Tyrus nodded knowingly and patted her shoulder.
She turned to Shion, feeling ashamed at how she had tried to injure him in her panic and failed. “Does nothing hurt you?” she asked, exasperated.
Wisely he said nothing, as he usually did.
“Darkness falls across the city. Fires are burning in the Preachán quarter. I am restless this twilight. Heavy despair blankets Kenatos. There is no pain so awful as the pain of suspense, the Bhikhu say. I agree.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXV
Blood smeared Baylen’s face with little flecks of tattered leaves. There were gashes in his scalp too hideous to look at, and Paedrin experienced a rise in his gorge yet willed himself not to vomit. Baylen’s eyes were blue, amidst the dark, clotted blood, and they were awake and quite alive.
“I can’t move my legs,” Baylen said with tortured breath. “I passed out from the pain. Where’s Khiara?”
Paedrin stared down at the giant Cruithne, his emotions roiling with conflicting feelings. He hung his head, ashamed of himself, ashamed at the questions that were coming. “Dead.”
Baylen closed his eyes, panting with shallow wheezes. “That’s . . . unfortunate.”
The word was inadequate to describe the desperate situation that hung as a pall. She was dead, Tyrus had abandoned them, and Kiranrao was loose in the woods with a dagger that could slay any living thing. The Fear Liath’s lair was still nearby, and then there were the—
As summoned by his despair, he heard rustling in the branches overhead. The sound of flapping and hissing descending from the boughs. Yes, the Cockatrice were still there as well, gathering back to their roosts now that the violence had ended.
“Paedrin.”
The Bhikhu sagged to his knees next to the bleeding man, powerless to save him. He rested his elbows on the hilt of the Sword of Winds, pressing his forehead against his arm. What a disgrace he was to the Bhikhu order. What a failure.
“Where is Tyrus?”
“Gone,” Paedrin muttered. “Baylen . . . they’re all gone. We failed. Phae was killed by the Fear Liath. I saw her body. Then Kiranrao grabbed Khiara—” A shudder passed through him. “He murdered her. The only thing I could think at that moment was killing him. He went into the woods, Tyrus shouted the word, and then they were gone and then so was Kiranrao. This is . . . this is bad.”
Anguish twisted inside of him, shredding his composure and nearly making him sob with despair. He hung his head, feeling the full brunt of his stupidity and failure.
Baylen’s hand brushed against his leg. Paedrin opened his eyes, stared down at him, and saw the determination in the Cruithne’s eyes. “Go,” Baylen said flatly.
Wings flapped as more Cockatrice arrived. He could hear them scuttling along the oak branches. Closing his eyes, he extended his blind vision and felt them rustling, preparing to swoop down and attack them. He was so weary. Fighting them off would take time, precious time he didn’t have. He needed to escape the Scourgelands. Once it was dark, the Fear Liath would come out of its lair and begin hunting. He knew it for certain.
Paedrin reached down and gripped the Cruithne’s hand. It was massive, and there was only a glimmer of strength left.
“Go,” Baylen repeated.
Paedrin rose, staring down at the crippled man. Baylen was on his back, arms spread wide, his legs at a crooked angle. The Cruithne began to whistle with suppressed pain. Paedrin could see the agony in his eyes. He would not survive the night. Which was worse, being turned into a statue of stone or savaged by the Fear Liath? Either way was death.
What have I done?
He knew the answer already. What would it matter if he left Baylen to die? There was no way he could transport a man of Baylen’s size, let alone contend with the suffering it would cause since he was obviously broken beyond repair. Paedrin ran his hand over the stubble on top of his head, wincing at the feeling of a long scab, not realizing he had been clawed.
He remembered Tyrus’s story about his failure in the Scourgelands. How his friend, a Preachán named Declan Brin, had been mortally wounded and was left behind to die. He comprehended, just a little, what that must have meant. Leaving a man to die was terrible business. But what could he do? How could he save him?
A Cockatrice began to flap downward, hovering in the air above. He could sense the beast’s will press against his, demanding he look up at it and turn to stone. They would come in a rush as they had before. If he fled now, with the Sword, he would be able to escape them. It meant leaving Baylen alone.
She turned to Shion, feeling ashamed at how she had tried to injure him in her panic and failed. “Does nothing hurt you?” she asked, exasperated.
Wisely he said nothing, as he usually did.
“Darkness falls across the city. Fires are burning in the Preachán quarter. I am restless this twilight. Heavy despair blankets Kenatos. There is no pain so awful as the pain of suspense, the Bhikhu say. I agree.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXV
Blood smeared Baylen’s face with little flecks of tattered leaves. There were gashes in his scalp too hideous to look at, and Paedrin experienced a rise in his gorge yet willed himself not to vomit. Baylen’s eyes were blue, amidst the dark, clotted blood, and they were awake and quite alive.
“I can’t move my legs,” Baylen said with tortured breath. “I passed out from the pain. Where’s Khiara?”
Paedrin stared down at the giant Cruithne, his emotions roiling with conflicting feelings. He hung his head, ashamed of himself, ashamed at the questions that were coming. “Dead.”
Baylen closed his eyes, panting with shallow wheezes. “That’s . . . unfortunate.”
The word was inadequate to describe the desperate situation that hung as a pall. She was dead, Tyrus had abandoned them, and Kiranrao was loose in the woods with a dagger that could slay any living thing. The Fear Liath’s lair was still nearby, and then there were the—
As summoned by his despair, he heard rustling in the branches overhead. The sound of flapping and hissing descending from the boughs. Yes, the Cockatrice were still there as well, gathering back to their roosts now that the violence had ended.
“Paedrin.”
The Bhikhu sagged to his knees next to the bleeding man, powerless to save him. He rested his elbows on the hilt of the Sword of Winds, pressing his forehead against his arm. What a disgrace he was to the Bhikhu order. What a failure.
“Where is Tyrus?”
“Gone,” Paedrin muttered. “Baylen . . . they’re all gone. We failed. Phae was killed by the Fear Liath. I saw her body. Then Kiranrao grabbed Khiara—” A shudder passed through him. “He murdered her. The only thing I could think at that moment was killing him. He went into the woods, Tyrus shouted the word, and then they were gone and then so was Kiranrao. This is . . . this is bad.”
Anguish twisted inside of him, shredding his composure and nearly making him sob with despair. He hung his head, feeling the full brunt of his stupidity and failure.
Baylen’s hand brushed against his leg. Paedrin opened his eyes, stared down at him, and saw the determination in the Cruithne’s eyes. “Go,” Baylen said flatly.
Wings flapped as more Cockatrice arrived. He could hear them scuttling along the oak branches. Closing his eyes, he extended his blind vision and felt them rustling, preparing to swoop down and attack them. He was so weary. Fighting them off would take time, precious time he didn’t have. He needed to escape the Scourgelands. Once it was dark, the Fear Liath would come out of its lair and begin hunting. He knew it for certain.
Paedrin reached down and gripped the Cruithne’s hand. It was massive, and there was only a glimmer of strength left.
“Go,” Baylen repeated.
Paedrin rose, staring down at the crippled man. Baylen was on his back, arms spread wide, his legs at a crooked angle. The Cruithne began to whistle with suppressed pain. Paedrin could see the agony in his eyes. He would not survive the night. Which was worse, being turned into a statue of stone or savaged by the Fear Liath? Either way was death.
What have I done?
He knew the answer already. What would it matter if he left Baylen to die? There was no way he could transport a man of Baylen’s size, let alone contend with the suffering it would cause since he was obviously broken beyond repair. Paedrin ran his hand over the stubble on top of his head, wincing at the feeling of a long scab, not realizing he had been clawed.
He remembered Tyrus’s story about his failure in the Scourgelands. How his friend, a Preachán named Declan Brin, had been mortally wounded and was left behind to die. He comprehended, just a little, what that must have meant. Leaving a man to die was terrible business. But what could he do? How could he save him?
A Cockatrice began to flap downward, hovering in the air above. He could sense the beast’s will press against his, demanding he look up at it and turn to stone. They would come in a rush as they had before. If he fled now, with the Sword, he would be able to escape them. It meant leaving Baylen alone.
