She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Only if I must. Our paths lead to Silvandom. You to your mentor. Mine to the Vaettir prince.” She paused, glancing down, her expression suddenly cloudy. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Saying farewell?”
She hesitated and then nodded. There was something in her eyes. He had noticed it before.
“Erasmus and I will meet you in Silvandom then. If you need anything, Hettie, seek out a Druidecht. Tell them I am your brother and they will offer you aid. I wish…I wish I could help you, but the city is not a place where my knowledge will be useful.”
She smiled in response and mussed up his hair. “I have taken care of myself for a long time. You are the one who was raised innocently. I do not begrudge you that, Annon.”
“I wish that I had been sent in your place,” he said, meaning it. His heart ached for her.
The look she gave him was full of pain. “I will look for you in Silvandom when I find the jewels, brother. For your wisdom and knowledge, Master Erasmus, I thank you. Will it rain before I reach Kenatos, do you think?”
Erasmus folded his arms. “Too early in the season. Or were you teasing me?”
She smirked at him and gave Annon a final hug good-bye.
He almost asked her if she would seek Paedrin in the Bhikhu temple as well. But he already suspected the answer to that question.
“In every great city, with all its gleaming walls and massive libraries, with all the shimmering fountains and sculptured gardens, there is a superfluity of dung that must be carted out. In our world, the Romani fill that role. Granted, they do cart all manner of substances through this Plague-ridden world. There are ducats enough to bring bushels of wheat or baskets of figs. But they also cart the seedier stuff. They traffic vice. They traffic slavery. Nothing pains my heart more than to hear that a child has been abducted from Kenatos. I abhor them all and their glittering earrings. Never trust a Romani. That is the only rule one needs to know about them.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There was a Romani saying that came often to Hettie’s mind: He who pays the piper calls the tune. She had learned it as a child, over and over again. And she had heard it more recently when Kiranrao arrived at Evritt’s cabin in the woods. That day had shattered her peace and left her desperate.
A mass of swirling guilt consumed her as she hurried north along the plains toward Kenatos. It was like clutching knives into her bosom, each one a lie told to preserve the illusion. Her entire life was a lie. Even in her best days, she could barely discern truth from tale. Lying was important. Deception was crucial. If one believed in them enough, not even the Arch-Rike’s ring could unmask them. Her mind had been subverted as a child—a drip and drop of lies and deceits woven into a fabric that smothered her. Yes, the best lies were half-truths. Just enough honesty to flavor the falsehood. Yes, she was very good at flavoring her words.
She was miserable as she walked. Events had almost spun completely out of control. She had been so close to capturing the blade. Somehow, the Druidecht spell that had vaulted them away from the Alkire into the lowland plains had taken time to wear off. With that, her plan to steal the dagger from Annon and then flee had been ruined. Instead, Tyrus had arrived and claimed it. Tyrus! Her cursed, scheming uncle had spoiled the opportunity for her. How she hated him!
Her fingers tingled with heat and she forced the emotions down. She walked swiftly, trying to cover as much ground as she could. Kiranrao would be furious, of course. Not in a blustery way, but in a deadly calm way. She knew that not even a Fear Liath could kill him. Its arrival had ruined the first opportunity to steal the dagger. But she knew he was alive and that he would seek her out again, demanding the tune once more. Betray her uncle and steal the blade.
Hettie hated herself the most. She had played her part too well and had earned the trust of Annon and Paedrin. They were such fools. Such simpletons. They knew not the ways of the Romani or the Preachán. A thousand deceits spun around them like gnats, yet the lies were totally invisible. It amazed her how people could be so blind. She even thought she might have Tyrus fooled, though Kiranrao had warned her never to assume that. Tyrus was cunning. He saw through every trap.
She clenched her jaw in fury, summoning all of her despair and self-hatred into a bubbling cauldron of feelings. Annon was so naive. Paedrin was clever, but he was also a fool. She clamped the feelings down with brutal willpower, slamming the lid on the cauldron and wrapping it with chains. This was her life. This was the way of the Romani. Deceive the world into giving you want you wanted.
“Saying farewell?”
She hesitated and then nodded. There was something in her eyes. He had noticed it before.
“Erasmus and I will meet you in Silvandom then. If you need anything, Hettie, seek out a Druidecht. Tell them I am your brother and they will offer you aid. I wish…I wish I could help you, but the city is not a place where my knowledge will be useful.”
She smiled in response and mussed up his hair. “I have taken care of myself for a long time. You are the one who was raised innocently. I do not begrudge you that, Annon.”
“I wish that I had been sent in your place,” he said, meaning it. His heart ached for her.
The look she gave him was full of pain. “I will look for you in Silvandom when I find the jewels, brother. For your wisdom and knowledge, Master Erasmus, I thank you. Will it rain before I reach Kenatos, do you think?”
Erasmus folded his arms. “Too early in the season. Or were you teasing me?”
She smirked at him and gave Annon a final hug good-bye.
He almost asked her if she would seek Paedrin in the Bhikhu temple as well. But he already suspected the answer to that question.
“In every great city, with all its gleaming walls and massive libraries, with all the shimmering fountains and sculptured gardens, there is a superfluity of dung that must be carted out. In our world, the Romani fill that role. Granted, they do cart all manner of substances through this Plague-ridden world. There are ducats enough to bring bushels of wheat or baskets of figs. But they also cart the seedier stuff. They traffic vice. They traffic slavery. Nothing pains my heart more than to hear that a child has been abducted from Kenatos. I abhor them all and their glittering earrings. Never trust a Romani. That is the only rule one needs to know about them.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There was a Romani saying that came often to Hettie’s mind: He who pays the piper calls the tune. She had learned it as a child, over and over again. And she had heard it more recently when Kiranrao arrived at Evritt’s cabin in the woods. That day had shattered her peace and left her desperate.
A mass of swirling guilt consumed her as she hurried north along the plains toward Kenatos. It was like clutching knives into her bosom, each one a lie told to preserve the illusion. Her entire life was a lie. Even in her best days, she could barely discern truth from tale. Lying was important. Deception was crucial. If one believed in them enough, not even the Arch-Rike’s ring could unmask them. Her mind had been subverted as a child—a drip and drop of lies and deceits woven into a fabric that smothered her. Yes, the best lies were half-truths. Just enough honesty to flavor the falsehood. Yes, she was very good at flavoring her words.
She was miserable as she walked. Events had almost spun completely out of control. She had been so close to capturing the blade. Somehow, the Druidecht spell that had vaulted them away from the Alkire into the lowland plains had taken time to wear off. With that, her plan to steal the dagger from Annon and then flee had been ruined. Instead, Tyrus had arrived and claimed it. Tyrus! Her cursed, scheming uncle had spoiled the opportunity for her. How she hated him!
Her fingers tingled with heat and she forced the emotions down. She walked swiftly, trying to cover as much ground as she could. Kiranrao would be furious, of course. Not in a blustery way, but in a deadly calm way. She knew that not even a Fear Liath could kill him. Its arrival had ruined the first opportunity to steal the dagger. But she knew he was alive and that he would seek her out again, demanding the tune once more. Betray her uncle and steal the blade.
Hettie hated herself the most. She had played her part too well and had earned the trust of Annon and Paedrin. They were such fools. Such simpletons. They knew not the ways of the Romani or the Preachán. A thousand deceits spun around them like gnats, yet the lies were totally invisible. It amazed her how people could be so blind. She even thought she might have Tyrus fooled, though Kiranrao had warned her never to assume that. Tyrus was cunning. He saw through every trap.
She clenched her jaw in fury, summoning all of her despair and self-hatred into a bubbling cauldron of feelings. Annon was so naive. Paedrin was clever, but he was also a fool. She clamped the feelings down with brutal willpower, slamming the lid on the cauldron and wrapping it with chains. This was her life. This was the way of the Romani. Deceive the world into giving you want you wanted.
