Master Shivu bowed his head. “He went blind. He could no longer see. Forever. The Shatalin temple fell that day. He would never give up the sword. And he could never learn how to cure his blindness, for the answer was written in the Book of Shatalin and smuggled away by my master. I have the book now and the secret to Cruw Reon’s blindness. But the sword and the book cannot be rejoined. The book cannot leave Kenatos, for it is in the archives. The sword will never leave the temple. If only someone had acted before Cruw Reon’s madness. If only his ambition had been thwarted earlier. The fate of so many would be different to this day.”

He felt Master Shivu’s grip as hard as stone on his hands. “You are proud, Paedrin. You are ambitious, like Cruw Reon. What we do now is for your best good. To prevent another tragedy. You must die so that the tradition and honor of the Bhikhu shall endure and be restored. You are no longer my pupil. You are no longer bound to the Bhikhu!”

Paedrin stared in shock. Master Shivu rose and stared down at him. His face was hard and tugged with a scowl. His eyes—there was something in his eyes. A look that transcended any specific meaning. He stared at Paedrin coolly and nodded once.

“Do what must be done,” Master Shivu told the Arch-Rike. “I have said my piece. If he must die, as you say, then I wash my hands of him.”

Paedrin’s heart threatened to shatter into a thousand shards. But there was something in Master Shivu’s eyes. There was something in his expression. Some silent words unsaid. His mind twisted and contorted to divine the meaning, but he could not make sense of it. Was he truly, now, abandoned and alone?

“It is a pity,” the Arch-Rike said, nodding gravely. He turned to leave. “He was certainly one with great promise.”

Paedrin stared at them, watching his master walk slowly down the hall, fading into the blackness until an iron-lidded door slammed shut, plunging him back into night. He knelt by the bars, unmoving, scraping his fingernail along the smooth bars. His breath came in short, heavy gasps. Why had Master Shivu said what he said? He had not asked him any questions about his betrayal. He had shown little sympathy. Why? There was none of their usual banter. Instead, there was connection through fingers and eyes. Two of the senses acting in unison. A third, the voice, was not.

A wave of fear and loathing came over him. His mind felt like a bowl of mush. He could not think clearly. He could not understand properly. He rubbed his eyes with his hand and, when he finished, spots danced in the blackness for a few moments and then vanished. Except for one. A small blue spot was moving along the roof of the hallway outside in the corridor. It approached slowly, coming forward like a serpent in a sinuous movement.

Paedrin stared at it, wondering if his imagination were totally rattled now. It was on the ceiling, drawing nearer to his cell. He waited, staring in awe as it approached, and then suddenly there was a rush of air and the light thump of two boots landing just outside his cell.

The blue light grew brighter until it revealed a face.

Kiranrao.

“Our conscience is our worst accuser. I once heard a great man from the Theater in Kenatos expound on this subject. I rarely visit such popular entertainments, but his words are worth writing down. Upon common theaters, he said, the applause of the audience is of more importance to the actor than his own approbation. But upon the stage of life, while conscience claps, let the world hiss.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Hettie waited in the dense brush against the wall of the Arch-Rike’s palace on the top of the island of Kenatos. She had crouched for hours by a stream, waiting to kill a deer with a single shot, but never had she waited more nervously or anxiously than at this moment. The hair on the back of her neck was prickling with gooseflesh, and every sound made her start and examine for its source.

She was dressed head to foot in dark leathers, every article bound tightly to prevent even the tiniest noise. Blades were strapped to her boots, her thighs, her belt. She gripped a short-bow in her hand, and a brace of arrows was fixed to the small of her back, each shaft fitted snugly in a compartment to prevent them from shifting.

The dawn brought the warbling of birds, which made it difficult to hear anything else. She waited, as still as she could be, slowly rubbing her hands together. In her mind, she rehearsed the story that Kiranrao had explained to her. She had summoned him to Kenatos to help free her friend when she learned he was in the Arch-Rike’s custody and not in the temple. She was worried about him and his injuries, especially since he had sustained them as a result of trying to save her life in Drosta’s trap. If he had not been wounded already, the fight with the Kishion may not have been so one-sided.