“You left the Tay al-Ard in the water,” the Kishion said, his voice low but clear. He had a rich voice. Tyrus wondered for a moment if he had ever been a performer or an orator.
“Did you drop your knives as well, by chance?” Tyrus responded civilly, backing up but preparing to fight.
The Kishion’s face was clean-shaven. Multiple scars ran along one side. He had dark hair, nearly black, that was pointed like quills and dripping. He closed the distance quickly.
“I will not let you take me back,” Tyrus said.
The Kishion’s expression was placid. “The Arch-Rike does not want you alive.”
“I can free you,” Tyrus said. “I can free you from that ring.”
There was almost a smile on the Kishion’s face. Some inner chuckle. A flicker of contempt. He said nothing.
Tyrus closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain. He opened his eyes again and began unleashing magic on the Kishion. He had rings and bracelets, charms and jewels. Each held a unique power. Each was bound in service until a single act would release it. He already knew fire would not harm him. He tried ice. He tried poison. He tried wind. He tried love. Spirit magic shrouded the Kishion in a multihued orb. Violet and orange, red and greens—dust and spirit and magic all weaving and thrusting, trying to overwhelm the Kishion’s defenses. The man was immune to it all. He walked through the storm of colors as if it were nothing more than a drizzle.
Tyrus tried one more. It was a foolish notion, but everything else had failed. He opened a locket from around his neck and music emerged. It was a spirit song that was so haunting, so poignant, it never failed to make Tyrus weep. The melody invoked memories of his sister, long since dead. Of the parents he could no longer remember.
The Kishion stopped.
Tyrus stared at the man’s face. The strain of the music filled the glen, overpowering the thrash of the waterfalls for a moment. A look in the man’s eyes. The force of the music had halted him. Tyrus breathed, unable to know what it meant.
Then with a snarl of anger on his face, the Kishion rushed forward and jerked the chain from Tyrus’s neck, snapping it. He kicked Tyrus in the knee, the pain excruciating and sudden. He lurched and stumbled, seizing the Kishion’s shirt front to drag him down too. He would fight to the last breath. He would use his teeth, his fingernails, every stick or rock he could lay claim to.
Tyrus felt his arm jerk around, and the next thing he knew, he was chewing the dirt in agony. His arm was forced backward in an impossible angle and the pain startled him with its intensity. His wrist was on fire. He was hauled back for a moment, before a knee struck his groin. Every shade of torment imaginable. His stomach revolted at the pain. He would have vomited but the Kishion forbade it, punishing him further.
His thick hair was grasped by strong fingers and his neck exposed. The knife was coming next. He knew it. He struggled with his free hand, groping to find another charm in his pocket. His fingers closed around it, but he was too late.
The Kishion pressed a vial to his lips and poured a foul-tasting liquid into his gaping mouth. He tried to spit it out, but the Kishion had his head cocked in a way that prevented anything of the sort. He felt the liquid running down his throat, triggering his gag and drowning instincts.
Then the Kishion shoved him to the ground and he flailed and coughed. He could feel the poison working in him instantly. He could feel its magic turning into fire inside his skin. What was it? Monkshood? Banethrush? Villena? It had a sap-like texture and was bitter as yellow citrus.
Tyrus lurched for a stone, to try and plunge his abdomen against it, but the Kishion snatched him again, twisting his arm behind his back, jacking it hard. He screamed in pain, squeezing the stone in his pocket with his left hand. His fingers felt like they would snap.
The Kishion knelt next to him, his mouth near Tyrus’s ear.
“Before we left Silvandom, you said, ‘she is in Stonehollow.’ Who is she?”
Fear.
It was worse than any he had known. He felt his mouth begin to move. He could not stop it. The magic of the potion forced him to speak.
“She is my daughter.”
The Kishion paused, as if listening. “Where in Stonehollow is she?”
“I do not know. I left her in an orphanage run by a man named Winemiller. I have only been there once. I do not know where she is now.”
He hated himself. He hated what he was saying.
“What is her name?”
“I do not know what they call her. I did not name her.”
The Kishion was silent a moment longer. “Who was her mother?”
“Did you drop your knives as well, by chance?” Tyrus responded civilly, backing up but preparing to fight.
The Kishion’s face was clean-shaven. Multiple scars ran along one side. He had dark hair, nearly black, that was pointed like quills and dripping. He closed the distance quickly.
“I will not let you take me back,” Tyrus said.
The Kishion’s expression was placid. “The Arch-Rike does not want you alive.”
“I can free you,” Tyrus said. “I can free you from that ring.”
There was almost a smile on the Kishion’s face. Some inner chuckle. A flicker of contempt. He said nothing.
Tyrus closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain. He opened his eyes again and began unleashing magic on the Kishion. He had rings and bracelets, charms and jewels. Each held a unique power. Each was bound in service until a single act would release it. He already knew fire would not harm him. He tried ice. He tried poison. He tried wind. He tried love. Spirit magic shrouded the Kishion in a multihued orb. Violet and orange, red and greens—dust and spirit and magic all weaving and thrusting, trying to overwhelm the Kishion’s defenses. The man was immune to it all. He walked through the storm of colors as if it were nothing more than a drizzle.
Tyrus tried one more. It was a foolish notion, but everything else had failed. He opened a locket from around his neck and music emerged. It was a spirit song that was so haunting, so poignant, it never failed to make Tyrus weep. The melody invoked memories of his sister, long since dead. Of the parents he could no longer remember.
The Kishion stopped.
Tyrus stared at the man’s face. The strain of the music filled the glen, overpowering the thrash of the waterfalls for a moment. A look in the man’s eyes. The force of the music had halted him. Tyrus breathed, unable to know what it meant.
Then with a snarl of anger on his face, the Kishion rushed forward and jerked the chain from Tyrus’s neck, snapping it. He kicked Tyrus in the knee, the pain excruciating and sudden. He lurched and stumbled, seizing the Kishion’s shirt front to drag him down too. He would fight to the last breath. He would use his teeth, his fingernails, every stick or rock he could lay claim to.
Tyrus felt his arm jerk around, and the next thing he knew, he was chewing the dirt in agony. His arm was forced backward in an impossible angle and the pain startled him with its intensity. His wrist was on fire. He was hauled back for a moment, before a knee struck his groin. Every shade of torment imaginable. His stomach revolted at the pain. He would have vomited but the Kishion forbade it, punishing him further.
His thick hair was grasped by strong fingers and his neck exposed. The knife was coming next. He knew it. He struggled with his free hand, groping to find another charm in his pocket. His fingers closed around it, but he was too late.
The Kishion pressed a vial to his lips and poured a foul-tasting liquid into his gaping mouth. He tried to spit it out, but the Kishion had his head cocked in a way that prevented anything of the sort. He felt the liquid running down his throat, triggering his gag and drowning instincts.
Then the Kishion shoved him to the ground and he flailed and coughed. He could feel the poison working in him instantly. He could feel its magic turning into fire inside his skin. What was it? Monkshood? Banethrush? Villena? It had a sap-like texture and was bitter as yellow citrus.
Tyrus lurched for a stone, to try and plunge his abdomen against it, but the Kishion snatched him again, twisting his arm behind his back, jacking it hard. He screamed in pain, squeezing the stone in his pocket with his left hand. His fingers felt like they would snap.
The Kishion knelt next to him, his mouth near Tyrus’s ear.
“Before we left Silvandom, you said, ‘she is in Stonehollow.’ Who is she?”
Fear.
It was worse than any he had known. He felt his mouth begin to move. He could not stop it. The magic of the potion forced him to speak.
“She is my daughter.”
The Kishion paused, as if listening. “Where in Stonehollow is she?”
“I do not know. I left her in an orphanage run by a man named Winemiller. I have only been there once. I do not know where she is now.”
He hated himself. He hated what he was saying.
“What is her name?”
“I do not know what they call her. I did not name her.”
The Kishion was silent a moment longer. “Who was her mother?”
