Dryad-Born(102)

After an interminable wait that caused the hairs on the back of Hettie’s neck to raise, a voice answered. “What is it?”

“You took your time,” Kiranrao snarled.

“I was in a war council,” came the terse reply. “What has happened?”

“I caught the Bhikhu.”

“Paedrin?”

“Yes. Paedrin. He’s as you described him. I’ve got him chained down in the training yard. I blinded him with the sword.”

“What about the Cruithne?”

“He was found this morning, guarding a little skiff at the base. I doubt he will be able to climb this high. Leaving him be for now. He’s a big brute, but mine can take him. Not a concern.”

“Kill him. He’s no use to me. What about the girl?”

“No sign of her.”

“What?”

Hettie smirked. She was as still as a cat. Kiranrao swore softly again, his breath starting to quicken.

“No sign of her yet.”

“She’s the most dangerous of the three. Probably skulking nearby. Search for her. I’m sending over one of my Rikes to bring rings for Paedrin and Hettie. Then you can commence their Kishion training. Hopefully one of them will survive it.”

A snort followed. “Who is your man? What is his name?”

“Aeldwyn,” the Arch-Rike replied. “He will not stay long.”

“When can I leave this cursed place?” Kiranrao’s voice was almost begging. “You promised me—”

“I know very well what we agreed to. You are doing your part. Let me do mine.”

“Ooogh,” hissed Kiranrao, pain in his voice. “Aeldwyn will come soon? Very well. I will wait for him at the summoning chamber. Send more Stonehollow wine with him. The last batch of Waylander ale was spoiled, I think. Remember your promise.”

Silence was the reply. The glow in the room faded.

“Blast my insides,” he growled, wheezing suddenly. He muttered more under his breath, complaining that he had swallowed pins. Hettie stared at the shadow on the floor, watching him bowed over. He would realize it soon enough. But she had also heard enough to realize something herself. Comprehension dawned on her.

“Every moment it gets worse,” he gasped. He sat back against the table, jarring the contents. He stiffened suddenly, bending double and wheezing loudly. “No,” he gasped. “No…it can’t be.” Lurching forward, he staggered over to the other side of the room, over to the cabinet fixed onto the wall, near the bed, near the fallen blankets, near Hettie. He withdrew a key and unlocked it, pulling open the cupboard door violently. His fingers jittered as he fumbled through the vials of poison, searching.

“Gone,” he whispered breathlessly. In shock and despair, he sat down on the bed, his weight pressing on the mattress, pressing on her.

Hettie plunged her dagger into the side of his knee and jerked the blade hard. He howled in pain and fell off the bed, his scream muffled by the blankets he collided with. Hettie struggled to free herself, clawing her way out as he thrashed in the blankets. Her heart pounded in her ribs, knowing she would not have long to bring her victim down.

As she swung herself free, she found him rising, holding up the scabbard, and saw the pommel begin to glow. She swept her cloak over the pommel and using a Bhikhu maneuver, she grabbed his wrist and then rammed her elbow against his extended forearm, dropping with her weight. It broke his arm and another scream ripped from his mouth. Hettie kicked him hard in the stomach, choking off his breath, and then jerked the scabbard away from him and tossed it to the far side of the room.

He was on one knee, his other bleeding profusely, his arm hanging loose at his side. His face was contorted in anguish. She slid another dagger free and kneed him in the chest, knocking him back against the cabinet, and then put the dagger to his throat.

“You are not Kiranrao,” she said with disdain at the imposter. She knew what the real Kiranrao was capable of. “You are a drunk and a wretch, and you’ve been poisoned by monkshood, as you already know. I’ve stolen the cure and even if you managed to kill me, you will not find where I’ve hidden it. You will die, very soon, crumpled in pain and agony. If you wish to live, you will start answering my questions.”

His eyes glittered with hatred, his mouth a snarl of enmity. “I’m bleeding to death.”

“Hardly. The poison will probably kill you before that happens. You just won’t be able to walk very well. Sit down on the bed.” She grabbed him by the tunic front and shoved him on the bed. He gasped with pain as he collapsed.

She waved the dagger at him. “How can you wear Kiranrao’s face? What magic gives the illusion?”