He sighed deeply. In the temple, in the confines of the training yard, the lessons were so easily accepted. But since leaving Kenatos, he had experienced stronger emotions than he had ever imagined existed inside him. Hatred of Kiranrao. Jealousy of Annon. Even desire for Hettie. He recognized these as base emotions. They needed to be controlled.
Staring at her sleeping would not help him gain control of his emotions. Instead, he stared at the ring on his finger. The markings on it were intricate. It was a work of great craftsmanship. It was a prison. He despised it. He was willing to lose his finger if Tyrus could not find a way to remove it.
You realize that removing the ring will kill you. I am certain you are clever enough to consider that, but just to be sure.
The whisper in his mind was so real. He could hear the Arch-Rike’s voice as fresh as it had been in that horrible, stench-filled cell.
Of course you can hear me, Paedrin.
His eyes widened. Was he going mad?
Not mad. Naive. Believe me, boy, a little salve cannot save you from my influence. I let you go. You are my servant. I let you escape. You will become a Kishion, and you will serve me. No, do not try to stand up. Stay where you are. You will say nothing. You will speak nothing of this discovery to anyone. I bind your tongue. Here are your instructions. When you reach Silvandom, you must take the dagger from Tyrus. You must kill him with it. And then you must hand it to me. Is that perfectly clear to you? Those are my orders. I will prevent the blade from destroying your mind.
Paedrin felt the terrible compulsion overwhelm him. It thundered in his mind and screamed at him in a long, desperate howl.
You are my pawn. You are my creation. Tyrus must be stopped. It is better that one man should perish than a kingdom. He will unleash the Plague on us all. More virulent. More devastating. He must be stopped, Paedrin. You will stop him. Your first killing will bind the ring to you forever. It cannot be undone.
He felt as if his mind would melt with heat.
Kill Tyrus.
“Unfortunately in our world, ignorance more frequently begets confidence than knowledge does. You see, it is those who know little, and not those who know much, who assert that certain problems will never be solved by reason, study, and practice. Patience is the companion of wisdom.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There was so much pain that Annon welcomed death. He sank into its folds, embracing the weightless submission. His senses became acute. He stared down at his own body, collapsed against the base of the damaged oak tree, and saw blood trickling down his fingers. It was an odd feeling, staring at himself. And then he saw the spirits swarm.
He almost resisted, afraid of the agony awaiting him, but as he felt himself thrust back into his body, his eyes blinked wide, and he felt air fill inside his chest. Tingles of pleasure shuddered through the core of his being. He stared at the craggy bark of the oak, blinking furiously, unable to speak.
“He’s still alive!” one of the Bhikhu said in surprise. “Khiara! This one lives! Hurry!”
Annon tried to push himself up, but his legs and arms were void of energy. He wobbled and nearly collapsed when a Vaettir woman caught hold of him.
She had long black hair, a sharp contrast to the short black stubble of the men nearby. Her eyes were angled and her skin dark. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, though. Her shirt and pants were the color of saffron with wide sleeves and colorful embroidery on the hem and edges. She wore a charm around her neck that first made him think of a talisman, except it was made of bone or shell. She touched the side of his face to steady him and gazed deeply into his eyes. Then she closed her eyes, and he felt a surge of power come from her body and infuse him with strength and vitality. The weakness melted away.
Annon trembled. His emotions became giddy with excitement and energy. He felt as if he could run for leagues without tiring. Her touch summoned a gush of warmth that suffused throughout him.
Her eyes opened. Her expression turned sad, her mouth drooping. “I am sorry I could not save your companion. Sooner, I may have. But his spirit form has passed beyond to the other world. He would not be called back.”
A stab of anguish struck Annon like a blade. “I know. He was already dead.”
As the girl nodded, Annon felt the sobs finally break loose. He knelt as he wept, ashamed to be seen like this, but unable to withstand the painful emotions engulfing him. Memories of Reeder flooded his mind. Sharing a moment with Dame Nestra and her stew. The warning about visiting Tyrus. He clutched his head and tried to control the choking feeling in his throat.
The girl remained with him in his grief. Her hand touched his shoulder and she squeezed it. “We pass through sorrow. We remember the good. He is not gone forever, just from our sight. In another world, they greet him and bid him welcome as we bid him good-bye. This is death.”
Staring at her sleeping would not help him gain control of his emotions. Instead, he stared at the ring on his finger. The markings on it were intricate. It was a work of great craftsmanship. It was a prison. He despised it. He was willing to lose his finger if Tyrus could not find a way to remove it.
You realize that removing the ring will kill you. I am certain you are clever enough to consider that, but just to be sure.
The whisper in his mind was so real. He could hear the Arch-Rike’s voice as fresh as it had been in that horrible, stench-filled cell.
Of course you can hear me, Paedrin.
His eyes widened. Was he going mad?
Not mad. Naive. Believe me, boy, a little salve cannot save you from my influence. I let you go. You are my servant. I let you escape. You will become a Kishion, and you will serve me. No, do not try to stand up. Stay where you are. You will say nothing. You will speak nothing of this discovery to anyone. I bind your tongue. Here are your instructions. When you reach Silvandom, you must take the dagger from Tyrus. You must kill him with it. And then you must hand it to me. Is that perfectly clear to you? Those are my orders. I will prevent the blade from destroying your mind.
Paedrin felt the terrible compulsion overwhelm him. It thundered in his mind and screamed at him in a long, desperate howl.
You are my pawn. You are my creation. Tyrus must be stopped. It is better that one man should perish than a kingdom. He will unleash the Plague on us all. More virulent. More devastating. He must be stopped, Paedrin. You will stop him. Your first killing will bind the ring to you forever. It cannot be undone.
He felt as if his mind would melt with heat.
Kill Tyrus.
“Unfortunately in our world, ignorance more frequently begets confidence than knowledge does. You see, it is those who know little, and not those who know much, who assert that certain problems will never be solved by reason, study, and practice. Patience is the companion of wisdom.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There was so much pain that Annon welcomed death. He sank into its folds, embracing the weightless submission. His senses became acute. He stared down at his own body, collapsed against the base of the damaged oak tree, and saw blood trickling down his fingers. It was an odd feeling, staring at himself. And then he saw the spirits swarm.
He almost resisted, afraid of the agony awaiting him, but as he felt himself thrust back into his body, his eyes blinked wide, and he felt air fill inside his chest. Tingles of pleasure shuddered through the core of his being. He stared at the craggy bark of the oak, blinking furiously, unable to speak.
“He’s still alive!” one of the Bhikhu said in surprise. “Khiara! This one lives! Hurry!”
Annon tried to push himself up, but his legs and arms were void of energy. He wobbled and nearly collapsed when a Vaettir woman caught hold of him.
She had long black hair, a sharp contrast to the short black stubble of the men nearby. Her eyes were angled and her skin dark. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, though. Her shirt and pants were the color of saffron with wide sleeves and colorful embroidery on the hem and edges. She wore a charm around her neck that first made him think of a talisman, except it was made of bone or shell. She touched the side of his face to steady him and gazed deeply into his eyes. Then she closed her eyes, and he felt a surge of power come from her body and infuse him with strength and vitality. The weakness melted away.
Annon trembled. His emotions became giddy with excitement and energy. He felt as if he could run for leagues without tiring. Her touch summoned a gush of warmth that suffused throughout him.
Her eyes opened. Her expression turned sad, her mouth drooping. “I am sorry I could not save your companion. Sooner, I may have. But his spirit form has passed beyond to the other world. He would not be called back.”
A stab of anguish struck Annon like a blade. “I know. He was already dead.”
As the girl nodded, Annon felt the sobs finally break loose. He knelt as he wept, ashamed to be seen like this, but unable to withstand the painful emotions engulfing him. Memories of Reeder flooded his mind. Sharing a moment with Dame Nestra and her stew. The warning about visiting Tyrus. He clutched his head and tried to control the choking feeling in his throat.
The girl remained with him in his grief. Her hand touched his shoulder and she squeezed it. “We pass through sorrow. We remember the good. He is not gone forever, just from our sight. In another world, they greet him and bid him welcome as we bid him good-bye. This is death.”
