Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (33 page)

“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.

Master Shivu bowed his head. “He went blind. He could no longer see. Forever. The Shatalin temple fell that day. He would never give up the sword. And he could never learn how to cure his blindness, for the answer was written in the Book of Shatalin and smuggled away by my master. I have the book now and the secret to Cruw Reon’s blindness. But the sword and the book cannot be rejoined. The book cannot leave Kenatos, for it is in the archives. The sword will never leave the temple. If only someone had acted before Cruw Reon’s madness. If only his ambition had been thwarted earlier. The fate of so many would be different to this day.”

He felt Master Shivu’s grip as hard as stone on his hands. “You are proud, Paedrin. You are ambitious, like Cruw Reon. What we do now is for your best good. To prevent another tragedy. You must die so that the tradition and honor of the Bhikhu shall endure and be restored. You are no longer my pupil. You are no longer bound to the Bhikhu!”

Paedrin stared in shock. Master Shivu rose and stared down at him. His face was hard and tugged with a scowl. His eyes—there was something in his eyes. A look that transcended any specific meaning. He stared at Paedrin coolly and nodded once.

“Do what must be done,” Master Shivu told the Arch-Rike. “I have said my piece. If he must die, as you say, then I wash my hands of him.”

Paedrin’s heart threatened to shatter into a thousand shards. But there was something in Master Shivu’s eyes. There was something in his expression. Some silent words unsaid. His mind twisted and contorted to divine the meaning, but he could not make sense of it. Was he truly, now, abandoned and alone?

“It is a pity,” the Arch-Rike said, nodding gravely. He turned to leave. “He was certainly one with great promise.”

Paedrin stared at them, watching his master walk slowly down the hall, fading into the blackness until an iron-lidded door slammed shut, plunging him back into night. He knelt by the bars, unmoving, scraping his fingernail along the smooth bars. His breath came in short, heavy gasps. Why had Master Shivu said what he said? He had not asked him any questions about his betrayal. He had shown little sympathy. Why? There was none of their usual banter. Instead, there was connection through fingers and eyes. Two of the senses acting in unison. A third, the voice, was not.

A wave of fear and loathing came over him. His mind felt like a bowl of mush. He could not think clearly. He could not understand properly. He rubbed his eyes with his hand and, when he finished, spots danced in the blackness for a few moments and then vanished. Except for one. A small blue spot was moving along the roof of the hallway outside in the corridor. It approached slowly, coming forward like a serpent in a sinuous movement.

Paedrin stared at it, wondering if his imagination were totally rattled now. It was on the ceiling, drawing nearer to his cell. He waited, staring in awe as it approached, and then suddenly there was a rush of air and the light thump of two boots landing just outside his cell.

The blue light grew brighter until it revealed a face.

Kiranrao.

“Our conscience is our worst accuser. I once heard a great man from the Theater in Kenatos expound on this subject. I rarely visit such popular entertainments, but his words are worth writing down. Upon common theaters, he said, the applause of the audience is of more importance to the actor than his own approbation. But upon the stage of life, while conscience claps, let the world hiss.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

H
ettie waited in the dense brush against the wall of the Arch-Rike’s palace on the top of the island of Kenatos. She had crouched for hours by a stream, waiting to kill a deer with a single shot, but never had she waited more nervously or anxiously than at this moment. The hair on the back of her neck was prickling with gooseflesh, and every sound made her start and examine for its source.

She was dressed head to foot in dark leathers, every article bound tightly to prevent even the tiniest noise. Blades were strapped to her boots, her thighs, her belt. She gripped a short-bow in her hand, and a brace of arrows was fixed to the small of her back, each shaft fitted snugly in a compartment to prevent them from shifting.

The dawn brought the warbling of birds, which made it difficult to hear anything else. She waited, as still as she could be, slowly rubbing her hands together. In her mind, she rehearsed the story that Kiranrao had explained to her. She had summoned him to Kenatos to help free her friend when she learned he was in the Arch-Rike’s custody and not in the temple. She was worried
about him and his injuries, especially since he had sustained them as a result of trying to save her life in Drosta’s trap. If he had not been wounded already, the fight with the Kishion may not have been so one-sided.

That was right. Those were the words. She struggled to put some feeling to them, to make them seem genuine. To make her eyes not betray her. But the truth was that she
was
worried about him. The waiting was torture.

Suddenly there were bells tolling. Great enormous bells shuddered from the spires of the Arch-Rike’s palace. Hettie froze. That was the signal Kiranrao had warned her about. They were the alarms of the city, and they meant that all traffic into and out of Kenatos would halt until the bells sounded again. There was no explanation given, only the sound of the bells. Every boat in the slip would need to stay at anchor. Boats that had not docked yet would be stranded and forced to return to the outer network of piers.

The clanging noise frightened a group of starlings into flight, and Hettie watched them flee, oblivious to the Arch-Rike’s orders to the contrary.

The bells meant that Kiranrao had been discovered. That did not necessarily mean that his plan had failed. She rubbed her palms together briskly, staring up at the wall and then down the sharp slope into the grounds. They were not sculpted gardens, for the terrain was too craggy for that. The parks were on the other side of the palace, facing the majority of the citizens of Kenatos. In the rear of the palace were thick brush and dwarf pines and other rugged plants that could survive with little water and no attention.

Sounds came to her, and she quickly ducked lower into the brush and tried to identify them. Lower down from the wall approached a retinue of guards with several black hounds on
leashes. They were still a way off, but they were sniffing and looking for a scent or a trail. She frowned, knowing that the beasts would eventually find her scent. Her stomach began flip-flopping violently. How many men? A dozen? She counted them quickly. They were all soldiers except one. The one with the biggest hound was a Rike of Seithrall.

Two men landed right behind her and Hettie nearly screamed.

In that instant, she swung around with her bow; Kiranrao caught the stock before she could follow the movement with an arrow. As Kiranrao and Paedrin had struck the ground, they had dropped to a low crouch to allow the brush to hide them.

“Were you worried I was captured?” Kiranrao asked playfully, his eyes searching her face. Then he looked at her suggestively. “Finder garb suits her well. Doesn’t it, Bhikhu?”

She saw Paedrin gawking at her and almost favored him with a smile. But they were far from danger. “There are soldiers over there, searching for tracks. Ssshh!”

Paedrin’s eyes were bloodshot and his chin covered with recent growth. He looked haggard and spent, but his eyes fastened to hers with a desperation she had never seen before.

“Your shoulder?” she asked, nodding toward it.

“Healed,” Kiranrao answered for him. “He is not prone to much talk since I rescued him. Notice the ring on his hand? It looks like a wedding band, does it not?”

Hettie had not noticed it and cursed herself for spending so much time absorbing the look on his face. Paedrin held up his hand for her to see it. It was an ugly thing, made of iron with silver symbols carved into it. His eyes were haunted.

“What is it?” Hettie whispered.

Kiranrao gave her a snort. “He’s more to be pitied than laughed at now. It’s a Kishion ring. The lad is wedded to the Arch-Rike now. Still happy I saved him for you?” He held out his hand. “Payment due. Give me the stones.”

Hettie hated deceiving Paedrin like this. She gritted her teeth. “He is no use to us if he has not his own will!”

“Let Tyrus unscramble his brains then. I want the stones to trade him for the blade. My service is performed. Hand me the stones, girl.”

Hettie took the pouch from her belt and untied it, then flung them at him roughly. “Take it!” she snapped angrily.

Kiranrao nodded his head with a broad smile. “He still hasn’t spoken a word. The silent are often guilty. I will draw away these fools and then meet you at the boulders by the shore.” He clapped Paedrin on the back. “Go with her, boy. She will lead you away.” He rose slightly and stared down at the soldiers at the base of the hill. “A windy day is the wrong one for thatching. Time to fly!” He broke away from the brush at a sprint, making plenty of noise to draw the attention of the dogs and the men.