Rushing to his side, Hettie found him wet with sweat. He was huddled on the floor, arms clasped around his middle.
“Paedrin!” she gasped. He stiffened and looked at her, his eyes wild with panic. She touched his shoulder.
Calmness began to settle over him, as if her touch were magic somehow. The quivering muscles began to ease. His breathing slowed. She watched, transfixed by the metamorphosis. The strange look in his eyes began to soften.
“Are you sick?” she whispered at last, watching the final tremors fade away.
“I felt a fit coming on,” he replied, his voice strained. “I get them, from time to time. They pass quickly. I did not want to wake anyone.”
“I was worried when I did not find you in your room.”
His eyebrows arched. “You were looking for me in my room?”
She realized how it sounded, and flushed. “I needed to talk to someone. It is almost dawn. Tyrus is coming. What do you think of all this? What Prince Aransetis told us? You always have strong opinions.”
Paedrin breathed out heavily, pausing as he considered her. “How do we know we can trust him?”
“The prince?”
“No. Tyrus. Hasn’t he misled us from the start?”
She was surprised to hear that coming from him. He was never one to wrestle with self-doubt. “I used to think that. But the more I have thought about this, the more I believe he was trying to protect us.”
Paedrin lay still, his eyes far away.
“Are you all right, Paedrin?”
He flinched. “I am now. I wish you had not seen me like that.”
She sighed and laid her hand on his arm. “No one expects you to be invincible.” She sighed. The urge to tell him the truth gnawed at her. He deserved the truth, especially since he had disclosed his own weakness. It burned on her tongue. A secret is a weapon and a friend. It would give him power to hurt her. Sharing it might strengthen their friendship. She hesitated.
“I just wish I could fully trust Tyrus,” Paedrin muttered softly. “If you look at it a certain way, he abandoned us to that Kishion. Those who stay with him have a peculiar habit of ending up dead.”
Hettie felt a stab of concern at the way Paedrin was speaking. “He is my uncle.”
“Are you sure he is?” Paedrin asked, staring at her. “Do you really know anything about him? Were you told by the Romani you were his niece? Are they trustworthy either?”
Hettie shifted away from him. “This isn’t like you,” she said with concern.
Paedrin frowned and shook his head, as if reproaching himself. “I’m sorry. All my doubts tend to come out at night. I will be…more myself…in the morning.”
A chorus of trilling began just outside the window. The musical sound startled them and made them both start laughing. But on Hettie’s part, it was nervous laughter. Something was different about Paedrin. Something wasn’t right, but she could not decide what it was.
You have said enough. You planted doubts in her mind. You have done well, Paedrin. I applaud your efforts. Now be watchful. Look for the moment when you can seize the blade. We will appear suddenly, with enough force to distract Tyrus. My spies in the Druidecht camp say that he has it and that he disappeared this morning at dawn. He will meet you soon. You have led us to the end of the hunt. Soon you will be one of my Kishion. You will be very powerful in the realm. You will do great things.
The Arch-Rike’s voice shriveled from Paedrin’s mind, like a snake shedding skin. It was a horrible, violating feeling. It made him want to vomit. He stared at the ring on his finger. He knew he was betraying his friends. He knew he was betraying his race. He knew he was betraying the Bhikhu. If he could kill himself by removing the ring, he would have. All his life he had wanted to visit Silvandom. This act of treachery would never be forgiven. It would be better to die.
When he tried to will himself to remove it, his hands began shaking and would not obey.
“Be cautious whose philosophy you choose to follow. It is not the punishment but the cause that makes the martyr.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Tyrus produced the strange cylinder again. It was studded with gemstones and intricate carvings—either designs or a language beyond Annon’s knowledge. It was an object tuned to the ways of spirit magic.
“What is this creation?” Annon asked, looking at his uncle curiously. “What do you call it?”
Tyrus pursed his lips. “All magic is spirit magic. The beings inhabiting the gems are not trapped but are bound in service. They do so willingly and can leave if the user desires something improper. One cannot bind these types of spirits by force. These are the Tay al-Ard. With this, I can travel anywhere instantaneously. They are powerful.”