He looked furtively into the blackness, craning his neck to listen. Was that a sound? His imagination?
He started wildly, trying to calm his tattered nerves. No one could know. That was the end of it. That was why his thoughts were sloshing back and forth like a barrel of beer on a wagon. He would kill them all then. Every one of the band who had seen his shameful act, he would put them to death and silence their accusations forever. The Archivists of Kenatos would never scribe down what he had done.
He would destroy all of his enemies, including the Arch-Rike . . . or Shirikant . . . or whatever name he sought to call himself. And when he was done, he would rid his conscience of the stain. He would go to a Dryad tree and he would force the Dryad to purge the guilt. He would be free of all responsibility then. No one would know, not even himself.
He had spent his energies trying to escape the Scourgelands. He realized that he needed to stay . . . to find a Dryad tree and to make sure the others had perished. Perhaps he could find the Mother Tree itself? Perhaps that tree would unchain him from his conscience.
He would kill Prince Aran first. A cold certainty began to seep inside his inner parts. One by one, he would hunt them down. One by one, he would kill them.
Kiranrao fell asleep with thoughts of murder toying in his mind.
When the smoky shape emerged from the mist as Kiranrao, Paedrin stared with shock. He doubted his senses then, for he had been deceived by imposters before. He struggled against the tangling roots fastening to his legs, but it was like swimming with chains.
“Pity you’re not Prince Aran,” Kiranrao said with a sulky tone. “I had thought to kill him next, but you will do, Bhikhu.”
A spasm of terror shot through Paedrin at the words, at the total lack of humanity in Kiranrao’s dead eyes. He tried to squelch it, but it was like commanding his heart not to quail in the midst of a lightning storm or a shipwreck.
“I also pity that,” Paedrin said flippantly. “I wish he were here too.”
Kiranrao sauntered closer, the blade poised and ready. Paedrin’s mind worked furiously. Should he start sawing at the roots? Would they yield like normal plants, or was this some sort of magic that was trapping him?
“I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, Bhikhu. Hettie isn’t here to stay my hand. Not that she could this time.”
Paedrin shifted his hips, trying to ignore the squeezing pain in his legs. If he were flat on his back with the ague, he couldn’t be more helpless. But he was not defenseless. He had trained his entire life to prepare for such a moment. The Uddhava would help him. Kiranrao looked almost trancelike. His inner spark was gone. His personality had been bleached away. Delay him—make him react to you.
“I always knew Hettie controlled you. So, Kiranrao, are there any Romani proverbs for such an occasion? Any words you say to the man you’re about to murder? A good beginning is half the work?”
A weary expression came over Kiranrao’s face—almost a smile, but not quite. “A postponement till morning . . . a postponement forever.”
Paedrin held up one hand, palm facing Kiranrao. “I recall one that Hettie told me. It is no secret that is known to three.” He slowly brought the sword behind his back with the other, watching the Romani advance.
“Fair words, Bhikhu. At least you understand now why I’m killing you.”
“I propose a bargain,” Paedrin said.
“There’s no stopping the force of a going wheel by hand,” Kiranrao said, starting to flank Paedrin on his left.
“I have a new one for you. The youngest thorns are the sharpest.”
Paedrin brought the Sword of Winds to his chest, pommel up, and summoned the power of the stone in the hilt.
It was the same trick that the imposter Kiranrao had used against him in Shatalin. The magic of the stone went out in a flood of greenish light and Kiranrao screamed in pain and began slashing the air in front of him, his eyes blistering with the magic. Paedrin ducked low and began slicing through the roots with the blade.
Kiranrao roared with hatred and agony, the blade dangerously close to Paedrin’s shoulder as he maneuvered away from the random sweep. The Bhikhu sawed at the roots and one came free, releasing the crushing grip on his right ankle, and he dropped to the lowest stance he could muster, feeling the weight of Kiranrao looming above him.
Paedrin didn’t have time to swing the sword around, but he struck Kiranrao’s abdomen—his liver, to be precise—with his open palm and the Romani tumbled backward, thrashing on the ground. Paedrin resumed sawing on the other cord of root and managed to sever its grip as the Romani made it back to his feet again and lunged at him, slashing wildly with the dagger.
He started wildly, trying to calm his tattered nerves. No one could know. That was the end of it. That was why his thoughts were sloshing back and forth like a barrel of beer on a wagon. He would kill them all then. Every one of the band who had seen his shameful act, he would put them to death and silence their accusations forever. The Archivists of Kenatos would never scribe down what he had done.
He would destroy all of his enemies, including the Arch-Rike . . . or Shirikant . . . or whatever name he sought to call himself. And when he was done, he would rid his conscience of the stain. He would go to a Dryad tree and he would force the Dryad to purge the guilt. He would be free of all responsibility then. No one would know, not even himself.
He had spent his energies trying to escape the Scourgelands. He realized that he needed to stay . . . to find a Dryad tree and to make sure the others had perished. Perhaps he could find the Mother Tree itself? Perhaps that tree would unchain him from his conscience.
He would kill Prince Aran first. A cold certainty began to seep inside his inner parts. One by one, he would hunt them down. One by one, he would kill them.
Kiranrao fell asleep with thoughts of murder toying in his mind.
When the smoky shape emerged from the mist as Kiranrao, Paedrin stared with shock. He doubted his senses then, for he had been deceived by imposters before. He struggled against the tangling roots fastening to his legs, but it was like swimming with chains.
“Pity you’re not Prince Aran,” Kiranrao said with a sulky tone. “I had thought to kill him next, but you will do, Bhikhu.”
A spasm of terror shot through Paedrin at the words, at the total lack of humanity in Kiranrao’s dead eyes. He tried to squelch it, but it was like commanding his heart not to quail in the midst of a lightning storm or a shipwreck.
“I also pity that,” Paedrin said flippantly. “I wish he were here too.”
Kiranrao sauntered closer, the blade poised and ready. Paedrin’s mind worked furiously. Should he start sawing at the roots? Would they yield like normal plants, or was this some sort of magic that was trapping him?
“I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, Bhikhu. Hettie isn’t here to stay my hand. Not that she could this time.”
Paedrin shifted his hips, trying to ignore the squeezing pain in his legs. If he were flat on his back with the ague, he couldn’t be more helpless. But he was not defenseless. He had trained his entire life to prepare for such a moment. The Uddhava would help him. Kiranrao looked almost trancelike. His inner spark was gone. His personality had been bleached away. Delay him—make him react to you.
“I always knew Hettie controlled you. So, Kiranrao, are there any Romani proverbs for such an occasion? Any words you say to the man you’re about to murder? A good beginning is half the work?”
A weary expression came over Kiranrao’s face—almost a smile, but not quite. “A postponement till morning . . . a postponement forever.”
Paedrin held up one hand, palm facing Kiranrao. “I recall one that Hettie told me. It is no secret that is known to three.” He slowly brought the sword behind his back with the other, watching the Romani advance.
“Fair words, Bhikhu. At least you understand now why I’m killing you.”
“I propose a bargain,” Paedrin said.
“There’s no stopping the force of a going wheel by hand,” Kiranrao said, starting to flank Paedrin on his left.
“I have a new one for you. The youngest thorns are the sharpest.”
Paedrin brought the Sword of Winds to his chest, pommel up, and summoned the power of the stone in the hilt.
It was the same trick that the imposter Kiranrao had used against him in Shatalin. The magic of the stone went out in a flood of greenish light and Kiranrao screamed in pain and began slashing the air in front of him, his eyes blistering with the magic. Paedrin ducked low and began slicing through the roots with the blade.
Kiranrao roared with hatred and agony, the blade dangerously close to Paedrin’s shoulder as he maneuvered away from the random sweep. The Bhikhu sawed at the roots and one came free, releasing the crushing grip on his right ankle, and he dropped to the lowest stance he could muster, feeling the weight of Kiranrao looming above him.
Paedrin didn’t have time to swing the sword around, but he struck Kiranrao’s abdomen—his liver, to be precise—with his open palm and the Romani tumbled backward, thrashing on the ground. Paedrin resumed sawing on the other cord of root and managed to sever its grip as the Romani made it back to his feet again and lunged at him, slashing wildly with the dagger.
