“Our enemy’s wisdom in founding the city in the middle of the lake. By the time we knew of it, the defenses were already formidable. The loyalty and honor of the Vaettir are also an effective shield. They can float over our armies and cross the lake ahead of us, no matter how hard we try to siege her. Attempts to build barges have failed. The navy of Kenatos is very efficient and lethal. Building a bridge is also impossible for we lack the skill and the patience. We are not a serious threat to the city. Nor have we been. If there was a way we could help you, Tyrus, I would order another attack on the city. If that would help draw his focus on us, it might be worth doing it, even if we had no hope of victory.”
Shion spoke in his naturally quiet, stately voice. “There is a way.”
Paedrin sat up straight, staring at the quiet man. Baylen looked at Paedrin in surprise, pursing his lips, and then turned to listen more closely. Everyone stopped eating.
“What do you mean?” Tyrus asked, his expression curious.
Shion brushed dust from his trousers. “Only the Arch-Rike’s most trusted men know of it. Even the fleet commanders are kept in ignorance. At low tide, there is a band of ground that leads to the island, behind the Arch-Rike’s palace. It is completely submerged, but shallow enough to cross the lake on foot.”
Stunned silence fell across the group assembled. The Empress’s eyes twinkled with the news, her expression slowly brightening like a sunrise. “Can this be true?”
Shion nodded. “I have used it to exit the city unawares. There are no ferrymen near it and very little shore to help conceal it. It was created in secret long ago, in case the Arch-Rike was ever deposed and needed to bring an army to reclaim the city. As I said, it is a carefully guarded secret.” He then went quiet, bowing his head and picking at a bowl of figs.
The Empress stared at him, trying to discern something from his expression. She waited, letting the power of silence work against him. Paedrin covered a smile. She did not realize that Shion was known as the Quiet Kishion.
“What you have given me,” she whispered in a husky voice, “is a treasure beyond any expectation. If there is a way we can interrupt his war and draw his forces and machinations back to the island, it will help you in your journey into the Scourgelands. I must away. Preparations must be made. I must summon the warlords. This changes everything.”
Tyrus looked at her and then nodded. “And Mathon’s knowledge of the city, the Rikes and their ways, will also be of assistance.”
“I would not survive the journey there,” Mathon said hoarsely. “Though I appreciate your confidence in me.”
Tyrus turned and gazed at Khiara, who had been seated quietly all the while, but looked around at the individuals suffering from leprosaria with a pitying expression. She met his gaze, understood his meaning without any words, and nodded her acceptance. Slowly Khiara rose and went around the circle. Paedrin felt a prickle of apprehension run down his back, and he sensed a great power welling up in the Vaettir girl.
“This is Khiara Shaliah,” Tyrus introduced. “Her way of healing, Mathon, is very unlike yours.”
“I have long tried to discover a cure,” Mathon said, his eyes turning almost wild with panic as she approached him. His scabbed face twitched with unsuppressed emotions that could not be deciphered. “I cannot even halt its progress.”
Khiara knelt next to him. She gazed into Mathon’s eyes, taking his measure, as if studying the depth of the curse that afflicted him. The tension in the air thickened, as all eyes—even Kiranrao’s—watched the Shaliah healer. She did not speak, but she took several deep breaths, as if calming herself. Paedrin stared intently, forgetting the bowl of mashed grains nearby. He swallowed thickly, feeling a surge of emotion swell inside him. Compassion? Empathy? It seemed to be radiating from Khiara in waves, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers knotted together.
All were silent.
Khiara lifted her chin, her eyes wet with tears. She nodded once, to herself, and then reached out her hands and touched Mathon’s face, her hands cupping his cheeks.
She whispered in the Vaettir tongue. Paedrin could only make out several audible words interspersed by gasps. By authority . . . through the keramat . . . afflicted soul . . . lesions healed . . . be clean.
A jolt went through Paedrin’s heart and he found himself on his feet, backing away from her as if somehow she had slapped him across the face. He blinked quickly, confused and a little disoriented. He heard the sound of rustling wings. He felt the whisper of breath, like a great sigh in his ear . . . words he could not understand.
Shion spoke in his naturally quiet, stately voice. “There is a way.”
Paedrin sat up straight, staring at the quiet man. Baylen looked at Paedrin in surprise, pursing his lips, and then turned to listen more closely. Everyone stopped eating.
“What do you mean?” Tyrus asked, his expression curious.
Shion brushed dust from his trousers. “Only the Arch-Rike’s most trusted men know of it. Even the fleet commanders are kept in ignorance. At low tide, there is a band of ground that leads to the island, behind the Arch-Rike’s palace. It is completely submerged, but shallow enough to cross the lake on foot.”
Stunned silence fell across the group assembled. The Empress’s eyes twinkled with the news, her expression slowly brightening like a sunrise. “Can this be true?”
Shion nodded. “I have used it to exit the city unawares. There are no ferrymen near it and very little shore to help conceal it. It was created in secret long ago, in case the Arch-Rike was ever deposed and needed to bring an army to reclaim the city. As I said, it is a carefully guarded secret.” He then went quiet, bowing his head and picking at a bowl of figs.
The Empress stared at him, trying to discern something from his expression. She waited, letting the power of silence work against him. Paedrin covered a smile. She did not realize that Shion was known as the Quiet Kishion.
“What you have given me,” she whispered in a husky voice, “is a treasure beyond any expectation. If there is a way we can interrupt his war and draw his forces and machinations back to the island, it will help you in your journey into the Scourgelands. I must away. Preparations must be made. I must summon the warlords. This changes everything.”
Tyrus looked at her and then nodded. “And Mathon’s knowledge of the city, the Rikes and their ways, will also be of assistance.”
“I would not survive the journey there,” Mathon said hoarsely. “Though I appreciate your confidence in me.”
Tyrus turned and gazed at Khiara, who had been seated quietly all the while, but looked around at the individuals suffering from leprosaria with a pitying expression. She met his gaze, understood his meaning without any words, and nodded her acceptance. Slowly Khiara rose and went around the circle. Paedrin felt a prickle of apprehension run down his back, and he sensed a great power welling up in the Vaettir girl.
“This is Khiara Shaliah,” Tyrus introduced. “Her way of healing, Mathon, is very unlike yours.”
“I have long tried to discover a cure,” Mathon said, his eyes turning almost wild with panic as she approached him. His scabbed face twitched with unsuppressed emotions that could not be deciphered. “I cannot even halt its progress.”
Khiara knelt next to him. She gazed into Mathon’s eyes, taking his measure, as if studying the depth of the curse that afflicted him. The tension in the air thickened, as all eyes—even Kiranrao’s—watched the Shaliah healer. She did not speak, but she took several deep breaths, as if calming herself. Paedrin stared intently, forgetting the bowl of mashed grains nearby. He swallowed thickly, feeling a surge of emotion swell inside him. Compassion? Empathy? It seemed to be radiating from Khiara in waves, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers knotted together.
All were silent.
Khiara lifted her chin, her eyes wet with tears. She nodded once, to herself, and then reached out her hands and touched Mathon’s face, her hands cupping his cheeks.
She whispered in the Vaettir tongue. Paedrin could only make out several audible words interspersed by gasps. By authority . . . through the keramat . . . afflicted soul . . . lesions healed . . . be clean.
A jolt went through Paedrin’s heart and he found himself on his feet, backing away from her as if somehow she had slapped him across the face. He blinked quickly, confused and a little disoriented. He heard the sound of rustling wings. He felt the whisper of breath, like a great sigh in his ear . . . words he could not understand.
