Phae breathed through her nose, smelling the fragrances of the woods around her. It was not Stonehollow. She would miss the beauty of her homeland. But perhaps the wonders of Mirrowen would surpass it? She hoped so.
“I make the choice,” Phae said. “If it can prevent the death of innocents, I will do so.”
The other Dryad smiled proudly at her. Then her eyes widened suddenly and she sat up straight, blinking rapidly. “He’s here,” she whispered, her voice filling with delight. “I sensed him enter the woods. He is coming this way!”
“Who is?” Phae asked, rising with the other girl as she rushed to her feet.
“Annon, my Druidecht,” she said, her eyes shining. “How did he get here so quickly? He was leagues away.” The girl’s fingers dug into Phae’s arm, her expression darkening. “There are others with him. I sense powerful magic coming from him. I cannot be seen.” She bit her lip, staring into the woods toward the sound of crunching foliage.
Shion appeared in the ring of trees and his presence made the Dryad vanish. He strode up to Phae purposefully, his hand on a dagger hilt. “Come, others approach,” he whispered, pulling her by the arm away from the tree.
He had that dangerous look in his eyes again, the look that made her insides shrivel with fear. It was a look that said he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. She wondered, deep down, if she would ever be free of him.
“There is a great Bhikhu proverb that I have always admired: I found thee not without, Wisdom, because I erred in seeking without what was already within.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
As Paedrin slowly became conscious, he was immediately aware that he was blind and that the blindness hurt. The pain was so intense that he feared his eyes had been gouged out and sought to touch his face to verify it, only he could not. His wrists were bound in iron shackles, his arms bent backward around a stone column. His chin rested against his breast and he felt drops of sweat or blood coming from his chin. His ravaged eyes were excruciating and he began to cough.
For a moment, he could not remember what had happened or how he had come to be trapped in chains. Then the images came back into his mind, darting like spiders and sinking their fangs into his mind. Kiranrao was at the Kishion training yard. He possessed the Sword of Winds. Everything they believed about him had been a lie. Paedrin flexed his arm muscles, testing the strength of the chain and the amount of slack. He heard the metal scrape against the stone, allowing him to shift slightly.
Pain was a teacher.
Paedrin wondered what lesson he was going to learn this time. Had they truly blinded him? Or was it magic of some sort that caused the pain? His breath became ragged gasps, his shoulder convulsing with the suppressed agony. He would not cry out again. He would bear it like a Bhikhu.
He heard footsteps in the yard. Several sets, in fact, the sound of training.
“You are too slow,” he heard the man say. “Lower! Feel the stretch in your calves. Push harder! Lower that stance. Lower! The Arch-Rike’s emissary is coming. He must see you working harder.”
The voice seared Paedrin’s mind. Kiranrao.
It was Kiranrao who had freed him from the Arch-Rike’s dungeon. The legend was that he was the only man who had ever stolen from the Arch-Rike and survived to flaunt the exploit. How had they missed his treachery all along? It was brutally clear now. When the battle had commenced with the Arch-Rike’s forces in Silvandom, Kiranrao had vanished after Tyrus had given him the blade Iddawc. It was a weapon that Kiranrao craved above all others. But he had stolen it the second time for the Arch-Rike.
Paedrin hung his head, jaw clenched, suffering the pain.
“The Bhikhu,” someone said. “He’s rousing.”
“It does not matter. Leave him be,” Kiranrao said condescendingly. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey, eh? And as the Romani say, a secret is a weapon and a friend.”
Paedrin almost replied with a biting retort, but he was afraid to open his mouth. He tested the chains again, feeling the hardness, the implacability of his situation. He was surrounded by enemies. The Arch-Rike’s minion was coming for him, most likely to place a ring around his finger and bind him with a curse of service.
Never.
Paedrin’s heart boiled with fury at the thought. He had been starved of light and food and trapped in the Arch-Rike’s dungeon when they had last tricked him into wearing a Kishion ring. It would not happen again. He refused to submit to the fate. They could blind him. They could whip him. They could sear his skin with burning pokers, but he would never submit to that ink-black, oily feeling of the Arch-Rike invading his mind. He would die first.