Dryad-Born(98)

A foot struck his stomach, right where he held his breath and he felt it gush out, dropping him like a rock to the courtyard floor. Despite the torturing magic, Paedrin lunged out, a whirlwind of fists and feet. He listened for the sound of movement, for any intake of breath. Then he dived to the side and rolled, dropping into a low crouch, arms brought into a defensive square, ready to block an attack. A fist struck him in the back. Pain ripped through his lower muscles, making his legs weak. In retaliation, he back-kicked and felt it strike the man, sending him sprawling. Like a tiger, Paedrin vaulted after, hammering down on the body until he realized it wasn’t Kiranrao at all but one of the Kishion in training.

The deft scrape of a foot behind him.

Paedrin flipped up in the air, sucking in painfully, and felt a body pass below him. He knifed downward, his face afire, and dropped the man below. As he was straightening, a meaty hand grabbed his wrist. It was a Cruithne. He knew his arm would be dislocated in a moment. Paedrin used Unbendable Arm and stepped in sideways, swiveling the Cruithne over his back, and hurled him to the ground. With a wrenching feeling, the grip on his wrist vanished and he was free.

Paedrin could sense the heat from the bodies as they converged around him. He struck fast and hard, squeezing his eyes shut to try to block the torrid pain, but he could hardly think past the scream he refused to allow out of his mouth. Dropping low and then high, he struck and parried, blocking the blows that rained on him from all sides. His knee was taken out from behind and he staggered down. A kick to his face brought stars as well as more pain. Flopping on to his back, Paedrin rolled back over his shoulder, shoved against the ground into a handstand and sucked in another gulp of air to start rising again. If he could reach the walls…

Something struck the side of his skull, and all went black.





“The delegation to Havenrook failed. The ambassadors were ambushed and robbed. It baffles me that the Preachán would do this, despite the advantage of their own interests to meet with the delegation. Several Bhikhu bodyguards were murdered. I fear that we are past the possibility of diplomacy now.”


—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos





As the first silver shades of dawn emerged through the immense fog bank, Hettie decided to start climbing. Her arms and legs were still weary from the ordeal of ascending the jagged cliff to the outer edge of the Shatalin temple, but it was a good place to conceal herself. Before Paedrin left, he had floated up the outer wall and discovered the highest tower directly above with a broad stone balcony set into the side, overlooking the vast ocean. It was tall enough that it protruded from the continual mist and provided a single overlook to the domain. Paedrin had taken the rope from her bag and tied one end to the stone buttresses supporting the balcony and brought the rest down to where she crouched. Scaling the wall would have been slow and dangerous without it.

She chafed her hands, fingers raw and still oozing from the climb the day before. Not even her blanket and cloak had kept her very warm and both were dripping with moisture. After rising slowly, she shook them off, rolled them up, and folded them away. She gazed up the slender rope that disappeared into the mist above. Paedrin was gone, scouting the perimeter and preparing to provide the distraction she needed. A gnawing, sick feeling—worry—grew tortuously inside her stomach. She knew he was capable and brave. He was also reckless and too sure of himself. A tiny spasm of fear accompanied the worry. She was not anxious to begin climbing again.

Knowing that daylight would rob her of natural advantages, she prepared herself mentally. Hettie checked her weapons, making sure they were snug. The arrows were bunched together and tied off to prevent them from rattling inside the quiver. She re-laced her boots again, just to be sure they were tight; the soles were padded to prevent sound. From a pocket, she produced her shooting gloves and tugged them on.

The Bhikhu training had begun to occupy the foremost thoughts in her mind. Deliberately, she had to recall the lessons of the Romani. How to move with perfect stillness. How to control her breathing. The inner mechanisms that made locks function and how to release them without a key. The art of disguise and the myriad of subterfuges she was capable of. But it was different now. Before she had been serving the interests of Kiranrao in claiming the lost Paracelsus blade, the one known as Iddawc. She had been his puppet. That secret and the trust of her brother and Paedrin had cost her something. Now that she was free of the accursed earring, she felt a lightness in her chest she’d never experienced before. Yes, a Romani may try to threaten her again. Kiranrao might attempt to poison her—but she felt much more capable of avoiding the fate of other Romani women. Tyrus’s quest to banish the Plague had resulted in the banishment of her captivity. He had offered her a chance to live in Silvandom, safely beyond the Arch-Rike and the Romani’s reach. She gladly clung to that strand of hope.