“Keep his word? I had not thought of that. Even if you did swear it, I could not believe it.” He stepped away from the fallen Paracelsus and began circling Kiranrao to the left.
Kiranrao began circling to the right, hand still clutching the sword hilt.
“You wish to fight me?” Kiranrao said in a low voice. He sounded amused.
“Maybe we are brothers,” Paedrin replied sardonically, feeling his entire body focus and harden. “Separated from birth and raised in two different orphanages. Are you my brother? Are you truly Vaettir-born? You mock everything we stand for.”
“Every bird relishes his own voice.”
It was the sound of the hounds that interrupted them.
“There are enemies enough surrounding us!” Hettie said sharply. “Please! For pity sake, will both of you be silent!”
Kiranrao stopped circling. His eyes filled with menace. “You are an insignificant whelp. I value no life but my own. If you wish to school me in pain, trust me when I say that it is you who will be the learner. You are not even a second-order Bhikhu. You know nothing. I come and go as I choose. I do as I please. It is through my mercy that you are even here.” He paused, smiling again. “Is that clear, lad? Or do I kill you now?”
“The King of Wayland controls a vast breadth of land that is used to farm the wheat and grain that is shipped to other kingdoms. Each of the main farms is governed by a Duke. Each Duke is required by the king to provide riders to patrol the borders of Wayland and prevent other kingdoms from stealing crops or herds. These mounted soldiers roam the frontier and are called Outriders. It is understood that the laws of Wayland do not apply to these Outriders. When I travel to Wayland, I always bring a purse with sufficient ducats so that I may go my way in peace.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There were many things Paedrin wanted to say. An equal number of gibes and threats bubbled up into his mouth. But it was the look of horror on Hettie’s face that stayed his hands. It was a look of abject terror, a look that said she knew what Kiranrao could do to a man. He felt slightly dizzy, as if he had stopped at the edge of a precipice with a foot poised to take another step.
Patience. Wisdom. Know your enemy. Learn his weaknesses.
He could almost hear Master Shivu clucking his tongue at his foolishness.
Kiranrao cocked his eyebrow.
“The hounds,” Paedrin said. “They are chasing us now.”
“Take the boy on ahead,” Kiranrao said to Hettie. “Leave those who follow to me.”
Hettie reached tentatively for Paedrin’s sleeve. She tugged him away from Kiranrao, and he allowed himself to be led, his skin clammy, his stomach clenching with fear.
Hettie pulled him into a brisk walk and left the scene behind. Paedrin glanced back, noticing Kiranrao approach the wounded Paracelsus. He turned his gaze, unable to watch the murder. The barking of the hounds and the braying of the horns muffled it.
It was not far from the scene before Hettie began scolding him. “You are the world’s biggest fool, Paedrin Bhikhu. The biggest. I warned you about him. I told you that he is dangerous. If I pointed to a rattlesnake in a field, you’d probably tease it with a stick.”
Paedrin almost enjoyed the shrill sound of her voice. His stomach knotted with dread, recognizing he had come very close to dying that night. His honor and overconfidence had blinded him to mortal danger.
“How do you know him?” Paedrin asked huskily, trying to get the taste of fear out of his mouth.
“Every Romani knows of him,” Hettie said impatiently. “There are stories about him that would blister your ears. He is known among all of my people. I heard stories about him as a child. I never thought I would meet him, though.” She glanced back worriedly into the darkness. “We must run.”
“Tell me one,” Paedrin asked.
“What?”
“Tell me one of the stories.”
“We should really start running.”
He could hear the sound of the approaching soldiers. “Just one story. Please.”
“Very well, but only one. He was a young man, caught thieving in Kenatos, they say. He was held in a cell and warned the guards that he would kill them all if they tried to hang him. Of course they laughed and spat at him. Some said it would be difficult to hang a Vaettir-born; they promised to tie a sack of stones around his ankles to keep him from floating. He warned them again that each man would die if they tried to hang him.
“The day came. He was marched to the gallows. A crowd gathered in the streets to watch him die. There were jeers and mocking shouts. His hands were tied with ropes behind his back. A cord was knotted around his ankles. They were just about to put the noose around his neck when suddenly the hangman himself had been hanged. The trapdoor was sprung and two more were bashed against the edges, falling in. The crowd panicked. By the time the Bhikhu arrived to restore the peace, all twelve of the officers were dangling from the gallows.” She gave him a serious look. “That is the man you insulted in Havenrook. And again tonight. Now run!”