Poisonwell
Page 103
As Paedrin’s feet touched the uneven stone, black roots shot up from the cracks of moldering stone and fastened around his ankles and up to his calves. They felt like iron and began squeezing with ruthless intensity, causing wrenching pain to shoot up his legs. He had barely noticed the solitary shell of an oak tree nearby. The clutches of the roots tightened further and suddenly he saw something dark materialize from the shadows. It wasn’t the bulk of a Fear Liath—it was made of snatches of night that coalesced. Paedrin saw the dagger gripped fiercely in the man’s hand. He saw the expression of hate on Kiranrao’s face.
The fear in the Bhikhu’s chest was a razor.
XXXI
Utter exhaustion had finally driven Kiranrao to tempt sleep in the crook of a shattered tree. He leaned against the rugged bark, trying to stifle the ribbons of pain on his arms and legs and across his shoulders. The last attack from the Weir had almost destroyed him, but he had managed to slay each one of the beasts. He could still smell their fur and blood, and the scent made him nauseous. His head drooped and he caught himself, listening keenly into the darkness. He was nothing but a shadow smudge himself, but he knew he could not rest for long. He knew the forest was still hunting him.
So was the memory.
A wave of self-loathing threatened to smother and choke him. Alone, in the darkest night of his life, he shuddered at the memory of murdering Khiara. Why should the death of one person be the rack on his conscience, one that threatened his very notion of himself? He was Kiranrao, master of Havenrook, lord of the Romani, father of all greed. He had swindled men and then left them dying in puddles of their own blood when they attempted retribution against him. He knew about suffering in all of its shades. He remembered a madwoman in Kenatos who used to sing before the wealthiest citizens and was reduced to living in squalor and bird droppings. He had faced the gallows and not flinched. Why was murdering Khiara so different?
But it was different. In the dark, his conscience accused him. She was a Shaliah, someone whose very existence was one of self-sacrifice and honor. It was cloying, actually, and he found himself despising the woman despite needing her gifts to stay alive himself. He had promised to repay her. Was it that broken promise that haunted him now? Why should it—when he had broken so many?
Somehow, Kiranrao realized deep inside that he had crossed a new border of ignominy. He had done it almost on a whim, to hamper Tyrus’s efforts more than to help his own cause. Yet now, he was lying to himself again. He had thought about killing her before. The power she possessed . . . the ability to heal and restore was completely anathema to his own power, the power over death. The blade Iddawc had whispered to him to kill her. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his wrists, still holding the stained blade in his hand. He had not sheathed it since coming into the Scourgelands. There was something in its power . . . something in the way it whispered to him.
He shuddered again, trying to banish those murky thoughts. He could have retreated into the woods without anyone to stop him. He should have done that. Yet he had not, and there was no way to undo the death he had caused. Why had he succumbed to that impulse?
When had he lost control over his own mind?
He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to listen for the telltale sound of danger. He had to survive the Scourgelands. Tyrus would not be the only man to have succeeded. Kiranrao was hungry, but determined to preserve his dwindling supply of food. He dared not forage for sustenance, knowing the diseases inflicted on those who ate. Khiara had removed that disease, a keramat of tremendous power. He coveted power. What power he could not have, he wanted to destroy so that others could not. He gritted his teeth in anger and frustration. He would kill Tyrus, of course. He would kill them all. Even that Quiet Kishion was weak compared to the power of the blade. Even an immortal could be killed.
Even Shirikant.
Kiranrao smoldered in silent fury, thinking on the Arch-Rike’s face, wishing his hatred could summon the man in person. What a puppet master the Arch-Rike pretended to be. Well, Kiranrao would sever the strings and let the entire play collapse in a heap of wooden parts.
Even with his eyes closed, he saw Khiara in his mind, her eyes accusing. A stain of brown blood was on her tunic front. He could almost feel her standing near him, her eyes full of pity as well as condemnation.
“Leave me,” Kiranrao muttered. “Begone.”
The silent eyes continued to bore into his skull. Was that a whisper of breath? He opened his eyes, gazing in shock, fully expecting to see her shade kneeling by him. He saw nothing, but he still felt that she was there . . . or some other malevolent shade.
The fear in the Bhikhu’s chest was a razor.
XXXI
Utter exhaustion had finally driven Kiranrao to tempt sleep in the crook of a shattered tree. He leaned against the rugged bark, trying to stifle the ribbons of pain on his arms and legs and across his shoulders. The last attack from the Weir had almost destroyed him, but he had managed to slay each one of the beasts. He could still smell their fur and blood, and the scent made him nauseous. His head drooped and he caught himself, listening keenly into the darkness. He was nothing but a shadow smudge himself, but he knew he could not rest for long. He knew the forest was still hunting him.
So was the memory.
A wave of self-loathing threatened to smother and choke him. Alone, in the darkest night of his life, he shuddered at the memory of murdering Khiara. Why should the death of one person be the rack on his conscience, one that threatened his very notion of himself? He was Kiranrao, master of Havenrook, lord of the Romani, father of all greed. He had swindled men and then left them dying in puddles of their own blood when they attempted retribution against him. He knew about suffering in all of its shades. He remembered a madwoman in Kenatos who used to sing before the wealthiest citizens and was reduced to living in squalor and bird droppings. He had faced the gallows and not flinched. Why was murdering Khiara so different?
But it was different. In the dark, his conscience accused him. She was a Shaliah, someone whose very existence was one of self-sacrifice and honor. It was cloying, actually, and he found himself despising the woman despite needing her gifts to stay alive himself. He had promised to repay her. Was it that broken promise that haunted him now? Why should it—when he had broken so many?
Somehow, Kiranrao realized deep inside that he had crossed a new border of ignominy. He had done it almost on a whim, to hamper Tyrus’s efforts more than to help his own cause. Yet now, he was lying to himself again. He had thought about killing her before. The power she possessed . . . the ability to heal and restore was completely anathema to his own power, the power over death. The blade Iddawc had whispered to him to kill her. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his wrists, still holding the stained blade in his hand. He had not sheathed it since coming into the Scourgelands. There was something in its power . . . something in the way it whispered to him.
He shuddered again, trying to banish those murky thoughts. He could have retreated into the woods without anyone to stop him. He should have done that. Yet he had not, and there was no way to undo the death he had caused. Why had he succumbed to that impulse?
When had he lost control over his own mind?
He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to listen for the telltale sound of danger. He had to survive the Scourgelands. Tyrus would not be the only man to have succeeded. Kiranrao was hungry, but determined to preserve his dwindling supply of food. He dared not forage for sustenance, knowing the diseases inflicted on those who ate. Khiara had removed that disease, a keramat of tremendous power. He coveted power. What power he could not have, he wanted to destroy so that others could not. He gritted his teeth in anger and frustration. He would kill Tyrus, of course. He would kill them all. Even that Quiet Kishion was weak compared to the power of the blade. Even an immortal could be killed.
Even Shirikant.
Kiranrao smoldered in silent fury, thinking on the Arch-Rike’s face, wishing his hatred could summon the man in person. What a puppet master the Arch-Rike pretended to be. Well, Kiranrao would sever the strings and let the entire play collapse in a heap of wooden parts.
Even with his eyes closed, he saw Khiara in his mind, her eyes accusing. A stain of brown blood was on her tunic front. He could almost feel her standing near him, her eyes full of pity as well as condemnation.
“Leave me,” Kiranrao muttered. “Begone.”
The silent eyes continued to bore into his skull. Was that a whisper of breath? He opened his eyes, gazing in shock, fully expecting to see her shade kneeling by him. He saw nothing, but he still felt that she was there . . . or some other malevolent shade.
