A bony hand grabbed his wrist. Master Shivu’s face was contorted. “Forgive them, Paedrin. Forgive.”
“Who?” he said, staring with grief. His heart was nearly bursting. “Who?”
“This is not the Plague. Romani poison.”
Paedrin stared at him in horror. “This is poison?” he gasped.
“Sanchein,” Shivu gasped. “Tell him. The Preachán.”
Sanchein hovered at the doorway. He entered meekly, wiping tears from his eyes. He looked beaten down by a great secret. “He arrived not many days ago, Paedrin. He was looking for you.”
“Who was?” Paedrin stammered. “This doesn’t make sense. Who are you talking about?”
“A Preachán fellow, claiming to be from Havenrook. He said you had stolen some magic from him and he wanted it back. A blade. You had taken it during a fight. He said the Bhikhu cannot have treasure and he wanted it back or ten thousand ducats. Master Shivu sent him away. He said that you had been executed by the Arch-Rike and that the temple did not have any ducats at all. The man was angry but he left with a surly expression. That night is when the first signs of sickness came. It happened after mealtime.”
Paedrin gripped Sanchein’s arms so tightly the man winced with pain.
Oh no, he thought in despair, his heart shuddering at the realization. He remembered the night in Havenrook when the mob had come after them at Erasmus’s home. With his Bhikhu training, he had dispersed the crowd, but one man—one of the men at Kiranrao’s table—had challenged him with a dagger imbued with power. Paedrin had broken both of the man’s arms and had assumed it would take months for him to heal.
Not so. Not in Havenrook, where everything was for sale.
The realization struck him like thunder. The man had sought revenge. He knew Paedrin was from Kenatos. He had come there seeking retribution. He had probably observed the temple for a day or two, learned about their mealtimes. And then he had poisoned the food or the well with monkshood, the poison Hettie had told him about. Only the Romani knew the cure.
What have I done? he shouted at himself. He stared at Master Shivu, whose eyes burned with agony and stared into his.
“Forgive,” Shivu whispered. “Uddhava will not save me. Revenge will not…raise the dead. Restore the Shatalin temple, Paedrin.” His chest began to heave. “Restore the Shatalin temple. Bring back the Shatalin.” His eyes began to bulge. “Stop the Arch-Rike!”
Paedrin felt pain from his master’s grip, but he welcomed it. It was nothing compared to the searing agony in his heart.
“I will,” Paedrin vowed.
The wave of pain passed and Master Shivu let out a long, relieved sigh. His expression softened. His shoulders sunk. It was only when he did not breathe in again that Paedrin realized he had died.
“Master!” he said, choking, gripping the frail hand that was now slack.
The body slumped back down on the bed, sloshing the bowl of bile. Paedrin stared at him as the brittle cracks splintered inside his soul, gripping the hand and trying to comprehend what had happened. The Romani had destroyed the Bhikhu temple. He did not know if Kiranrao had authorized it, but it did not matter much to him if he had or had not.
Forgive them, Paedrin. Forgive.
How could he do that? How could he absolve them of destroying all that he held dear? He wept bitterly, kneeling by Master Shivu’s bedside.
A shudder came from the darkness of the corridor. The sound of thick heavy boots and a long stride.
“Someone is coming,” Sanchein warned, dabbing his nose.
Restore the Shatalin temple. It was a charge and a commitment. He was free from the Arch-Rike’s ring. He was free to fulfill Tyrus’s quest. But he knew deep in his heart that he would never be free from hating the Romani. Rage could not describe how he felt and hatred was too soft a word.
“I brought this on us,” Paedrin whispered darkly. The other orphans who had been raised at the temple. Dead, because of him. Only four had survived and the Arch-Rike refused to lift a finger. He turned his head, hearing the boot steps draw nearer.
Sanchein turned and went into the hallway. “What is your business here, Cruithne? Who let you in?”
The voice was deep and accented. “A Bhikhu just arrived. The Vaettir. Where is he?”
Paedrin touched Master Shivu’s eyelids, closing them. He walked around the bed. A Cruithne? The one from the Paracelsus Towers?
“The only Vaettir living here was Master Shivu,” Sanchein said stiffly. “He is dead.”
“A good answer, for it is the truth. I will ask more directly. The Bhikhu known as Paedrin. Is he here now?”
Sanchein said nothing.