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 both 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.”
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 both 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.”
