There was no way down. No stairwell or ladder waited at the crest of the balcony. Only a Vaettir could enter or exit the balcony. Only a Vaettir. A Romani Vaettir with monkshood. Hettie’s eyes widened with shock and a spasm of dread went through her. No—it’s couldn’t be.
Hugging the edge of the door, Hettie watched helplessly as Paedrin was brought down. She shuddered, seeing the savagery with which they treated him after he had collapsed. His limp body was dragged over to a giant stone pillar at the edge of the training yard, his wrists bound behind him and around the pillar with shackles. He was unconscious, head lolling against the cold stone as the others left him there, a vanquished foe. Hettie groaned inside, furious that she had been too slow. But what could she have done? There was no way down unless—she saw the mane of black hair as another Vaettir below took flight, heading up like a gust of breeze toward the tower where she crouched.
She would have recognized Kiranrao anywhere.
“War is a grisly necessity betimes. The Waylander army has secured the borders of the ruined forests of Havenrook. The Cruithne march down from the mountains in force. Hammer meets anvil. The iron of the Preachán is about to be shaped into a new future. The Romani are scattering like leaves in the wind.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The door squealed as it was thrust open. Hettie watched the boots as they entered. She cowered under the huge bed, hidden in the shadows and near the rumpled blankets. She willed herself to be small and silent, shrinking deep within herself, doing her best to calm her thoughts, afraid that even the smallest spark of imagination would alert him to her presence. His shadow spread across the floor as he stepped in front of the fire, chafing himself vigorously. Then turning, he marched over to the table and reached for the ale cup, downing it in a single swallow. Her guess had been correct and a surge of relief went through her.
“Who’s there?” he barked suddenly, his voice dark and menacing.
She went cold, unable to move. Cold sweat trickled across her body.
He took a few steps into the room, muttering something under his breath. The cup suddenly flew into the wall, banging with a loud sound. It nearly made her cry out, but she did not. She saw the scuff marks on his boots. Normally they were quite polished. That was strange.
“Where is it?” he muttered darkly, swinging back to the desk.
She heard the cork pop free of another bottle and this one he held by the neck, taking a loud slurping draw from it. He slammed the bottle on the table, shoving the cask and scattering coins. Hettie tried to get a better look at him but decided it was not worth the risk of making noise. She heard him sigh deeply. He stood still a moment, breathing deeply. Then a glow began to illuminate the room, coming from his presence.
“I must speak with the Arch-Rike,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “I have a report.”
He waited in silence, pausing occasionally to sip from the bottle. There was no answer, but he stood still. He cursed under his breath.
After an interminable wait that caused the hairs on the back of Hettie’s neck to raise, a voice answered. “What is it?”
“You took your time,” Kiranrao snarled.
“I was in a war council,” came the terse reply. “What has happened?”
“I caught the Bhikhu.”
“Paedrin?”
“Yes. Paedrin. He’s as you described him. I’ve got him chained down in the training yard. I blinded him with the sword.”
“What about the Cruithne?”
“He was found this morning, guarding a little skiff at the base. I doubt he will be able to climb this high. Leaving him be for now. He’s a big brute, but mine can take him. Not a concern.”
“Kill him. He’s no use to me. What about the girl?”
“No sign of her.”
“What?”
Hettie smirked. She was as still as a cat. Kiranrao swore softly again, his breath starting to quicken.
“No sign of her yet.”
“She’s the most dangerous of the three. Probably skulking nearby. Search for her. I’m sending over one of my Rikes to bring rings for Paedrin and Hettie. Then you can commence their Kishion training. Hopefully one of them will survive it.”
A snort followed. “Who is your man? What is his name?”
“Aeldwyn,” the Arch-Rike replied. “He will not stay long.”
“When can I leave this cursed place?” Kiranrao’s voice was almost begging. “You promised me—”
“I know very well what we agreed to. You are doing your part. Let me do mine.”
“Ooogh,” hissed Kiranrao, pain in his voice. “Aeldwyn will come soon? Very well. I will wait for him at the summoning chamber. Send more Stonehollow wine with him. The last batch of Waylander ale was spoiled, I think. Remember your promise.”
Silence was the reply. The glow in the room faded.