by Jeff Wheeler
He inhaled and scurried up the side of the wall, ascending rapidly. When he reached the top, he crouched at the edge, staring down at an empty yard below. A few tufts of weeds had sprung from some of the flagstones. There was not a soul to be seen.
Alarm. Worry. Dread.
Paedrin battled his feelings down, studying the training yard for any sign of movement. There was none. He exhaled and lowered to the ground inside, dropping low and watching for clues. Finding none, he rose and quickly went to the sheltered walkway that led to the main building of the complex. As he passed the columns, he could imagine seeing himself in the yard, trying to impress Hettie with his abilities as she walked where he did. He pursed his lips. Something was wrong. Was the temple abandoned?
Paedrin reached the doors and pushed and they opened. There was a smell of death in the air. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prick and gooseflesh went down his arms. It smelled like a sewer. He could hear the sound of buzzing flies. Paedrin began to tremble, his stomach coiling into knots, his face beginning to twitch with raw anger and horrible fear.
He started across the tile toward Master Shivu’s chamber and nearly collided with another Bhikhu, his friend Sanchein.
“Paedrin!” he gasped. Sanchein was Aeduan and nearly his own height. His face was pocked and his eyes were swollen with fatigue. He stared at Paedrin in confusion. “They said you were dead. They said the Arch-Rike executed you!” He touched Paedrin’s arm, shaking his head with disbelief.
“Where is Master Shivu?” Paedrin asked forcefully. “I must see him.”
Sanchein’s look of surprise was stricken with grief. “He is dying. Everyone is sick. The Rikes say it is the Plague. None of us are allowed to leave the temple. There are only four of us left alive.”
Paedrin stared at his friend in horror.
Just then, the gate bell began to ring.
“I have always been impressed by the Bhikhu. They do not rely on ducats or influence for power. Their integrity is their power. The master of the Bhikhu temple, in my opinion, is the epitome of the virtue of humility, which is the foundation of all the other virtues. In the soul in which this virtue does not exist there cannot be any other virtue except in mere appearance.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The sadness and shock nearly overwhelmed Paedrin. The look in Sanchein’s eyes showed that he was not lying. He had no reason to. The grief in his expression was clear as the dawn. The truth of his words shredded into Paedrin’s heart with full misery. He did not believe it was the Plague. It was the ruthlessness of the Arch-Rike that was to blame. It was revenge, cold and hard. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. But the tolling of the bell meant that Hettie was warning him to flee. He could not do so yet.
“Take me to Master Shivu,” Paedrin whispered hoarsely. “Quickly, I must see him!”
“But how did you…?”
“I swear I will crush your other toe if you do not take me to him right now!”
A little smile wavered on Sanchein’s mouth as he remembered. “Come.”
The two hastened through the darkened temple. The smell of sickness was everywhere. As their sandals clacked on the tiles, Paedrin stared at the empty corridors. The sound of flies swarming filled the air. He gritted his teeth, preparing himself for what he would see.
Sanchein wavered at the doorstep. “He is in great pain, Paedrin. I’ve never seen a man suffer so. Pain is a teacher, but what lesson this pain teaches is beyond me. His agony weakens him. I can’t believe he’s dying, Paedrin.” Tears glittered on his lashes.
Paedrin pushed his way through the fragile doorway and saw Master Shivu. Or what remained of him. He had shrunken with the sickness, making his body appear like a skeleton. His skin was flushed and he wore no shirt, so that his bones protruded like some reptilian thing. The stubble on his head was growing and he had not shaved in several days, allowing white whiskers to grow on his face. His eyes burned with fever and he sat erect, sweat glistening on his body. A bowl of vomit sat between his legs.
The skin and eyes were sallow. The stench in the room was overpowering. Dried lips parted, trembling with clenched pain. “Paedrin,” he croaked.
Seeing the agony in his master’s eyes shook him to his core. Shivu was Vaettir-born. Paedrin could not remember a single time he had ever been ill. Now he looked like a desiccated leaf, trembling under a breeze, waiting for the stem to snap off.
“Master,” Paedrin sighed, rushing to him. He reached to take the bony hand, but a subtle nod bid him stop.
“I…I…hoped you…would come. Grieve not for…me.” His breath was shallow, full of pain. “I will…rest…soon.”
“Master,” Paedrin said, shaking his head. Tears stung his eyes. How could he not grieve for the man? “I need your help. But I cannot leave you like this. There are Druidecht who can heal you. If I can take you away from here…”
A clicking sound came from Master Shivu’s throat. “Too…late. No keramat in the city. Only the Arch-Rike’s magic. He will not…heal me. Or the students. He is…angry for my refusal. Seek…the Shatalin temple, Paedrin. Seek…the sword. You will need it…to survive.” His eyes closed. “Scourgelands. To survive…”
“But where is the Shatalin temple?” Paedrin pleaded. He wiped his eyes furiously, unable to prevent the pain of his breaking heart. “Where do I look, Master?”
“The Vaettir…arrived…by sea. Shatalin. The ocean…west. Fog and mists. Rocks and mountains. Beyond Stonehollow. Seek Lydi. Shipyards. They will know where…in the mountains. When the ships came…they founded Shatalin for training Bhikhu. Separate from…Silvandom.”
Shivu grimaced, eyes blazing. His whole body trembled and shook from his legs to his neck muscles. He moaned and reeled, struck by another fierce wave of pain. The bed started to rattle with his convulsions. Paedrin stared at him helplessly. He wished Khiara had been there, who with a touch could have calmed the pain. He was furious with the Arch-Rike for allowing his master to suffer.
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 pois
on 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.
“Keeping silent cannot help them,” the Cruithne murmured. There was a grunt of pain and then a choking sound.
Paedrin stepped into the doorway, advancing as he saw the Cruithne holding Sanchein on the ground with one arm bulging around his throat. Sanchein kicked him solidly, trying to wrench the grasp away, but the Cruithne was a giant of a man and it was like kicking an immovable boulder. It was the one from the towers. He saw Paedrin and stood, releasing Sanchein.
“There you are,” he muttered. He opened his arms expansively, bowing slightly, as if inviting the Bhikhu to attack him.
“You are a big man,” Paedrin said. “You stink like sour mouse droppings though. I hope you do not catch the Plague here. For you will certainly not catch me.”
“There is no Plague here,” the Cruithne said in a low, deep voice. “I’ve heard you were the best Vaettir in the temple. Is that true?”
“There are no longer any Vaettir here,” Paedrin taunted. “While I enjoy a good conversation and a good fight, now would not be the right time for either. Give my flatulent regards to the Arch-Rike and tell him I am no longer in his employ.” He sucked in his breath sharply and rose to the ceiling rafters.
“Wait!” the Cruithne shouted.
Paedrin ran along the edge of one of the ceiling rafters, breathed in again, and soared up to one of the windows embedded in the upper heights. He could hear the stomping of the Cruithne’s boots, but it was laughable to think that such a man could ever catch a fleeing Vaettir.
Surely, he knew he could defeat the bulky man. He was sorely tempted to. But he knew, at that moment of weakness, he would probably kill him. Deliberately. Painfully. Or break every major bone in his body as a warning to the Arch-Rike and those who would hunt them. He used the Uddhava against himself. The bell had been Hettie’s warning to flee. It was now time to flee the city as well as the temple. Gripping the edge of the roof, Paedrin leapt, breathing in and rising as he twirled, landing on the edge. He raced up the shingles, pulling in just enough air to keep his steps light and not reveal which direction he ran.
At the pinnacle of the sloping roof, he stood for a moment, gazing out at the city as he had done so many times as a boy. Bitter feelings swirled inside his heart. He had unwittingly unleashed the Romani wrath on his family. His actions in Havenrook had caused their deaths. The pain of that thought sent more cracks through his heart. There was only one way to atone for it. Destroy the Plague. Destroy the Arch-Rike’s influence. And restore the Shatalin temple.
Hettie would be waiting for him at the back of the temple. He rushed down the opposite slope of the tiles and then kicked off the edge, leaping high into the air, breathing in deeply to add to his flight. He soared like a raven over the wall, swooping down, his lungs aching to release the breath. Down he glided, coming over the lip of the wall where he saw Hettie crouching behind a shed nearby.
He dropped down next to her, startling her with his sudden appearance. He loved doing that.
“The Cruithne from the towers,” Hettie whispered. “He must have hired the Preachán to follow us here.”
“Little doubt of that,” Paedrin said, squatting. His emotions were jumbled together. He wanted so much to go back there and fight. He wanted to hurt someone. Anyone would do.
“What is it?” she asked, looking at him in concern.
She was Romani herself. He stared at her face, unable to quell the wave of nausea and antipathy for her people. “Master Shivu is dead. He was poisoned.” He let the word hang in the air between them. “Because I took that Romani man’s knife. The man who stabbed me with it.”
Her expression darkened, her face hardening with suppressed feelings. “I am so…”
He held up his hand curtly. “Please. Spare me your sympathy.”
She looked at him coldly a moment, then nodded. “I will. But perhaps you gain a little better understanding of why all your little sayings were hard for me to accept.”
Paedrin frowned, anger throbbing in his heart. “Do not mock the virtues of my upbringing. They may be of little worth to you, but they are still a better way to live.”
“It is a hard task to comfort the proud.”
“Another Romani saying. You have not run out of them yet?” He glared at her.
“No. But at least you know where to start looking for the temple now, yes? A good beginning is half the work.”
Paedrin’s heart was anguished, and he dipped his head, trying to master his emotions. “I do.” He sighed heavily. “Part of me thinks I should float off and leave you here. I can get out of this city easier. I can travel faster without you. I’m not fully convinced I can trust you.”
“The problem with you, Paedrin, is that you have always talked too much. I don’t need to hear every thought in your head to know they are there.” She held up her hand and pointed at her finger. “Yes, you can leave me here all alone. You won’t because you’d worry about me getting captured.” She flicked one finger down. “You can get out of the city easier. But can you do so without escaping notice? There are Finders who will be tracking us. I can help there.” She flicked another finger down. “You can travel faster without me. Very true. Any man can hasten to his own death. It may require both of us to claim the sword. One to distract and the other to steal it. That is how the best thieves do it.�
� She lowered the third finger. “You cannot trust me. Trust must be built and earned. I told you I would ring the bell if trouble came. I did. I told you I would be waiting for you here. I was.”
It left a final finger in the air. She looked at him pointedly, her eyes burning into his. “The last thing, you did not mention. I have magic that will be needed in the Scourgelands. But I think that it would be wise to not have to rely on it alone. If I use it too much, I will go mad, you see. If I don’t use it, I may be defenseless. I was hoping, along our journey, that you might start teaching me the Bhikhu ways.” The final finger came down and then she opened her palm to him, an offer of almost submission.
He blinked at her in surprise. “Teach you?”
Her expression was carefully guarded. “If you would.”
He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “You are serious.”
“There is much I can learn from you, though it pains me to admit it.”
Paedrin was uncertain how he felt about it. It gratified his pride that she asked him. He would enjoy teaching her the Bhikhu ways and to school her in pain. Was she trying to manipulate him? He would have to test it.
“Bhikhu don’t eat meat,” he said simply. “The philosophy comes with the training, not just the fighting. I won’t train a mercenary.”
“Agreed,” she answered, looking in his eyes firmly. “I will eat what you eat. I will do what you bid me to do. Will you teach me, Paedrin?”
Restore the Shatalin temple. Forgive.
He stared into her face, amazed at how familiar it was to him. They had not known each other very long, but the shared experiences had given them a tight bond. “Not even a rabbit.”
“Not even a bird,” she agreed.
He sighed. “Very well. I will teach you. But there is something we must do first. We must shear off all of your hair.”
He could tell by her expression she was not certain if he was joking or not.
Before either could speak they heard the ominous sound of boot steps approaching and promptly fled their hiding place.