Dryad-Born
Page 98
“Who challenges me?” snapped a voice from the courtyard below. It was like a whip crack and echoed sharply.
“I do,” Paedrin said, taking in a deep breath, and jumped up, floating above the courtyard like a gray raven. “I am Paedrin of Kenatos. I am Paedrin Bhikhu. I am the last Vaettir of the true temple. I come to claim what is mine. I name you a thief. I name you a traitor.” He exhaled sharply, letting himself come down hard in the center of the courtyard. “And I can smell your bad breath from over here.”
The tall master stood like a granite slab. “I have been expecting you, Paedrin Bhikhu,” replied the voice. The man’s voice was suddenly familiar. A growing sense of dread welled inside of Paedrin’s stomach. From above, he had not recognized anything special about the sharp commands or the tone of voice. His mind began to shriek at him to flee. He stood still though, willing himself to face the worst. His goal was not to defeat the man. It was to provide Hettie sufficient time to steal the sword.
“Yes, I have expected you. But you are somewhat mistaken.” He turned around, his hair swishing. “My name is not Cruw Reon. It is Kiranrao. But you are correct. I am a thief. And I am a traitor.”
Paedrin would have recognized the voice anywhere. He stared into Kiranrao’s dark eyes, the wicked smirk on his mouth. There, at his side, was a sword that flickered in and out of view. He exhaled sharply, feeling his insides coil and twist with shock and surprise. Kiranrao of Havenrook. A traitor. A Vaettir. The man who trained new Kishion for the Arch-Rike? He reeled from the surprise, from the shock of it.
“I see by the gaping fish mouth that you had not figured it out before coming,” Kiranrao said with keen pleasure. “Oh, but how I have been waiting for you, little boy. Come to avenge the death of the Bhikhu temple. Poisoned by my orders.” He took a menacing step forward. “You’ve come for this weapon, have you not?” He motioned to his side. Looking at the sword made it disappear. Paedrin blinked furiously. “Or are you here for the blade Iddawc? You wish to take my place, to become who I am? Is that your wish?”
Paedrin steeled himself, feeling the sweat streak down his ribs. How had he not recognized Kiranrao before? The mist had obscured some of the courtyard, but the walk and the gait had not revealed him. It was too formal, not the lounging, lazy way of the Romani lord.
“You are unworthy to be a Vaettir,” Paedrin said in a low voice. “You are not even a Bhikhu. This shrine is no longer yours. Step down, or I will make you.”
“And how will you make me?” Kiranrao replied in a silken voice. “We both know that you were beaten by lesser men than me.”
“I don’t think it is possible for there to be a lesser man than you.” Every nerve in Paedrin’s body tingled with anticipation. He knew that most fights were won or lost in moments. By judging correctly or incorrectly how your enemy would first act or react. He knew that Kiranrao was trying to unsettle him, to make him act rashly. It was certainly working, but Paedrin was not a fool.
“If you wish to claim the Sword of Winds,” Kiranrao said, pulling the scabbard around. He tugged on the belt and the scabbard and blade unhasped. There was a glimmering green stone set in the pommel. “You must be able to draw it. It cannot be drawn by any man. You must defeat the one who holds it first. Is this what you want, Bhikhu? I could give you this sword, but it will not come loose from its sheath until you vanquish me. Is this what you crave? Is this the right you desire?”
“What I desire is that you eat your own dung and drink your own piss,” Paedrin replied with venom. “After I have made you do that, I will take that sword from you and use it to free this world of the Plague. When that is done, I will see you locked in chains in a dungeon with no light and nothing but gruel. You will be helpless and alone as you truly are. Do I make myself clear, Band-Imas? I know you can hear me. This is my promise to you, Arch-Rike. I will put you down, the lowest of men. Death would be too merciful for you.”
The cold eyes of Kiranrao went flat with hatred. Clutching the shaft of the scabbard, Kiranrao raised it so that the stone in the pommel met Paedrin’s gaze. A sickly green light emerged from the stone. Then it flashed suddenly, sending searing pain into Paedrin’s eyes. It felt as if his eyeballs were stabbed by hornets. He screamed in pain, shutting his eyes, but it was too late. The magic of the stone had already begun its work, causing agony inside his eyes. He almost crumpled to the ground, but instead, he jumped high, sucking in breath despite the torture searing his entire face and soared upward into the air. He had to get away. He had to flee.
“I do,” Paedrin said, taking in a deep breath, and jumped up, floating above the courtyard like a gray raven. “I am Paedrin of Kenatos. I am Paedrin Bhikhu. I am the last Vaettir of the true temple. I come to claim what is mine. I name you a thief. I name you a traitor.” He exhaled sharply, letting himself come down hard in the center of the courtyard. “And I can smell your bad breath from over here.”
The tall master stood like a granite slab. “I have been expecting you, Paedrin Bhikhu,” replied the voice. The man’s voice was suddenly familiar. A growing sense of dread welled inside of Paedrin’s stomach. From above, he had not recognized anything special about the sharp commands or the tone of voice. His mind began to shriek at him to flee. He stood still though, willing himself to face the worst. His goal was not to defeat the man. It was to provide Hettie sufficient time to steal the sword.
“Yes, I have expected you. But you are somewhat mistaken.” He turned around, his hair swishing. “My name is not Cruw Reon. It is Kiranrao. But you are correct. I am a thief. And I am a traitor.”
Paedrin would have recognized the voice anywhere. He stared into Kiranrao’s dark eyes, the wicked smirk on his mouth. There, at his side, was a sword that flickered in and out of view. He exhaled sharply, feeling his insides coil and twist with shock and surprise. Kiranrao of Havenrook. A traitor. A Vaettir. The man who trained new Kishion for the Arch-Rike? He reeled from the surprise, from the shock of it.
“I see by the gaping fish mouth that you had not figured it out before coming,” Kiranrao said with keen pleasure. “Oh, but how I have been waiting for you, little boy. Come to avenge the death of the Bhikhu temple. Poisoned by my orders.” He took a menacing step forward. “You’ve come for this weapon, have you not?” He motioned to his side. Looking at the sword made it disappear. Paedrin blinked furiously. “Or are you here for the blade Iddawc? You wish to take my place, to become who I am? Is that your wish?”
Paedrin steeled himself, feeling the sweat streak down his ribs. How had he not recognized Kiranrao before? The mist had obscured some of the courtyard, but the walk and the gait had not revealed him. It was too formal, not the lounging, lazy way of the Romani lord.
“You are unworthy to be a Vaettir,” Paedrin said in a low voice. “You are not even a Bhikhu. This shrine is no longer yours. Step down, or I will make you.”
“And how will you make me?” Kiranrao replied in a silken voice. “We both know that you were beaten by lesser men than me.”
“I don’t think it is possible for there to be a lesser man than you.” Every nerve in Paedrin’s body tingled with anticipation. He knew that most fights were won or lost in moments. By judging correctly or incorrectly how your enemy would first act or react. He knew that Kiranrao was trying to unsettle him, to make him act rashly. It was certainly working, but Paedrin was not a fool.
“If you wish to claim the Sword of Winds,” Kiranrao said, pulling the scabbard around. He tugged on the belt and the scabbard and blade unhasped. There was a glimmering green stone set in the pommel. “You must be able to draw it. It cannot be drawn by any man. You must defeat the one who holds it first. Is this what you want, Bhikhu? I could give you this sword, but it will not come loose from its sheath until you vanquish me. Is this what you crave? Is this the right you desire?”
“What I desire is that you eat your own dung and drink your own piss,” Paedrin replied with venom. “After I have made you do that, I will take that sword from you and use it to free this world of the Plague. When that is done, I will see you locked in chains in a dungeon with no light and nothing but gruel. You will be helpless and alone as you truly are. Do I make myself clear, Band-Imas? I know you can hear me. This is my promise to you, Arch-Rike. I will put you down, the lowest of men. Death would be too merciful for you.”
The cold eyes of Kiranrao went flat with hatred. Clutching the shaft of the scabbard, Kiranrao raised it so that the stone in the pommel met Paedrin’s gaze. A sickly green light emerged from the stone. Then it flashed suddenly, sending searing pain into Paedrin’s eyes. It felt as if his eyeballs were stabbed by hornets. He screamed in pain, shutting his eyes, but it was too late. The magic of the stone had already begun its work, causing agony inside his eyes. He almost crumpled to the ground, but instead, he jumped high, sucking in breath despite the torture searing his entire face and soared upward into the air. He had to get away. He had to flee.
