“My name is Band-Imas. I am the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”

Paedrin flinched at the sound, the delicious sound of a human voice. He craved it desperately. Part of his mind warned him that he should not trust this man. The Bhikhu served the Rikes of Kenatos. He should not have been allowed to languish in a cell.

“Why am I here?”

“Paedrin.”

The sound of his own name startled him. He tried to stare past the glare at the man who was slowly coming into focus. A haze of frosty hair glittered on his scalp, little stubble that did not grow. Eyes that were so gray they were nearly white, except for the twin black pupils. He wore a magnificent robe and the jeweled stole of his office. A velvet doublet festooned with gold buttons and red stitching showed beneath the fur-lined robe.

“Yes?” Paedrin whispered.

“That is your name, is it not? Paedrin? From the Bhikhu temple?”

“Yes.”

A deep exhale came from the Arch-Rike’s throat. “I am sorry then. If you were a Bhikhu from Silvandom, then my ring would have warned me of the lie. When dealing with Tyrus, one must always be on his guard. I am sorry he ensnared you in his treasonous plot. There will be a trial soon, my young friend. Your life will most likely be forfeit.”

Paedrin tried to wet his lips, but he had no moisture in his mouth. “And what treason do you suspect me of? I was sent by my master on the mission. Surely you are not implying he is imprisoned as well?”

“There is much we can discuss, Paedrin.” His voice was patient, yet there was an edge to it. A man used to being obeyed and never mocked. He twisted a large garnet ring from his finger, the stone ink black. “I am sure you recognize the fashion of this ring. It is imbued with a spirit that prevents any falsehood from being spoken or one uttered in its wearer’s presence.” He offered Paedrin the ring.

He looked warily at the Arch-Rike but slowly extended his hand and reached for the ring. He had seen it come off of the Arch-Rike’s hand. The weight of it in his palm surprised him. He slid it on his finger.

“Tyrus of Kenatos is a traitor to Kenatos,” the Arch-Rike said. “He seeks to overthrow the religion of Seithrall. He conspires with the enemies of the city to do his bidding. He is a most dangerous man, Paedrin. He sent you to recover an artifact that was commissioned and paid for but never delivered. It was stolen. He was behind the theft. That weapon is very dangerous. Did he tell you what it does?”

Paedrin felt the compulsion to tell the truth. Drosta had told them, not Tyrus. He mastered his tongue. “He did not.”

“Let me explain it then. It is a most marvelous blade. There is only one of its kind. There can only be one of its kind. The spirit that powers it is stronger than death. It holds the very power over death. You are young. You do not understand the nature of the Plague and how death destroys knowledge. This city was created to preserve knowledge. The blade is a tool. Whoever it kills, it will preserve their memories and experiences and trap them inside the hilt to be used by the bearer of the blade. You must understand this, Paedrin. I cannot lie in the presence of the ring. That blade is the key to our survival. When the Plague comes again, and it will, for I have foreseen it, then those who are afflicted will be relieved of their suffering and their memories preserved. Think of it! Even were the Plague to strike me, my essence, my knowledge, my wisdom would be preserved for the next Arch-Rike to benefit from.”

Paedrin felt sick inside. “What gives you the right to claim their memories?” he asked. “Are all of their secrets laid bare?”

“Yes,” the Arch-Rike answered, his eyes glittering with passion. “Their secret thoughts. Their secret treasons. Our rings cannot force a man to divulge the truth. The blade can. It was fashioned at great expense. It was meant to preserve knowledge.”

Paedrin scowled. “It would also make a great temptation to murder.”

“Yes. Yes, I agree with you. It requires great wisdom to direct its power. I do not wish to hold it myself, only to direct its wise use.”

Slowly Paedrin rose from his crouch. “What gives you the right? Why should you be allowed to dole out death?”

The Arch-Rike smiled, a thin-lipped, cold smile. “Because each time the Plague grows more fierce. Each time more lives are lost. Only through wisdom and unity will we survive. The Cruithne will die in Alkire. The Preachán will perish in Havenrook. The Vaettir will be dead. Even the barbarians of Boeotia will perish. All civilization will come crashing to an end, except for this city. I have foreseen it, Paedrin. Before the end comes, we must harvest the wisest from all cultures and preserve their knowledge. If you were the last of the Bhikhu, I would order you cut down to preserve the priceless knowledge that you hold.”