“Here we are,” the boatman said petulantly. “Be on your way, lad. Keep your secrets then.”
After the boat bumped into the pier, Trasen lurched to his feet and started to wobble toward the dock ladder.
“Don’t forget your belongings!” the man said, exasperated. “You’ll be leaving your brains behind next, I’m thinking.”
Trasen apologized and grabbed his pack, slinging it around his shoulder. The docks were enormous, teeming with ships and freight. He tramped down the dock and found few in the lines ahead of him entering the city. Before long, he was standing before a brown-haired Rike who gazed at him with curiosity.
“Where are you from, traveler?” the man asked him politely. “You look bone weary.”
“I am,” Trasen replied, craning his neck to gaze up at the enormity of the city. “I’m from Stonehollow.”
The Rike clucked his tongue. “Looking for work, then? The Paracelsus Towers are under repair. They need quite a few laborers.”
“No,” Trasen said, shaking his head miserably. “I’m looking for…a friend.”
The Rike nodded calmly. “Well enough.” He paused, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You won’t last a moment among the Preachán in your condition. They’ll rob you blind. Do you want to sit over there a moment and catch your breath?”
“No, I’ll be all right,” Trasen said, trying to wave him off. “May I pass?”
The Rike persisted in his interrogation, his face scrunching. “Do you have any…magic…with you boy?”
Trasen caught the subtle gesture from the Rike as he seemed to nod to someone elsewhere and gesture for him to come closer. He remembered the twisted ornament in his pocket and glanced at the beetle-black ring on the Rike’s hand. He swallowed, knowing one did not lie to the Rikes of Seithrall.
“It is said that the Vaettir came in great ships across the sea. When the Plague struck their empire many thousands of years ago, they sailed across the turbulent waters in fleets and landed on the coast of what is now called Lydi. The ships returned for another convoy of survivors. They returned again a third time, bringing tens of thousands with them to safety. Alas, when the ships returned the fourth time, the empire was full of rotting corpses and abandoned cities. It is said that the deaths of so many, millions even, upset them such that the Vaettir swore an oath never to kill. They treat life as sacred, in memory of the forgotten generations that fell. They erected a temple in the mountains of Lydi—a place where they could pass along the traditions of their people. They named it Shatalin.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Hettie lunged at Paedrin with the dagger, aiming for his abdomen. The fading sunlight glimmered on the sharp edge of the blade. As Paedrin pivoted on his heel to let it pass by, he recognized that it was just a feint. Her arm never reached full extension and suddenly the dagger blade was jutting up to his neck. He accelerated his pivot, swinging away from her and then jumped high, bringing his leg around in a high circle, directly at her temple.
She ducked, of course, as he expected her to. His foot met nothing but empty air where her dark hair had been a moment before. With a quick sip of breath, he remained in the air, poised like a leaf caught on a draft, gazing down at her mockingly, as she was abandoning the leg sweep she had just commenced.
Snuffing out his breath, he dropped on her leg like a rock, pinning her to the ground. There was the dagger again, aiming for his back. He blocked her forearm with his, slid down to her wrist and closed his fingers around her hand. His eyes gleamed with triumph.
Her eyes glittered with fury. With a momentous pull, she jerked her arm backward and hoisted him, trying to offset his balance. She lifted at his body with her pinned leg and Paedrin felt himself overcome by the act. He would have sailed over her shoulder if her leverage had been better. Instead, she managed to pull him right on top of her. The scratchy meadow grass crackled around them, leaving little burs in her hair. He sprawled on top of her, face hovering above hers. He still controlled her wrist with the dagger.
“That did not work out the way you intended,” he observed dryly.
She squirmed beneath his weight, trying to get free. “Don’t say you’re not enjoying this, Bhikhu. I see it in your eyes. Get off!”
“Drop the dagger before I make you.”
“What are you afraid of more? That I’ll kiss you or stab you?”
“I’m not sure which would be more painful to endure,” he shot back. “To be honest, the thought of the former hasn’t once entered my mind.”
After the boat bumped into the pier, Trasen lurched to his feet and started to wobble toward the dock ladder.
“Don’t forget your belongings!” the man said, exasperated. “You’ll be leaving your brains behind next, I’m thinking.”
Trasen apologized and grabbed his pack, slinging it around his shoulder. The docks were enormous, teeming with ships and freight. He tramped down the dock and found few in the lines ahead of him entering the city. Before long, he was standing before a brown-haired Rike who gazed at him with curiosity.
“Where are you from, traveler?” the man asked him politely. “You look bone weary.”
“I am,” Trasen replied, craning his neck to gaze up at the enormity of the city. “I’m from Stonehollow.”
The Rike clucked his tongue. “Looking for work, then? The Paracelsus Towers are under repair. They need quite a few laborers.”
“No,” Trasen said, shaking his head miserably. “I’m looking for…a friend.”
The Rike nodded calmly. “Well enough.” He paused, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You won’t last a moment among the Preachán in your condition. They’ll rob you blind. Do you want to sit over there a moment and catch your breath?”
“No, I’ll be all right,” Trasen said, trying to wave him off. “May I pass?”
The Rike persisted in his interrogation, his face scrunching. “Do you have any…magic…with you boy?”
Trasen caught the subtle gesture from the Rike as he seemed to nod to someone elsewhere and gesture for him to come closer. He remembered the twisted ornament in his pocket and glanced at the beetle-black ring on the Rike’s hand. He swallowed, knowing one did not lie to the Rikes of Seithrall.
“It is said that the Vaettir came in great ships across the sea. When the Plague struck their empire many thousands of years ago, they sailed across the turbulent waters in fleets and landed on the coast of what is now called Lydi. The ships returned for another convoy of survivors. They returned again a third time, bringing tens of thousands with them to safety. Alas, when the ships returned the fourth time, the empire was full of rotting corpses and abandoned cities. It is said that the deaths of so many, millions even, upset them such that the Vaettir swore an oath never to kill. They treat life as sacred, in memory of the forgotten generations that fell. They erected a temple in the mountains of Lydi—a place where they could pass along the traditions of their people. They named it Shatalin.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Hettie lunged at Paedrin with the dagger, aiming for his abdomen. The fading sunlight glimmered on the sharp edge of the blade. As Paedrin pivoted on his heel to let it pass by, he recognized that it was just a feint. Her arm never reached full extension and suddenly the dagger blade was jutting up to his neck. He accelerated his pivot, swinging away from her and then jumped high, bringing his leg around in a high circle, directly at her temple.
She ducked, of course, as he expected her to. His foot met nothing but empty air where her dark hair had been a moment before. With a quick sip of breath, he remained in the air, poised like a leaf caught on a draft, gazing down at her mockingly, as she was abandoning the leg sweep she had just commenced.
Snuffing out his breath, he dropped on her leg like a rock, pinning her to the ground. There was the dagger again, aiming for his back. He blocked her forearm with his, slid down to her wrist and closed his fingers around her hand. His eyes gleamed with triumph.
Her eyes glittered with fury. With a momentous pull, she jerked her arm backward and hoisted him, trying to offset his balance. She lifted at his body with her pinned leg and Paedrin felt himself overcome by the act. He would have sailed over her shoulder if her leverage had been better. Instead, she managed to pull him right on top of her. The scratchy meadow grass crackled around them, leaving little burs in her hair. He sprawled on top of her, face hovering above hers. He still controlled her wrist with the dagger.
“That did not work out the way you intended,” he observed dryly.
She squirmed beneath his weight, trying to get free. “Don’t say you’re not enjoying this, Bhikhu. I see it in your eyes. Get off!”
“Drop the dagger before I make you.”
“What are you afraid of more? That I’ll kiss you or stab you?”
“I’m not sure which would be more painful to endure,” he shot back. “To be honest, the thought of the former hasn’t once entered my mind.”
