by Jeff Wheeler
Tyrus stared hard at the young Vaettir. “He did indeed. What you do not understand is that you have been protecting his twins. Hettie and Annon are his offspring.” A look shadowed Tyrus’s face. The emotion vanished as fast as it appeared. “He believed in my cause, Paedrin. He gave his life for it. He knew all my motives, and he did it anyway.”
Annon swallowed hard, suddenly parched and desperate for a drink, as if water would somehow slake his fury. What was this? His father had been a Bhikhu? Then why had Annon not been raised in the temple orphanage like Paedrin? Why had he been sent to the woods in Wayland?
“What of me, Uncle?” Annon asked.
“You seek to help me as well? Or to challenge me further?”
“I do not trust you. Not yet. But like Hettie I have no love for the Arch-Rike and I am enraged at the plight of the imprisoned spirits in the city. I suspected spirit magic, but I had no idea until Drosta told us.”
“That is fair. Seek your friend Reeder. He is in the woods of Silvandom, I believe. Seek his counsel. More importantly, seek an answer that I need. The Arch-Rike has a secret temple outside of the city. I do not know where it is, but it is called Basilides. It protects an oracle that the Arch-Rike uses to divine the future. There is a connection there to the spirits of Mirrowen, a pool or a grove of some kind. The Arch-Rike uses it as a source of his power. If it truly exists, then it can tell us how much time we have before the Plague will strike. That is knowledge that I desperately need. It is knowledge that the Arch-Rike undoubtedly has, which is why he moves against me so viciously. Seek Reeder. Seek the oracle. Seek the answer to my question. That would help me.”
Tyrus looked down at Erasmus, who had also joined the group. “A question for you, Master Erasmus.”
“Yes?”
“What are my odds of surviving an encounter with a Kishion?”
“Which one?”
“You know the one. The one the Arch-Rike was training to use the blade Iddawc.”
Erasmus rubbed his mouth. “With the weapon in his hand, not even you could beat him. I think the Arch-Rike planned it that way.”
Tyrus nodded sagely. “I am counting on it anyway.”
There was a rumble of thunder, though no clouds mottled the sky. It was a bubbling, spurting noise. Annon glanced up at the sky through the screen of branches and yew leaves, seeing something flash.
A man stood behind Tyrus, perhaps a dozen paces off. A cowl covered most of his face. He stood resolutely, appearing from nowhere. He wore a woodsman’s garb, dull browns and grays with leather bracers buckled across his forearms. A scar ran from his lower lip down across the side of his chin.
Tyrus withdrew a cylindrical object studded with gemstones from his belt. It was the size of a baton, made of brass or gold, and thick around the middle with caps on each end. He stared at each of them, smiled tiredly, and suddenly he was gone.
“I rarely speak of the Kishion, the Arch-Rike’s personal bodyguards. They administer the city’s justice on those convicted of heinous crimes, such as murder, rape, and treason. Only Bhikhu and Finders are chosen to be Kishion and are given extensive training in survival, diplomacy, and poison. They are unswervingly loyal to the Arch-Rike and to the ideals of Kenatos. They are few in number, perhaps less than fifty. There is one who is feared above the others. He is never seen at state functions or even in the presence of the Arch-Rike. He is always in the background, fulfilling the greatest service to protect the city. He is reverentially spoken of as the Quiet Kishion. They say, and this is purely speculation, that he cannot be killed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Erasmus’s breath whistled in a rushed gasp. He dropped to his knees and showed his hands. “This is the Kishion!” he hissed.
Annon turned and faced the intruder. “He is gone,” Annon said curtly, his stomach clenching with fear. “You are too late.” His mind raced quickly, but he remembered the words. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
“Where did he go?” the Kishion asked softly, his voice deep and full of menace. He started toward them.
“Hold there,” Annon warned, raising his hands with his fingers shimmering with blue streaks. But the Kishion did not flinch. He came resolutely, closing the gap between them.
“I will do this,” Paedrin said, bringing his broken staff around in a whirl. He shouldered past Annon and Hettie and faced the Kishion first. “Greetings, brother. Perhaps we should talk before…”
The Kishion did not slow. It was impossible to determine who attacked first. It was as if two crossbows released in the same instant. The staff end whished around toward the Kishion’s head, met nothing but air, and the two were suddenly enmeshed in a struggle of arms and legs. Paedrin’s damaged arm was still bound to his side, giving him a decided disadvantage in the match.
Annon scrabbled backward, nearly tripping over Erasmus, who watched the battle rage with wide eyes, muttering under his breath. He did not move.
The blows exchanged were dizzying. Paedrin’s feet snapped out, trying to clip the Kishion’s head, but the other man was impossibly fast, dodging the hail of blows with studied preciseness. The staff came down again and was caught by the Kishion, who yanked it out of Paedrin’s grip and flung it aside. He stepped in fast, landing two blows into the Bhikhu’s ribs that would have felled another man.
Paedrin grunted and was suddenly floating. The Kishion grappled with him as he rose and cuffed him on the side of the head, expelling his breath. He sank like a stone. Landing awkwardly, his face contorted with anger, Paedrin struck with his palm first, right at the Kishion’s face, directly at his nose to smash it.
The blow never landed.
There was a loud snapping sound that Annon realized with horror was Paedrin’s arm bone. The Kishion had crossed his arms in front of him, blocking the blow toward his face, but his forearm bracers caught Paedrin’s extended arm in a vulnerable spot, and the bone had broken.
Hettie gasped.
Paedrin’s scream shattered the air in the grove. The Kishion used the arm further to draw him in, delivering a vicious blow to his temple, and he went silent as he collapsed to the forest floor.
Annon and Hettie had retreated and stopped as the Kishion turned on them next. Annon raised his hands and focused his rage, his shock, and all the antipathy he had toward his uncle and unleashed it on the Kishion. Searing pain went through his fingers as he channeled the magic at the intruder, sending out a bloom of bright blue flames in a surging mass of writhing fire. It slammed into the Kishion with the force of a storm’s fury. He was lost in the searing blue for a moment and then reappeared suddenly, stepping through the fire as if it were a harmless mist. His boot struck Annon squarely in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him backward into a tree, making sparks dance in his eyes.
Hettie was on him like a cat, twin daggers in her hands as she launched at him from the side. He met her attack squarely, stepping inside the first sweep of the knife; he caught her wrist. In a movement as fast as a blink, the dagger fell to the earth and she was wrenched around, arm twisted behind her back, hand bent at an excruciating angle.
Annon coughed and wheezed, trying to clear his vision. The Kishion continued to tame Hettie, sending the other dagger flying, and then his arm wrapped around her neck, stopping her from breathing. Her eyes went wild with fear, her mouth gaping open as she struggled in vain to breathe.
“Where did he go?” The Kishion turned to Annon for the answer and spoke with a whispering voice as Hettie’s legs thrashed and flailed.
Annon knew she had moments left to live. The Kishion would continue to choke her and see if Annon would watch her die. Then he would come at Annon again and torture the answer out of him. Either way, he would tell it. Perhaps they would all die.
This was the man hunting his uncle. This was the one he had fled to avoid facing. The Quiet Kishion, the Arch-Rike’s personal protector. He knew the man would likely have a ring, one of the cursed black rings of
Seithrall. But he also knew his uncle. His uncle, who was wiser than other men. He had given Annon information to reveal, knowing he might be taken.
“Silvandom,” Annon answered pleadingly. “Please, do not kill her.”
The Kishion’s eyes were blue. The cowl had dropped back. There were other scars on his face, as if some beast had ravaged him with its claws. His hair was a shock of dark, his cheekbones high and cut like stones. He stared at Annon with pure indifference. Life had no value to him. Not even his own. Annon could see it in his dead blue eyes.
The Kishion released Hettie and let her drop to the ground. He rose and approached Annon forcefully.
“Where in Silvandom?”
Annon licked his lips, knowing he was facing a deadly snake that could destroy him with one bite. His heart shuddered in his chest with fear.
“Prince Aran. I do not know where he is, other than Silvandom.”
“He has the dagger. The blade. Iddawc.”
It wasn’t a question.
Annon nodded.
The Kishion glanced at Annon coldly and then walked back to where Paedrin lay unconscious on the earth. Erasmus knelt still, hands up and staring meekly at the Kishion, who ignored him. He crouched down by Paedrin, gripped him by his shirt, and said in a clear voice, “Kenatos.”
There was a flash of blinding light, a murmuring spatter of thunder, and they were both gone when their vision cleared.
Purple bruises decorated Hettie’s neck. Her expression was twisted into a sour frown, one hand holding her injured wrist. “So that was a Kishion,” she muttered. “Even the Romani fear them.”
Annon examined her neck, tilting her jaw to one side. “Where else does it hurt?”
“My wrist, mostly. It hurts, but I do not think he broke it. I feared he did at first; it hurt that much.”
Annon nodded, rubbing his stomach. “The flame did not touch him.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Obviously, or uncle would have used it to kill him.”
He sighed. “I did not think of that.”
Erasmus shook his head and whistled. “You are both lucky to be alive. Few defy a Kishion and survive. They are absolutely loyal to the Arch-Rike. They do his bidding and no other’s. This one was sent to kill your uncle. He rarely speaks. The Quiet Kishion. They say he is cursed in a way that no magic will harm him.”
Annon took her arm and examined her wrist. She flinched when he touched it, but he stared at the wound. Now that he no longer wore the blade Iddawc, he put his talisman back on. The forest was alive with chattering from the spirits who had witnessed the scene of violence. Many were sympathetic.
Is there a sylph near? he asked, projecting his thoughts. We are injured.
Hettie’s scowl furrowed deeper. “Why did he take Paedrin?”
Erasmus sighed. “The Bhikhu are also loyal to the Rikes. I would deduce they will get what information they can from him and then send him back to the temple. I do not know how he travels or by what means, but we can judge the following. Either he could only take one person with him…presumably he meant to take your uncle’s corpse. Or he did not consider us a sufficient threat to bother with.”
“Not yet anyway,” Hettie said through ground teeth. “It hurts, Annon.”
“Be still,” he said, hearing a reply to his thoughts. A timid spirit approached, though he could not see it. Annon closed his eyes and focused his thoughts, feeding them with intense gratitude. The sylph responded to his emotion, hovering in the air between him and Hettie.
“Close your eyes,” Annon whispered.
He could feel the warmth of the magic seep through him and into her skin, threading through the muscles and tendons and bone. Hettie started to flinch, but Annon held her still. There was a gentle pulse of heat and then the creature was gone.
Annon opened his eyes. The bruises on her neck and arms were gone as well. She looked at him in awe and stretched out her arm, twisting her wrist as if it were completely healed.
“How did you do that?” she whispered. “Was it a prayer?”
“In a way,” he answered, smiling. “It is a bit complicated, but the magic is part of the Druidecht lore. I invited a spirit to heal you. It agreed. I could not force it to do so. But it had compassion on you and our situation and decided to help us.” He turned and gazed at Erasmus. “One of the things I learned before we fell asleep in the tree. I have not had time to mention it. Drosta spoke to me. He is a Druidecht now. He isn’t a Paracelsus any longer. He said the entire city of Kenatos is enslaving spirits.”
“I don’t understand,” Hettie said. “I fell asleep so quickly. I was so afraid and then suddenly I could not keep my eyes open. I heard him speaking, but I could not understand him.”
“He told us that the Arch-Rike and his kind are trapping spirits in Kenatos. They are binding them into service. Into slavery. You remember the lights in the city? When the darkness comes, all of the city starts to glow? Those are trapped spirits. The Arch-Rike has been trapping them and using them. The blade we found in Drosta’s lair. It contains an ancient spirit called the Iddawc. Knowing its name can give you power over it, but it seeks to subvert strong men into killing. It was forged to kill those like Uncle Tyrus.”
“Then why did he send us to find it?” Hettie asked, frustration on her face.
“He means to use it in the Scourgelands. Obviously it is a powerful magic. Perhaps powerful enough to survive the dangers there.”
“Then why not get it himself?” Hettie asked.
Erasmus clucked his tongue. “Never presume to understand his thinking. That way lies madness. It seems he has work for us to do. If he knows of a way to end the Plague…if he has finally discovered the solution to that riddle, it is worth more than every ducat in Havenrook. An event like that would topple the Arch-Rike.”
“I don’t care about the Arch-Rike,” Hettie said. “It is that Kishion I would see humbled. It was unfair of him to cripple Paedrin like that. Now both of his arms are broken.”
Annon looked at her dark expression. “Will you go to Kenatos and seek the jewels Tyrus asked you for?”
She nodded gruffly. “I am a Finder, after all. And a Romani. It would not surprise me if the rubble was searched for treasures. There are thieves aplenty in that city. Any one worth his carnotha would have searched the grounds or bribed a guard for trinkets found.” She sighed. “Only I have nothing to barter for it, so I may have to steal it back.”
Annon felt a huge pang of worry for her. They had not known each other long, but the surge of protective feelings swelling in his heart startled him. As he had watched the Kishion strangle her, he would have done anything to stop it. He gripped her shoulder and then pulled her close.
“I was so worried when he was choking you,” he whispered, squeezing her. He knew that her life had been spared because he spoke. He would not have done any differently. Her hair brushed against his face, and he felt her arm offer a timid hug in reply.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said. She pulled away, but only enough to look in his eyes. “You are not what I expected, Annon Waylander.” She reached down and took his hand, squeezing it. “I wish you knew the truth…I wish we had known the truth about each other.”
“I would have come for you,” he promised. “I would have searched every Romani caravan until I found you.” He fingered the single hoop in her ear. “I would tear this off you right now…”
“Don’t,” she flinched, shaking her head. “You don’t know the Romani. If I help Tyrus, perhaps I will earn my freedom. We’ve made an enemy of Kiranrao, but he still wants that blade. He won’t stop until he gets it. He is relentless.”
Annon could see the danger his uncle had warned them about. The most powerful men in the kingdoms were his enemies. But apparently, he had allies as well. He sighed. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said, rubbing her arm affectionately. “We have been through so much together already. I worry about you. Don’t use the fireblood unless you absolutely must.
Please.”
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Only if I must. Our paths lead to Silvandom. You to your mentor. Mine to the Vaettir prince.” She paused, glancing down, her expression suddenly cloudy. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Saying farewell?”
She hesitated and then nodded. There was something in her eyes. He had noticed it before.
“Erasmus and I will meet you in Silvandom then. If you need anything, Hettie, seek out a Druidecht. Tell them I am your brother and they will offer you aid. I wish…I wish I could help you, but the city is not a place where my knowledge will be useful.”
She smiled in response and mussed up his hair. “I have taken care of myself for a long time. You are the one who was raised innocently. I do not begrudge you that, Annon.”
“I wish that I had been sent in your place,” he said, meaning it. His heart ached for her.
The look she gave him was full of pain. “I will look for you in Silvandom when I find the jewels, brother. For your wisdom and knowledge, Master Erasmus, I thank you. Will it rain before I reach Kenatos, do you think?”
Erasmus folded his arms. “Too early in the season. Or were you teasing me?”
She smirked at him and gave Annon a final hug good-bye.
He almost asked her if she would seek Paedrin in the Bhikhu temple as well. But he already suspected the answer to that question.
“In every great city, with all its gleaming walls and massive libraries, with all the shimmering fountains and sculptured gardens, there is a superfluity of dung that must be carted out. In our world, the Romani fill that role. Granted, they do cart all manner of substances through this Plague-ridden world. There are ducats enough to bring bushels of wheat or baskets of figs. But they also cart the seedier stuff. They traffic vice. They traffic slavery. Nothing pains my heart more than to hear that a child has been abducted from Kenatos. I abhor them all and their glittering earrings. Never trust a Romani. That is the only rule one needs to know about them.”
