Poisonwell
Page 154
Phae felt something change inside her blood, filling her with peace. She grabbed Shion’s hand, staring into his eyes, beaming at him.
He smiled lovingly at Phae, his eyes crinkling with tenderness and warmth, and then dipped his head and kissed her.
“Maybe the Vaettir are the wisest of all, not the Preachán. They put it best: Love is not to be purchased, and affection has no price.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLVI
Paedrin’s heart raced with dread and a welling sense of hopelessness. Gusts of wind whipped him off course as he searched from the sky at the ruins of the fortress for a sign of Hettie, Tyrus, or Baylen. Every moment increased the sense of panic. He was too late. The soldiers were scattering like a hive of ants whose hill had been kicked over by an angry boot. Flashes of lightning from the turbulent skies warned him of the danger of staying aloft much longer. A brilliant bloom of blue fire exploded through the haze of mist below and he altered his course, shooting down to it. Flashes of red light came in response and Paedrin saw four shapes, wearing black, advancing on a man trapped in the middle. As he drew closer, he saw the streak of white light connecting the four men, boxing a fifth man in between.
“Closer! Closer! He’s wavering!” came a shout.
A gurgling scream of agony wailed from the midst of the light streamers. Another detonation of blue flame came, toppling one of the arches, and one of the men was crushed beneath the weight.
“Quickly! Don’t let him escape!”
Paedrin saw that the men were Paracelsus and he recognized the magic they used, for he had been entrapped by it as well. The more force used against it, the more force was repelled back. Tyrus was hunched over in agony, trying to get back on his feet. The three continued to lean forward, struggling with each step to draw the net of magic tighter, to immobilize him.
A shriek of curses came from Tyrus next, and he spit at them, screaming again as he tried to counter their magic with his own.
“Almost!” one of the Paracelsus shouted in triumph. “Bring him down! Shoot him! Shoot him!”
Paedrin swept into range from above and plunged the Sword of Winds into the lower back of one of the dark-clad Paracelsus. The man crumpled, his legs suddenly useless, and the spray of light went wide.
“No!” another wailed in terror, the net of magic scattering.
Tyrus’s head lifted, his eyes glazed with savage fury. He held up his hand, exposing a ring on his finger, and one of the Paracelsus went flying backward, arcing into the sky to smash into one of the stone columns still standing. Paedrin dove forward, coming up into a high leap and smashed his heel into the last Paracelsus’s face, dropping him to unconsciousness.
Paedrin whipped the blade around and turned to Tyrus. “Where is Hettie?” he shouted.
Blue flames irrupted from Tyrus’s outstretched arms, flooding toward Paedrin. Only his Bhikhu reflexes saved him and he leapt high into the air, summoning the blade’s magic to carry him up and over Tyrus’s head.
“It’s me, Paedrin!” he screamed and realized with anguish that Tyrus’s mind was no longer his own. Flames rippled from the man’s fingers, which were hooked like talons. There was no euphoria on his face, only malice and madness. Another burst of flames raced at him, and Paedrin swept it away quickly, barely dodging it.
“Stop!” Paedrin pleaded, trying to meet the gaze. It reminded him of the Boeotian Tasvir Virk and his heart crumpled with pain. Not Tyrus—not him. It was too much to lose him.
“You won’t . . . trick me!” Tyrus snarled, his body contorting into an unnatural position. He hunched over, as if experiencing horrible pain. His legs seemed rooted to the spot and one arm was tucked tight against his body, as if guarding a deep wound.
“It is not a trick,” Paedrin said, changing angles, using the Uddhava to be unpredictable. “Tyrus, please! You are sick. Let me help you. Where’s Hettie?”
“She’s dead. They’re all dead. I couldn’t stand alone against the entire world. I bore it all, but I’m dying.” He coughed and sagged to one knee, bending over and vomiting black bile. He struggled to breathe, choking.
Paedrin’s heart wrung with emotions. It was like watching Shivu die. “No, Tyrus! They’re alive. Phae is alive! We must wait for them here. They will come.”
“No . . . one . . . is . . . coming,” Tyrus gurgled.
“Trust me!” Paedrin pleaded. He needed to get close. If he could strike fast and hard, he could stun Tyrus and knock him unconscious. He came around from behind.
He smiled lovingly at Phae, his eyes crinkling with tenderness and warmth, and then dipped his head and kissed her.
“Maybe the Vaettir are the wisest of all, not the Preachán. They put it best: Love is not to be purchased, and affection has no price.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLVI
Paedrin’s heart raced with dread and a welling sense of hopelessness. Gusts of wind whipped him off course as he searched from the sky at the ruins of the fortress for a sign of Hettie, Tyrus, or Baylen. Every moment increased the sense of panic. He was too late. The soldiers were scattering like a hive of ants whose hill had been kicked over by an angry boot. Flashes of lightning from the turbulent skies warned him of the danger of staying aloft much longer. A brilliant bloom of blue fire exploded through the haze of mist below and he altered his course, shooting down to it. Flashes of red light came in response and Paedrin saw four shapes, wearing black, advancing on a man trapped in the middle. As he drew closer, he saw the streak of white light connecting the four men, boxing a fifth man in between.
“Closer! Closer! He’s wavering!” came a shout.
A gurgling scream of agony wailed from the midst of the light streamers. Another detonation of blue flame came, toppling one of the arches, and one of the men was crushed beneath the weight.
“Quickly! Don’t let him escape!”
Paedrin saw that the men were Paracelsus and he recognized the magic they used, for he had been entrapped by it as well. The more force used against it, the more force was repelled back. Tyrus was hunched over in agony, trying to get back on his feet. The three continued to lean forward, struggling with each step to draw the net of magic tighter, to immobilize him.
A shriek of curses came from Tyrus next, and he spit at them, screaming again as he tried to counter their magic with his own.
“Almost!” one of the Paracelsus shouted in triumph. “Bring him down! Shoot him! Shoot him!”
Paedrin swept into range from above and plunged the Sword of Winds into the lower back of one of the dark-clad Paracelsus. The man crumpled, his legs suddenly useless, and the spray of light went wide.
“No!” another wailed in terror, the net of magic scattering.
Tyrus’s head lifted, his eyes glazed with savage fury. He held up his hand, exposing a ring on his finger, and one of the Paracelsus went flying backward, arcing into the sky to smash into one of the stone columns still standing. Paedrin dove forward, coming up into a high leap and smashed his heel into the last Paracelsus’s face, dropping him to unconsciousness.
Paedrin whipped the blade around and turned to Tyrus. “Where is Hettie?” he shouted.
Blue flames irrupted from Tyrus’s outstretched arms, flooding toward Paedrin. Only his Bhikhu reflexes saved him and he leapt high into the air, summoning the blade’s magic to carry him up and over Tyrus’s head.
“It’s me, Paedrin!” he screamed and realized with anguish that Tyrus’s mind was no longer his own. Flames rippled from the man’s fingers, which were hooked like talons. There was no euphoria on his face, only malice and madness. Another burst of flames raced at him, and Paedrin swept it away quickly, barely dodging it.
“Stop!” Paedrin pleaded, trying to meet the gaze. It reminded him of the Boeotian Tasvir Virk and his heart crumpled with pain. Not Tyrus—not him. It was too much to lose him.
“You won’t . . . trick me!” Tyrus snarled, his body contorting into an unnatural position. He hunched over, as if experiencing horrible pain. His legs seemed rooted to the spot and one arm was tucked tight against his body, as if guarding a deep wound.
“It is not a trick,” Paedrin said, changing angles, using the Uddhava to be unpredictable. “Tyrus, please! You are sick. Let me help you. Where’s Hettie?”
“She’s dead. They’re all dead. I couldn’t stand alone against the entire world. I bore it all, but I’m dying.” He coughed and sagged to one knee, bending over and vomiting black bile. He struggled to breathe, choking.
Paedrin’s heart wrung with emotions. It was like watching Shivu die. “No, Tyrus! They’re alive. Phae is alive! We must wait for them here. They will come.”
“No . . . one . . . is . . . coming,” Tyrus gurgled.
“Trust me!” Paedrin pleaded. He needed to get close. If he could strike fast and hard, he could stun Tyrus and knock him unconscious. He came around from behind.
