Paedrin felt pain from his master’s grip, but he welcomed it. It was nothing compared to the searing agony in his heart.
“I will,” Paedrin vowed.
The wave of pain passed and Master Shivu let out a long, relieved sigh. His expression softened. His shoulders sunk. It was only when he did not breathe in again that Paedrin realized he had died.
“Master!” he said, choking, gripping the frail hand that was now slack.
The body slumped back down on the bed, sloshing the bowl of bile. Paedrin stared at him as the brittle cracks splintered inside his soul, gripping the hand and trying to comprehend what had happened. The Romani had destroyed the Bhikhu temple. He did not know if Kiranrao had authorized it, but it did not matter much to him if he had or had not.
Forgive them, Paedrin. Forgive.
How could he do that? How could he absolve them of destroying all that he held dear? He wept bitterly, kneeling by Master Shivu’s bedside.
A shudder came from the darkness of the corridor. The sound of thick heavy boots and a long stride.
“Someone is coming,” Sanchein warned, dabbing his nose.
Restore the Shatalin temple. It was a charge and a commitment. He was free from the Arch-Rike’s ring. He was free to fulfill Tyrus’s quest. But he knew deep in his heart that he would never be free from hating the Romani. Rage could not describe how he felt and hatred was too soft a word.
“I brought this on us,” Paedrin whispered darkly. The other orphans who had been raised at the temple. Dead, because of him. Only four had survived and the Arch-Rike refused to lift a finger. He turned his head, hearing the boot steps draw nearer.
Sanchein turned and went into the hallway. “What is your business here, Cruithne? Who let you in?”
The voice was deep and accented. “A Bhikhu just arrived. The Vaettir. Where is he?”
Paedrin touched Master Shivu’s eyelids, closing them. He walked around the bed. A Cruithne? The one from the Paracelsus Towers?
“The only Vaettir living here was Master Shivu,” Sanchein said stiffly. “He is dead.”
“A good answer, for it is the truth. I will ask more directly. The Bhikhu known as Paedrin. Is he here now?”
Sanchein said nothing.
“Keeping silent cannot help them,” the Cruithne murmured. There was a grunt of pain and then a choking sound.
Paedrin stepped into the doorway, advancing as he saw the Cruithne holding Sanchein on the ground with one arm bulging around his throat. Sanchein kicked him solidly, trying to wrench the grasp away, but the Cruithne was a giant of a man and it was like kicking an immovable boulder. It was the one from the towers. He saw Paedrin and stood, releasing Sanchein.
“There you are,” he muttered. He opened his arms expansively, bowing slightly, as if inviting the Bhikhu to attack him.
“You are a big man,” Paedrin said. “You stink like sour mouse droppings though. I hope you do not catch the Plague here. For you will certainly not catch me.”
“There is no Plague here,” the Cruithne said in a low, deep voice. “I’ve heard you were the best Vaettir in the temple. Is that true?”
“There are no longer any Vaettir here,” Paedrin taunted. “While I enjoy a good conversation and a good fight, now would not be the right time for either. Give my flatulent regards to the Arch-Rike and tell him I am no longer in his employ.” He sucked in his breath sharply and rose to the ceiling rafters.
“Wait!” the Cruithne shouted.
Paedrin ran along the edge of one of the ceiling rafters, breathed in again, and soared up to one of the windows embedded in the upper heights. He could hear the stomping of the Cruithne’s boots, but it was laughable to think that such a man could ever catch a fleeing Vaettir.
Surely, he knew he could defeat the bulky man. He was sorely tempted to. But he knew, at that moment of weakness, he would probably kill him. Deliberately. Painfully. Or break every major bone in his body as a warning to the Arch-Rike and those who would hunt them. He used the Uddhava against himself. The bell had been Hettie’s warning to flee. It was now time to flee the city as well as the temple. Gripping the edge of the roof, Paedrin leapt, breathing in and rising as he twirled, landing on the edge. He raced up the shingles, pulling in just enough air to keep his steps light and not reveal which direction he ran.
At the pinnacle of the sloping roof, he stood for a moment, gazing out at the city as he had done so many times as a boy. Bitter feelings swirled inside his heart. He had unwittingly unleashed the Romani wrath on his family. His actions in Havenrook had caused their deaths. The pain of that thought sent more cracks through his heart. There was only one way to atone for it. Destroy the Plague. Destroy the Arch-Rike’s influence. And restore the Shatalin temple.
“I will,” Paedrin vowed.
The wave of pain passed and Master Shivu let out a long, relieved sigh. His expression softened. His shoulders sunk. It was only when he did not breathe in again that Paedrin realized he had died.
“Master!” he said, choking, gripping the frail hand that was now slack.
The body slumped back down on the bed, sloshing the bowl of bile. Paedrin stared at him as the brittle cracks splintered inside his soul, gripping the hand and trying to comprehend what had happened. The Romani had destroyed the Bhikhu temple. He did not know if Kiranrao had authorized it, but it did not matter much to him if he had or had not.
Forgive them, Paedrin. Forgive.
How could he do that? How could he absolve them of destroying all that he held dear? He wept bitterly, kneeling by Master Shivu’s bedside.
A shudder came from the darkness of the corridor. The sound of thick heavy boots and a long stride.
“Someone is coming,” Sanchein warned, dabbing his nose.
Restore the Shatalin temple. It was a charge and a commitment. He was free from the Arch-Rike’s ring. He was free to fulfill Tyrus’s quest. But he knew deep in his heart that he would never be free from hating the Romani. Rage could not describe how he felt and hatred was too soft a word.
“I brought this on us,” Paedrin whispered darkly. The other orphans who had been raised at the temple. Dead, because of him. Only four had survived and the Arch-Rike refused to lift a finger. He turned his head, hearing the boot steps draw nearer.
Sanchein turned and went into the hallway. “What is your business here, Cruithne? Who let you in?”
The voice was deep and accented. “A Bhikhu just arrived. The Vaettir. Where is he?”
Paedrin touched Master Shivu’s eyelids, closing them. He walked around the bed. A Cruithne? The one from the Paracelsus Towers?
“The only Vaettir living here was Master Shivu,” Sanchein said stiffly. “He is dead.”
“A good answer, for it is the truth. I will ask more directly. The Bhikhu known as Paedrin. Is he here now?”
Sanchein said nothing.
“Keeping silent cannot help them,” the Cruithne murmured. There was a grunt of pain and then a choking sound.
Paedrin stepped into the doorway, advancing as he saw the Cruithne holding Sanchein on the ground with one arm bulging around his throat. Sanchein kicked him solidly, trying to wrench the grasp away, but the Cruithne was a giant of a man and it was like kicking an immovable boulder. It was the one from the towers. He saw Paedrin and stood, releasing Sanchein.
“There you are,” he muttered. He opened his arms expansively, bowing slightly, as if inviting the Bhikhu to attack him.
“You are a big man,” Paedrin said. “You stink like sour mouse droppings though. I hope you do not catch the Plague here. For you will certainly not catch me.”
“There is no Plague here,” the Cruithne said in a low, deep voice. “I’ve heard you were the best Vaettir in the temple. Is that true?”
“There are no longer any Vaettir here,” Paedrin taunted. “While I enjoy a good conversation and a good fight, now would not be the right time for either. Give my flatulent regards to the Arch-Rike and tell him I am no longer in his employ.” He sucked in his breath sharply and rose to the ceiling rafters.
“Wait!” the Cruithne shouted.
Paedrin ran along the edge of one of the ceiling rafters, breathed in again, and soared up to one of the windows embedded in the upper heights. He could hear the stomping of the Cruithne’s boots, but it was laughable to think that such a man could ever catch a fleeing Vaettir.
Surely, he knew he could defeat the bulky man. He was sorely tempted to. But he knew, at that moment of weakness, he would probably kill him. Deliberately. Painfully. Or break every major bone in his body as a warning to the Arch-Rike and those who would hunt them. He used the Uddhava against himself. The bell had been Hettie’s warning to flee. It was now time to flee the city as well as the temple. Gripping the edge of the roof, Paedrin leapt, breathing in and rising as he twirled, landing on the edge. He raced up the shingles, pulling in just enough air to keep his steps light and not reveal which direction he ran.
At the pinnacle of the sloping roof, he stood for a moment, gazing out at the city as he had done so many times as a boy. Bitter feelings swirled inside his heart. He had unwittingly unleashed the Romani wrath on his family. His actions in Havenrook had caused their deaths. The pain of that thought sent more cracks through his heart. There was only one way to atone for it. Destroy the Plague. Destroy the Arch-Rike’s influence. And restore the Shatalin temple.
