedrin hung his head, jaw clenched, suffering the pain.
“The Bhikhu,” someone said. “He’s rousing.”
“It does not matter. Leave him be,” Kiranrao said condescendingly. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey, eh? And as the Romani say, a secret is a weapon and a friend.”
Paedrin almost replied with a biting retort, but he was afraid to open his mouth. He tested the chains again, feeling the hardness, the implacability of his situation. He was surrounded by enemies. The Arch-Rike’s minion was coming for him, most likely to place a ring around his finger and bind him with a curse of service.
Never.
Paedrin’s heart boiled with fury at the thought. He had been starved of light and food and trapped in the Arch-Rike’s dungeon when they had last tricked him into wearing a Kishion ring. It would not happen again. He refused to submit to the fate. They could blind him. They could whip him. They could sear his skin with burning pokers, but he would never submit to that ink-black, oily feeling of the Arch-Rike invading his mind. He would die first.
That left him one option.
Escape.
Paedrin crossed his legs, letting his head hang low to hide his expression from the men training in the yard. His lips quivered with wrath. He would escape the chains. He would escape the courtyard. He would claim the blade from Kiranrao and use it to free the land of the Plague. Where to start, though?
He needed freedom.
There was a time he had sat by a fire at night in the woods with Hettie. She had described her bondage to the Romani. He had told her that she was already free. Freedom was a state of mind. Fear could shackle a person as much as any fetter. What was Paedrin afraid of? Being forced to submit to torture? Being forced to wear a ring? He could not allow that to dominate his thinking. Rather, he needed to spend his thoughts finding a way to escape.
Freedom was a state of mind. Pain is a teacher.
Paedrin drew deep inside himself, plunging into the void of his thoughts like a swimmer diving for pearls. What knowledge did he have that could rescue him? A column of stone pressed against his back. Could he shift it? Could he topple it in some way? The stone weighed as much as a mountain. He would never be able to budge it. The chains then. He needed to be free of them. He began twisting his wrists in circles, keeping the movements concealed. The cuffs were tight against his forearms. There was a little give, but not enough to squeeze his fingers through. He tried squeezing his fingers together, pulling against the bonds with his shoulders, trying to work up sweat to make it slippery.
The lack of sight sharpened his other senses. While he worked at the cuffs, he heard the slaps and groans as the men in the training yard acted on the instructions. How many were there? In his mind, he could count around a dozen. He could almost see them in his thoughts, where they were positioned in the courtyard. Every sound gave him new information. Who was heavy. Who was slight. He began to discern the variety of the races.
“Come on,” Kiranrao urged. “Do it again, but much faster. Heron Gliding on the Water, like I showed you. Then Serpent Seeks the Pearls. Faster though. Much faster.”
A memory tugged in Paedrin’s mind.
“The Vaettir is trying to work himself loose,” one of the men said. “I see his wrists.”
“He’s more to be pitied than laughed at. Ignore him.”
The pain in his eyes made him squint, but he still could not open them to see if he had any vision at all. The metal from the cuffs was working with him now. He broadened the circles, trying to tug against the bonds while he worked. All he needed was one wrist free. Just one.
Deeper into himself he went, trying to understand the truth about his situation. What was he missing? What facts had he observed from the wall above the training yard before he had spoken out? He had not realized it was Kiranrao at once. Why not? What had blinded him?
Maybe he was looking at the truth upside down. It was a spark of insight. Down inside his pain, the flicker happened.
What if the Vaettir in the training yard wasn’t Kiranrao at all?
Careful not to douse the tiny spark, he cupped it inside his mind and breathed on it. The Arch-Rike of Kenatos knew they sought the Shatalin temple. He had plenty of time to prepare for their arrival. What person could he send—what imposter could he send on ahead that would aid in his goal of thwarting Paedrin and Hettie? A man whom b
oth of them knew and feared. A man known to have a tapered sword that gave him great power. The light of the truth began to flame more brightly. Did the Arch-Rike possess the power to send a decoy? Could a Vaettir Kishion be sent and mimic Kiranrao’s mannerisms? Or could magic assist in the illusion? Yes, that had to be it. It was the Uddhava, of course. Always the Uddhava. Anticipate your enemy’s goal. Provide a counter to it and force him to react to you.
The man in the training yard was not Kiranrao.
Who was he?
Someone who knew Kiranrao’s mannerisms well enough. But not someone who could know everything they had said together in their journeys. Romani sayings were one thing. What about the past they had shared? He had to test it.
“Kiranrao,” Paedrin said, raising his chin.
“Everyone is wise until he speaks,” came a sardonic reply.
“How could you betray us?” he said. “You swore an oath to Tyrus that you would support our mission!”
“I made no such oath, sheep-brains. He who pays the piper calls the tune.”
Paedrin stiffened. The words were said in Kiranrao’s voice, but the way it was said reminded him of…Hettie.
He had to test it. “Every bird relishes his own voice.”
“A blind chicken finds a grain once in a while.”
The last one was all he needed. Hettie had told him that one on a hill outside of Lydi. Kiranrao had not even been there. Somehow Hettie had discovered the false Kiranrao. She was using whatever power that enabled the disguise to mask herself. She was standing in front of him with the sword they had come for.
“Do you have it?” he asked tautly.
“I do,” came a quick reply. “If only you could fly, Bhikhu.” He heard the boots approaching him.
“When I am free of here,” he said, uncurling his legs and rising. The chains dragged against the stone. “When I am free, I swear you will suffer as I do.”
“The blindness isn’t permanent. But unfortunately for you, the Arch-Rike’s emissary will be here shortly.”
Paedrin felt the weight of the chains. He tried to inhale and see if he would rise. The weight of the chains prevented it. Very well. He set the edge of one foot against the base of the stone pillar. He dropped into a low horse stance, pulling his arm into position.
“What? You think you are strong enough to break a chain?” came Kiranrao’s mocking voice.
Paedrin exhaled. A Vaettir floated when breathing in deeply. The opposite was also true. Paedrin breathed in quickly and then exhaled just as quickly, pulling against the chains with all of his might. He felt the iron dig into his wrists. His neck muscles strained. His legs quivered.
“You’re a fool! You cannot break these chains!”
He felt the irony in the voice, the pleading with him to keep trying. Paedrin’s head grew dizzy from the lack of air. He rested a moment, sucking in breath again in several generous gulps, then expelling it all out and tested the iron chains once again. He strained. The chains went taut. He groaned inside of himself, drawing on the pain in his eyes to fuel his strength. The iron would not give.
Paedrin paused again, choking on his breath. He puffed more air inside him and then expelled it for the third time, drawing every bit of power he could from his legs, his hips, his shoulders, pulling and forcing the chain. The muscles burned. His thoughts grew dizzy again from the lack of air.
An iron link of chain snapped.
The sound of it reported off the walls in every direction. One of his wrists felt heavier than the other, meaning the chain had broken unevenly. As he staggered away from the stone column, he felt it drag and scrape.
He was free.
Still deep inside himself, still hunkered down in the core of his strength, Paedrin felt as if another set of eyes had suddenly opened. The pain was gone, buried beneath thick layers of resolve. Even though the skin of his eyes was wrinkled shut, every sound came at him and spoke to this new sense…this seeing but not seeing. He heard the grunts of shock and surprise. He heard the training Kishion charge at him, the echoes assailing him from nearly all sides.
Paedrin met them head on.
He swung the loose chain over his head, around and around, building momentum. He lunged into the midst of them, swinging the chain in a deadly circle. He felt it hit the first man, striking him in the face with enough force to crush the cheekbone. Without losing the momentum of the attack, Paedrin sidestepped, swirling the chain around in another arc, taking another man on the chin. Paedrin ducked low, sweeping the chain like a dragon’s tail, catching two off guard and sending them sprawling. He dived forward, rolling over his back, and was up again, sweeping the chain in two circular motions. Someone came from behind. With a shift in his stance, Paedrin sent the chain out into another man.
“Grab the spears! Get a staff!”
Paedrin sensed where the bodies were crumpled nearby him and he skillfully stepped around them, whipping the loose chain out again and catching a fleeing man on the ankle, dragging him back. He delivered a powerful blow to the man’s ear and then shoved him down, starting to swirl the chain again, lashing it over and over against the stones until it sparked.
The main gate of the Shatalin temple exploded. Fragments of wood and cinders sailed through the air, bringing a billowing cloud of black smoke. The noise was nearly deafening.
“It’s Baylen,” Paedrin heard Hettie say.
Paedrin could feel the rumble of the stone tiles as the massive Cruithne entered. Shouts of outrage sounded. Paedrin heard something whistle in the air over his head, followed by the crunch of glass and another explosion. Paedrin’s jacket fluttered from the impact and he felt the heat from the flames on his neck, but he could no longer feel any pain.
The sound of two swords clearing the scabbards appeared, followed by the clomping steps. “Best leave in a hurry,” Baylen said. “Your eyes look a little pink, but I think you’ll survive.”
Hettie grabbed Paedrin’s arm. “They’re coming with spears.”
“I’ll take those three,” Baylen said. “Head to the gate.”
The massive boots thudded against the stone as he charged them. Paedrin heard the Cruithne strike a spear out of the air with his twin blades. Then another sound as he launched himself at the others, striking down the long poles and spearheads and snapping one of them in half with a cutting motion.
“Can you see?” Hettie asked in his ear.
“In a way, yes. You have the sword?”
“Yes. With it, I can fly like a Vaettir. Only faster. I went down to Baylen and told him to climb up and help get the gate open as a distraction. He was coming to break your chains, but I guess you did that on your own.”
“Who needs a Cruithne to break a chain?” Paedrin scolded.
“Indeed. When did you realize it was me?”
He was so grateful she was by his side he nearly kissed her. “As soon as I smelled your breath. The illusion isn’t perfect, after all. A clever trap.”
They entered the plume of smoke and Paedrin felt his chest constrict. They coughed and choked their way through until they reached the edge of the landing.
Paedrin lifted his face to the sky. The thrill of victory throbbed inside him. He had faced down one of the Arch-Rike’s threats. He had conquered the Kishion’s lair. He turned back to the gate.
“What are you doing?” Hettie said.
“I’m not finished here,” Paedrin replied. “Let me hold the sword.”
“You cannot unsheathe it. Only Cruw Reon can and he is no longer here.”
“But it still works. Let me hold it.”
She handed it to him and he gripped the thin wooden sheath in his left hand. He felt the power surge inside it and lift him up to the top of the wall. After reaching the top, he stood on the crenellations, feeling the haze of smoke and hearing the battle down below. Paedrin lifted the blade into the air.
“I reclaim the Shatalin temple!” he shouted in a booming voice. “I will return with an army of Bhikhu. If any
of you are here when I return, I swear by the stars that I will throw you off the walls at low tide. I am Paedrin Bhikhu and I claim this temple!”
“Before they perform a marriage ceremony, the Rikes of Kenatos counsel with the couple to discern the motives for the union. If the motive is driven by ducats, they counsel against it. If it is driven by force, they will oppose it. If it is driven by fear or jealousy, they will refuse to perform the binding. To these they say: He that is jealous is not in love.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The Cruithne’s huge arms wrestled with the oars, making the skiff cut through the waters toward the awaiting ship. Hettie observed the seawater dripping from his nose, still reeling from the shock of seeing him leap from the top of the cliff into the water below. The splash he had made was no bigger than if a boulder had been flung from the mountainside, but he emerged from the depths quickly enough, stroking his way to where the boat had been secured and climbing aboard. Paedrin and Hettie had floated down through the veil of mist and gracefully landed nearby.
The thrill of Vaettir flight was still a new experience for her, but she loved it already. The sword gave her the power, even when strapped against her hip. The queer feeling in her stomach as she had descended from above was exhilarating.
“Why the grin?” Baylen asked her, and she noticed he had been studying her face.
“We made it out of there alive,” she replied, sidling closer to Paedrin on the bench. “We bested the Arch-Rike again. I enjoyed that.”
Baylen shrugged. “The plan was sound. I may have killed one of the Kishion. On accident.”
Paedrin snorted. “At one time that would have bothered me.”
“Are you still blind?”
Paedrin’s mouth twitched. “For now. The pain is gone and I cannot see, but my senses are…sharper. I know exactly where you are, where Hettie is. Every slap of the waves against the hull. I’m blind but I can still see. It is a strange feeling.”
“Are you wounded, Baylen?” Hettie asked him.
