“Is the blindness permanent?” Hettie asked.
“No. The Bhikhu’s vision will return. It’s the Kishion test. To be the master here, one must wrestle the champion for the blade. No one can defeat the champion, though.”
“Cruw Reon,” Hettie said. “He’s the champion. Where is he?”
“No one knows,” the Preachán snarled. “No one dares to fight him. He’s the Arch-Rike’s champion. His bodyguard.”
Hettie gasped. “The Quiet Kishion?”
“Yes. He’s the master of the blade. He’s the only one who can draw it without being blinded. I’m going to die anyway! Just end it now! Give me the blade. I’ll do it myself. I don’t want him in my mind. I don’t want him spoiling me again. Please, girl! End it!”
Hettie grasped the Preachán’s wrist, staring down at the iron ring on his finger. It was the same kind of ring that Paedrin had been forced to wear.
“Hold still,” Hettie whispered.
The trembling Preachán sucked in his breath. He held as still as he could, though his body trembled.
With a quick stroke of the dagger, Hettie cut off his hand and tossed it beneath the bed.
The Preachán screamed in pain, his eyes open and livid. His face was a mask of shock and despair. Hettie grabbed a nearby blanket and stuffed it against his stump. With some cord from her backpack, she tied a tourniquet around the wound and sliced away the excess fabric. He began sobbing in pain and despair.
“Why won’t you kill me?” he groveled. “I murdered them all at the Bhikhu temple. Even the young. The Arch-Rike swore he could remove the memory of it. He could take away the guilt.”
Hettie found the discarded talisman and slipped it around her neck. Then she went to where the sword lay and strapped it to her belt. She stared down at the quivering Preachán, his face ashen. She tugged the small leather pouch from the side of her boot and withdrew a fleck of desiccated leaf and held it above his tongue.
“Just kill me,” he whimpered. “I beg of you. If not with a knife or sword, let the poison do it, at least! I would rather die than live.”
Hettie crouched lower, staring into his eyes. “If I were a Romani still, I would oblige you. But as you can see, I no longer wear the earring. I am free and so are you. I am a Bhikhu now. We do not seek revenge, even for the worst wrongs. Pain is a teacher. Let this pain teach you. What is your name, Preachán?”
His upper lip quivered. The hate seemed to leak from his eyes. “I am Janis-Stor. They call me Stor.”
Hettie sheathed her dagger and placed the fleck of leaf on his tongue. “I spare your life, Janis-Stor. I will not kill you, though you are worthy of it. Go back to Havenrook and join your people. Fight the Arch-Rike’s dominion. There is a rope dangling from the balcony facing the sea. Use it to claim your own freedom.”
“You think I can climb like this?” he said bitterly, his face twisting with the futility. “Or swim?”
“You have a great strength of will,” she replied. “You are relentless. Use it now for a better cause than greed.” She touched the side of his face, trying to ignore the stinging pain in her own skin. “We seek to abolish the Plague. The Arch-Rike tries to thwart us. Through your failure here, you help us be successful. I pity you, Preachán. But I do not hate you.”
His eyes closed and he started to sob.
Hettie stood and left him crumpled in the corner, weeping. Wearing the Druidecht talisman around her neck, she began to imagine herself looking like Kiranrao.
“I have heard that in moments of extreme terror and suspense, our minds can deliver to our aid a remedy for the situation if we have the courage not to flinch from it. Too often we are doomed to fail simply because we believe too quickly that we will.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Erasmus was dead. It had happened so quickly that there was no time for Annon or Khiara to prevent it. Staring at the body of his fallen friend brought a swell of grief and a shattering earthquake of rage colliding inside Annon’s chest. The serpents converged on him and he unleashed the fireblood in a torrent of flame, sweeping his arms around in a circle to scorch the ground in every direction. The serpents recoiled from the brightness, but he saw immediately that their scales were not harmed by it, just as the lizard-like guardians in the mountain pass had not been affected either. The rage turned to sudden icy terror. The Arch-Rike had prepared his defenses.
“Fly!” Annon shouted to Khiara.
“I won’t leave you alone,” she argued. “The flames are useless, let me try my staff.” It was long and she swept it in against the serpents, striking at their flaring hoods and pin-prick fangs. The serpents struck at the staff, one latching onto it and slithering up the post. She brought it down hard, dislodging it.
“No. The Bhikhu’s vision will return. It’s the Kishion test. To be the master here, one must wrestle the champion for the blade. No one can defeat the champion, though.”
“Cruw Reon,” Hettie said. “He’s the champion. Where is he?”
“No one knows,” the Preachán snarled. “No one dares to fight him. He’s the Arch-Rike’s champion. His bodyguard.”
Hettie gasped. “The Quiet Kishion?”
“Yes. He’s the master of the blade. He’s the only one who can draw it without being blinded. I’m going to die anyway! Just end it now! Give me the blade. I’ll do it myself. I don’t want him in my mind. I don’t want him spoiling me again. Please, girl! End it!”
Hettie grasped the Preachán’s wrist, staring down at the iron ring on his finger. It was the same kind of ring that Paedrin had been forced to wear.
“Hold still,” Hettie whispered.
The trembling Preachán sucked in his breath. He held as still as he could, though his body trembled.
With a quick stroke of the dagger, Hettie cut off his hand and tossed it beneath the bed.
The Preachán screamed in pain, his eyes open and livid. His face was a mask of shock and despair. Hettie grabbed a nearby blanket and stuffed it against his stump. With some cord from her backpack, she tied a tourniquet around the wound and sliced away the excess fabric. He began sobbing in pain and despair.
“Why won’t you kill me?” he groveled. “I murdered them all at the Bhikhu temple. Even the young. The Arch-Rike swore he could remove the memory of it. He could take away the guilt.”
Hettie found the discarded talisman and slipped it around her neck. Then she went to where the sword lay and strapped it to her belt. She stared down at the quivering Preachán, his face ashen. She tugged the small leather pouch from the side of her boot and withdrew a fleck of desiccated leaf and held it above his tongue.
“Just kill me,” he whimpered. “I beg of you. If not with a knife or sword, let the poison do it, at least! I would rather die than live.”
Hettie crouched lower, staring into his eyes. “If I were a Romani still, I would oblige you. But as you can see, I no longer wear the earring. I am free and so are you. I am a Bhikhu now. We do not seek revenge, even for the worst wrongs. Pain is a teacher. Let this pain teach you. What is your name, Preachán?”
His upper lip quivered. The hate seemed to leak from his eyes. “I am Janis-Stor. They call me Stor.”
Hettie sheathed her dagger and placed the fleck of leaf on his tongue. “I spare your life, Janis-Stor. I will not kill you, though you are worthy of it. Go back to Havenrook and join your people. Fight the Arch-Rike’s dominion. There is a rope dangling from the balcony facing the sea. Use it to claim your own freedom.”
“You think I can climb like this?” he said bitterly, his face twisting with the futility. “Or swim?”
“You have a great strength of will,” she replied. “You are relentless. Use it now for a better cause than greed.” She touched the side of his face, trying to ignore the stinging pain in her own skin. “We seek to abolish the Plague. The Arch-Rike tries to thwart us. Through your failure here, you help us be successful. I pity you, Preachán. But I do not hate you.”
His eyes closed and he started to sob.
Hettie stood and left him crumpled in the corner, weeping. Wearing the Druidecht talisman around her neck, she began to imagine herself looking like Kiranrao.
“I have heard that in moments of extreme terror and suspense, our minds can deliver to our aid a remedy for the situation if we have the courage not to flinch from it. Too often we are doomed to fail simply because we believe too quickly that we will.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Erasmus was dead. It had happened so quickly that there was no time for Annon or Khiara to prevent it. Staring at the body of his fallen friend brought a swell of grief and a shattering earthquake of rage colliding inside Annon’s chest. The serpents converged on him and he unleashed the fireblood in a torrent of flame, sweeping his arms around in a circle to scorch the ground in every direction. The serpents recoiled from the brightness, but he saw immediately that their scales were not harmed by it, just as the lizard-like guardians in the mountain pass had not been affected either. The rage turned to sudden icy terror. The Arch-Rike had prepared his defenses.
“Fly!” Annon shouted to Khiara.
“I won’t leave you alone,” she argued. “The flames are useless, let me try my staff.” It was long and she swept it in against the serpents, striking at their flaring hoods and pin-prick fangs. The serpents struck at the staff, one latching onto it and slithering up the post. She brought it down hard, dislodging it.
