by Jeff Wheeler
“A scratch.”
“Let me see it.”
“The Kishion was aiming for my back. He didn’t realize I had a sheet of metal sewn into my tunic in that spot. He took the liberty of adjusting his aim. I’ll be all right.”
“Can I row for you?” Hettie asked, leaning forward.
A small smile met her. “I’ll be well enough until we get on board. There are some healing runes I can sleep on that will help. Where do we go from here?”
Paedrin folded his arms, staring blindly into the open sea. “Silvandom.”
Baylen nodded. “I thought as much.”
They were hailed by the sailors as they approached the massive vessel. Ropes were thrown down and Baylen secured them to the oarlocks.
Hettie stood and then gripped Paedrin’s arm. She inhaled deeply and so did he. They both floated up from the boat and quickly crossed to the main deck. The sailors met them with cups of steaming broth thick with vegetables and noodles. The other sailors hauled on the ropes and pulled the heavy load up the side. It would take a while to bring it back.
After giving direction to the helmsman about their destination, Hettie took Paedrin and the soup back to their shared quarters. Being away from the ship had made her legs a little unsteady, but she quickly got used to the swaying motion. Paedrin sat down on the edge of the cot, burying his face in his hands.
“Eat, Paedrin,” she said, handing him the cup.
Holding it with both hands, he took a sip of the broth. “It’s good.”
Hettie was ravenous herself and sat cross-legged on the cot opposite his and wolfed down the soup. The vegetables were crunchy and there was just enough salt to flavor it. The two slurped in silence and Hettie mopped her chin on her sleeve.
“I could get more,” she suggested, staring across at him. He was brooding.
“One is fine.”
“What are you thinking?”
He rubbed his wrists, which were still bound by the cuffs and chain. She could see blood on his skin. She waited for him to speak, wiping the edge of the bowl and then licking the salty broth from her finger.
“I meant what I said about the Shatalin temple,” he said in a determined voice. It bordered on being a growl. “That place was meant for Bhikhu to train. How did it get overrun?”
“I doubt we’ll ever know. The first thing we must do is fix that gate.”
His mouth twitched and he cocked his head as if looking at her. His eyes were open but not focused. He stared just to the left of her. “We?”
She set the bowl down on the edge of the cot. There was that look on his face again. She saw him swallow.
“I haven’t finished my training yet, Master,” she said softly. She put just a little bit of emotion in her voice, an unspoken promise.
He stared dully at her and said nothing.
“What did you think I meant?” she asked, leaning forward, studying his face for any sign of a reaction.
“Well, you said ‘we.’ That implied that after we conquer the Scourgelands—”
“Which we will of course,” she interrupted, shifting herself off the edge of the cot so that she was even closer to him. She saw a little flush creep into his cheeks. He was trying very hard to pretend not to be affected by her closeness. She had been watching him struggle with his feelings for days now. Good.
“You think so?” he asked curiously. “It destroyed the last group that went there.”
“They were not us.”
“But they also thought they could defeat it.”
“We have knowledge they didn’t have. But go on, Paedrin. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
He cleared his throat. The faint flush in his cheeks began to deepen. She was certain it was driving him mad not being able to see her expression. He was listening to her words and trying to discern more than the literal meaning.
“I was saying that I intend to return and toss out those imposters. Obviously I won’t be returning to Kenatos and teaching there.”
“Obviously.”
“But when I said that I would be returning, I did not think that perhaps you might want to come as well. You have your freedom now, Hettie. You can go anywhere you want to go.”
She smiled at the uncomfortable expression on his face, as if he were writhing with emotions inside and barely able to suppress them. It was difficult not to laugh.
“What?” he asked, his face perplexed.
“But I have not finished my training yet,” she said. “You promised to train me.”
He swallowed again. She was torturing him and she knew it. “Is that what you wanted then? You wanted more training?”
“Of course. You have knowledge that few possess outside of Kenatos and Silvandom. I wish to learn it.”
“Oh,” he answered, his voice sounding disappointed.
“I also need to thank you,” she answered in a low voice, rising from the cot. “You saved my life when I fell from the cliff. You’ve saved it more than once. It is a debt that I must repay in the Romani way.”
His head cocked. “What is the Romani way?”
“This,” she answered, dipping her head and pressing her mouth against his. She grasped his neck, entwining her fingers to hold him in place, and pressed a long, savory kiss against his completely befuddled mouth. She tasted the salt from the soup. The fireblood stirred inside of her. Possibly it was something else. It took several moments before the shock passed and he started to respond, to kiss her back, to kiss her in earnest.
She pulled away.
“That is the Romani way,” she said, pleased at the silly grin she found on his face.
It took a moment before he found his composure or his voice. That was gratifying too.
“How does a Romani say you’re welcome?” he asked, his eyebrow lifting.
She sat on his lap, stroking the stubble on the dome of his head. “You wish me to teach you the Romani ways, do you?” she asked, grazing his ear with the tip of her nose. He shuddered.
“I wish I could see your face,” he said softly. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“You’ve always been blind, Bhikhu. Only now you have realized it.”
The camp smoke from a hundred fires hung in the night air like a shroud, threading through the gaps of the trees. Only a thin sliver of moon radiated from the sky, peering between the branches. There was a sentry in the shadows, spear held upright so that the edge of the tip would not glint in the moonlight. He was paying attention, ignoring the sounds wafting from the army as they washed over him. He stared into the night’s darkness, vigilant. Kiranrao thrust the blade Iddawc into his ribs, watching the magic of the blade snuff his life out instantly. There was a plume of memories released and Kiranrao inhaled them, discarding most until he found the one he was after—the location of the pavilion where the King of Wayland slept. The rest of the memories he scattered to the breeze and then entered the camp.
Gripping his sword pommel with one hand, he was invisible to all but the most astute Finder. The magic of his blade allowed him to pass unseen, his very essence the semblance of a blur. In his other hand, he gripped the blade Iddawc. He almost always carried it unsheathed, listening to the faint whispers of promised death. It exposed the vulnerabilities of any man, the most efficient way of killing them.
That one, fidgeting with his stew. He’s weak on his left.
That one, crossing the camp believes he’s a sword master. He’s a fool. Get in close and he’ll panic and drop his weapon.
Over there—see the Finder? He’s looking our way, but he hasn’t seen us yet. You may have to kill him next.
Over and over the whispers came to his mind, spoken by the blade’s hunger to kill. It worked best when he had a target in his mind. The blade seemed to sense everyone around, probing for weaknesses and assessing their vulnerabilities. It was a useful tool. No wonder the Arch-Rike had paid so handsomely for it. It revealed the weakness of others so perfectly, it allowed Kiranrao to kill his victims in a sing
le thrust. It unmasked everyone.
That way, where the flames burn brightest. The king is there. Kill him.
Kiranrao moved through the camp like a wraith, fueled by pure desperation to murder. The Wayland army was closing fast around Havenrook. The price of meat and bread had tripled in the last two days. No caravans had arrived in a fortnight. The road to Alkire was infested with Cruithne bringing their goods down the mountain roads but bypassing Havenrook along the way. The city was shriveling. Kiranrao’s vast wealth followed suit. The Romani attacking the armies along the border did insufficient damage to lift the blockade. Perhaps a dagger in the king’s chest would suffice.
Kiranrao burned with anger and hatred. The empire he had created around the trading hub was unraveling. How had it happened so quickly? How had the Arch-Rike managed to outmaneuver him so? His breath was quick in his ears. A bold move—an assassination—would shift the tide. He was certain of it. Isn’t that why Tyrus had yielded the blade to him at last? All his talk of a fool’s errand into the Scourgelands was a feint. Tyrus wanted the Arch-Rike dead. He wanted the King of Wayland removed. He had held the blade tantalizingly as bait until Kiranrao had snatched at it.
He nearly collided into an approaching Paracelsus and shifted his path just in time, almost cursing. That was sloppy. It was unlike him to be sloppy. Kiranrao was no fool. He was still the wealthiest man in all the kingdoms. His fortunes may have begun a landslide, but he would rally them again. The Arch-Rike had coffers enough to plunder. So did the King of Wayland. He would regain every ducat he had lost through this farce of war. Kiranrao’s lip curled into a sneer of anger. He shuddered with the emotions. The Romani were being systematically hunted down and slaughtered, yet they bore the blame for starting a war when they had never so much as lifted a dart to hurl. The hypocrisy was galling. Romani poison could not injure the army for the Arch-Rike knew the cure and every victim was quickly remedied. Well so be it then. The course of history would change on this night. The King of Wayland had a young wife and a little boy. They would grieve the loss of husband and father. And then he would spit in their eyes.
There it is. Go quickly. The guards at the front are Outriders. Easily dispatched. He will likely have a Kishion as a personal bodyguard. He will be no match for us.
Kiranrao went to the far side of the pavilion, where he anticipated the shadows were gathered like berry bushes. Instead, tall poles wreathed in blue flame were set into the ground on each of the four corners of the pavilion. They cast a brilliant hue around the entire pavilion and filled the air with a steady plume of white smoke.
He studied the pavilion shrewdly, looking at the seams, the tent stakes, the curving poles, and pennants fluttering from the top. Voices murmured within, discussing, undoubtedly, the progress of the siege of Havenrook. Kiranrao boiled with fury. This night would be spoken of in frightened whispers. No one would ever again risk the wrath of Kiranrao.
He was impatient to be finished.
Studying the hem of the pavilion, he saw the widest opening, the fringe tugged down by stakes. It was narrow enough that a man could slide under if a stake was pulled up. He glanced at them all and felt the blade nudge him toward the weakest one. He nodded and stalked forward, a wisp of night himself.
After dropping to one knee, he tugged at the tent stake and it came up effortlessly. He heard the fabric stretch softly, the pressure removed from the cords fastened to the stake. There was a pungent smell in the air, an unfamiliar one. Wrinkling his nose, he dropped low and laid himself down on the ground, parallel to the skirt of the pavilion. He saw furs covering the dirt floor, plump cushions, a few ironbound chests and an armor rack with the king’s armor hanging from it. The helm with the white plume was especially well crafted.
A few soldiers were gathered around a hide-bound stool, sharing some plans with the man seated on it. The King of Wayland, his goatee flecked with streaks of gold and rust, his hair long about his shoulders. He was a handsome man, except for the receding hairline, and his nose was a bit too bulgy. But he had a charming smile and a reputation of ruthlessness that had finally been confirmed. Kiranrao would enjoy killing him. He stared at him, waiting for the pulse from Iddawc revealing the man’s weakness.
None came.
Kiranrao stared at the man, the covenant King of Wayland. Something about him felt…wrong. The gloved fingers stroking his beard were the best money could buy. His chain hauberk was fringed with intricate gold trim along the collar and sleeves—another fortune. There was a necklace of some sort around his neck. A Druidecht talisman? Kiranrao could not tell. He nodded as the men continued to speak to him, treating each with respect and patience.
The king’s eyes flickered to where Kiranrao was laying. He blinked slowly. A small, delighted smile twisted up one corner of his mouth.
Their eyes met.
The blade began to hiss in fear and fury in his grip. It caused an ache to rush up his entire arm. He nearly dropped it, feeling the hideous sensation inside his flesh, as if a thousand grubs were wriggling beneath his skin, trying to burrow into his bones. He almost dropped the blade. But he did not.
That one look told Kiranrao that it was a trap designed for him and that he had blundered his way into it. Rolling away from the pavilion, Kiranrao made it to his feet. Soldiers appeared from the dark.
“He’s over there, boys. Look at the shadow on the ground. Aim at the shadow!”
The light from the torches. Of course. The magic fire burning in them revealed those hidden normally from sight. He had not noticed the shadow he was leaving on the ground behind him. He had to give the King of Wayland credit. He truly had thought it through.
As the crossbows began to fire, Kiranrao whipped one direction and then another and took in a big breath of air, rising above the torches. The light from the flames had no canvas on which to paint his shadow. He floated above the pavilion, watching as some of the bolts tore gashes into the fabric. He scudded like a cloud, breathing even deeper until he rose as high as the monstrous trees. With a kick in the air, he angled his way to the upper branches and grasped a hold of the trunks. The soldiers down below scurried like ants from a kicked hive. He stood on the slender branch, keeping his breath carefully measured so that it would easily support his weight. The throbbing feeling in his arm began to settle. How close he had come to losing the blade! He did not think for a moment he had come close to dying. He was far too clever to ever risk that.
Watching as the army of Wayland began to search the camp, he nearly shouted his laughter from the tree tops. Instead, he slunk away, vowing to return and drive the blade deep into the king’s chest. The siege would continue to choke his people. Murderous rage continued to burn in his heart.
Shoving away from the tree, he rapidly descended into the camp and made his way through the confusion of the raid. Soldiers were talking about an intruder in the camp. A man had been seen. The thief Kiranrao. His name was said with contempt. It made him grind his teeth with fury. He would kill them all. One by one if he had to. One soldier at a time. But would that be fast enough to save his wealth from vanishing? The cask was caved in, the wine already spilling out. He wanted to save as much of it as he could. He was frantic at how quickly his wealth was vanishing.
Kiranrao killed another sentry on his way out, leaving the man crumpled in his bones. He did not even bother lingering to taste the man’s memories. It was not a great distance to the Romani hideout. They were lurking all around the camp, awaiting orders to launch a raid or strike at the enemy’s supply lines. They were waiting for him to return with news of the King’s death. They had waited in vain.
He released the pommel of the sword and shrugged off the magic that hid him from the sight of others. He would sleep in a bed tonight. In a bed on a wagon. He wanted to get drunk. He craved it with a great thirst. He would not give in to the craving. Not tonight. He would plot the king’s death again. He would find a way to stop the assault. He would rally. He always did.
As he appro
ached he found the Romani alert, as always. Beckett was a Preachán with a sharp nose. He was digging beneath his fingernail with a jeweled spike.
“He’s here,” Beckett said, nodding to the unhitched wagon at the far edge of camp.
Kiranrao looked at the little man, scrutinizing his face. “What?”
“I said he’s here. Arrived a little while after you left. Offered a bet that you wouldn’t succeed.”
Kiranrao’s scowl made some of them step back. “And how many of you craven dogs took that bet?”
Beckett flicked a rind of fingernail away. “No one bets against Tyrus of Kenatos.”
Kiranrao shut the door of the wagon, narrowing his eyes at the small candle flame illuminating the face of Tyrus. The Paracelsus was a large man and he seemed to dwarf the size of the wagon interior. There was a half-wince of pain in his expression.
He has pain in his back from a knife wound that did not heal fully. It was a death blow but he survived it. Below his shoulder blade. His neck is exposed. He has magic protecting him but if you move quickly, you can kill him before he brings it to bear. See his right hand?
“How did you find me?” Kiranrao asked softly, glancing at the strange brass cylinder half-hidden behind the big man. Was it a weapon or a defense?
“I know how to find those I seek,” Tyrus replied evasively, as Kiranrao expected he would.
“I should kill you now. You are at a disadvantage.”
A small smile. “A scholar’s ink lasts longer than a martyr’s blood.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It is what has always motivated me, Kiranrao. I care not for ducats or duchies. I want to leave a legacy in this world. I want to be known as the man who stopped the Plague. You will help me achieve this.”
Kiranrao leaned back against the door, studying the Paracelsus quizzically. “Why would I care to do that? If you could not tell, I have my own problems to sort through.”
“Because, as the Romani like to say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Tyrus leaned forward, his expression haggard yet intense. “Your enemy is not the King of Wayland, Kiranrao. He is only the Arch-Rike’s puppet.”
