The pain in the night was the worst tormentor. It was easy to be brave in the daylight. But at night, with his leg throbbing and swollen, it was easy to succumb to tears. In the blackness of the Arch-Rike’s prison, it was tempting to do the same. There was no one else to hear him cry. No one would tease him about it later. He almost did succumb, for never had he been so discouraged. He was going to become a Kishion. He would be bound to the Arch-Rike’s ring for the rest of his life.
He missed Annon at that moment. Perhaps some tidbit of Druidecht lore was needed. He did not believe the ring was poisoned in some way. It was likely bound with a spirit. Annon had freed a spirit from the blade and it had healed him as a result. Was there a way to free the spirit in the ring? Maybe it would require him losing his finger. He would gladly make that exchange. But certainly the ring would try to prevent him from cutting it loose or kill him in the attempt.
He hunkered in the darkness, victim to despair. The absence of light. The persistence of hunger. How many days had it been? There was no way of knowing.
A sound came in the distance, and he wondered if it were food. The thought of tasteless sludge did not arouse his passions. Light appeared in the distance, and he covered his eyes, knowing it would hurt. It did. There were several sounds of boots, but in addition, the clap of sandals.
Paedrin leaned forward, shielding his eyes. The pain of the light stabbed and hurt, but he forced his eyes to focus, to adjust. Was it? Could it be? He grabbed the bars and pulled himself closer, wincing with pain at the light.
Fingers wrapped over his.
“Paedrin,” Master Shivu whispered.
The feelings in his heart. The voice in his ears. It nearly unmanned him with tears. He squinted, seeing only the shadow of the face kneeling before him.
“Paedrin?”
An immediate compulsion seized him. He began to sob mournfully and tap his forehead against the bars. “I am so sorry, Master. I am so sorry. Forgive me!”
“Hush, Paedrin. You must listen to me. You must listen to my words.”
“It is my fault. The Arch-Rike is just. I betrayed Kenatos. I was too proud. Too ambitious. I will be executed, Master. I will bring shame to the Bhikhu temple.”
“Paedrin, I know. I know. The Arch-Rike told me of the plot. He explained what must be done. Listen to me, boy. Listen to my words.”
Paedrin heaved some strangled sobs, unable to control his emotions or his words. He stared at Master Shivu, at the patchwork gray stubble on his head. He saw the tender look in his eyes, not accusatory but full of sympathy. He saw love and forgiveness there. A man who had invested all of his life patiently teaching the Bhikhu way. He loved this man. He was going to resist the Arch-Rike’s will. He would resist it all of his life until he found a way to be free.
“Yes, my Master,” he whispered, clenching his jaw and refusing to speak. His body shook and trembled as he fought the feelings that smothered him.
“This is for the good of the city,” Master Shivu said pityingly. “You were not alive when the last Plague came. You do not understand the terror that overcomes people when they all fear they will die. The savagery. Be grateful that you are spared it.”
Paedrin nodded, his heart shuddering with sadness and firmness. His Master did not know that he was not going to die. Rather, he would live a life worse than death.
Master Shivu clung to his hands between the bars, gripping him fiercely. His nails bit into Paedrin’s skin. “I never spoke of this to you before. The Bhikhu temple is a shadow of another temple. A replica and a poor one. The original Shatalin temple was hidden in the mountains. It did not fall from the Plague. Only Vaettir studied there. Only Vaettir could reach its heights. I came from that temple, when I was a boy. I left with a small band of others who sought to escape its fate.”
Paedrin shook his head, confused. He had never known this before. It made no sense to him. He presumed the original Bhikhu temple was in the woods of Silvandom, not in the mountains.
“There was one among us. A student who bested the masters. He was ambitious. He was fast. Faster than anyone else. He corrupted the temple with his pride. You must understand, Paedrin. He was powerful. Not just in the Bhikhu way but in his words. In his speech. There was a weapon in the temple. A sword. Only the most virtuous of men ever sought to use its power and only to defend the temple from attack. This Bhikhu, Cruw Reon, sought the Sword of Winds to use it to conquer other kingdoms. To place himself at the heights of power. He took the sword from its casing. He drew it from its sheath.”
Paedrin held his breath, staring into his master’s eyes.
He missed Annon at that moment. Perhaps some tidbit of Druidecht lore was needed. He did not believe the ring was poisoned in some way. It was likely bound with a spirit. Annon had freed a spirit from the blade and it had healed him as a result. Was there a way to free the spirit in the ring? Maybe it would require him losing his finger. He would gladly make that exchange. But certainly the ring would try to prevent him from cutting it loose or kill him in the attempt.
He hunkered in the darkness, victim to despair. The absence of light. The persistence of hunger. How many days had it been? There was no way of knowing.
A sound came in the distance, and he wondered if it were food. The thought of tasteless sludge did not arouse his passions. Light appeared in the distance, and he covered his eyes, knowing it would hurt. It did. There were several sounds of boots, but in addition, the clap of sandals.
Paedrin leaned forward, shielding his eyes. The pain of the light stabbed and hurt, but he forced his eyes to focus, to adjust. Was it? Could it be? He grabbed the bars and pulled himself closer, wincing with pain at the light.
Fingers wrapped over his.
“Paedrin,” Master Shivu whispered.
The feelings in his heart. The voice in his ears. It nearly unmanned him with tears. He squinted, seeing only the shadow of the face kneeling before him.
“Paedrin?”
An immediate compulsion seized him. He began to sob mournfully and tap his forehead against the bars. “I am so sorry, Master. I am so sorry. Forgive me!”
“Hush, Paedrin. You must listen to me. You must listen to my words.”
“It is my fault. The Arch-Rike is just. I betrayed Kenatos. I was too proud. Too ambitious. I will be executed, Master. I will bring shame to the Bhikhu temple.”
“Paedrin, I know. I know. The Arch-Rike told me of the plot. He explained what must be done. Listen to me, boy. Listen to my words.”
Paedrin heaved some strangled sobs, unable to control his emotions or his words. He stared at Master Shivu, at the patchwork gray stubble on his head. He saw the tender look in his eyes, not accusatory but full of sympathy. He saw love and forgiveness there. A man who had invested all of his life patiently teaching the Bhikhu way. He loved this man. He was going to resist the Arch-Rike’s will. He would resist it all of his life until he found a way to be free.
“Yes, my Master,” he whispered, clenching his jaw and refusing to speak. His body shook and trembled as he fought the feelings that smothered him.
“This is for the good of the city,” Master Shivu said pityingly. “You were not alive when the last Plague came. You do not understand the terror that overcomes people when they all fear they will die. The savagery. Be grateful that you are spared it.”
Paedrin nodded, his heart shuddering with sadness and firmness. His Master did not know that he was not going to die. Rather, he would live a life worse than death.
Master Shivu clung to his hands between the bars, gripping him fiercely. His nails bit into Paedrin’s skin. “I never spoke of this to you before. The Bhikhu temple is a shadow of another temple. A replica and a poor one. The original Shatalin temple was hidden in the mountains. It did not fall from the Plague. Only Vaettir studied there. Only Vaettir could reach its heights. I came from that temple, when I was a boy. I left with a small band of others who sought to escape its fate.”
Paedrin shook his head, confused. He had never known this before. It made no sense to him. He presumed the original Bhikhu temple was in the woods of Silvandom, not in the mountains.
“There was one among us. A student who bested the masters. He was ambitious. He was fast. Faster than anyone else. He corrupted the temple with his pride. You must understand, Paedrin. He was powerful. Not just in the Bhikhu way but in his words. In his speech. There was a weapon in the temple. A sword. Only the most virtuous of men ever sought to use its power and only to defend the temple from attack. This Bhikhu, Cruw Reon, sought the Sword of Winds to use it to conquer other kingdoms. To place himself at the heights of power. He took the sword from its casing. He drew it from its sheath.”
Paedrin held his breath, staring into his master’s eyes.
