Hettie managed to bring her arm up in time and his teeth sank into her flesh, biting hard enough to shear through her skin. Their bodies tangled and they fought, each as desperate as a savage alley cat. Though her arm was bleeding she would not cry out with pain. She kneed him in the groin twice, dug her thumb into his eye, and finally managed to twist herself free from his terrible grasp. Grabbing the hair at the base of his scalp, she smashed his face into the floor. Blood exploded from his nose, the blow dazing him. Hettie found her fallen knife nearby, grabbed it, and brought it up to plunge into his back.
Only she did not.
The Preachán lay gasping on the floor, his body convulsing. His face was smeared with his own blood and hers. Her arm hurt from the bite marks. Gritting her teeth, she stared down at him.
“Kill me,” he begged. “Do it! The Bhikhu should have killed me. He should have killed me in Havenrook. I killed them all. The whole temple. Please…you must kill me.”
Hettie stared at him with loathing and understanding. This was the Preachán that Paedrin had fought defending Erasmus’s house in Havenrook. A man whose arm was broken and blade claimed and then the spirit trapped inside was freed. The man who had come to Kenatos and poisoned the Bhikhu well with monkshood.
The man’s eyes were full of desperation. “You are Romani,” he said, his voice quavering with agony. “Kill me, or the Arch-Rike will.”
Hettie noticed the Preachán’s hand and saw the Kishion ring around his finger.
“Close your eyes then,” Hettie ordered.
The man complied, his breath heaving with pain. Hettie grabbed his wrist, and pulled it away from his chest, exposing his heart.
“Answer my questions first and be quick. How does the talisman work?”
“You must know the person you intend to mimic. You must know them very well.” He grunted with pain as the poison continued its terrible work. “A casual glimpse is not enough. You must know his voice, his mannerisms.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The Arch-Rike. He wears one as well.” He started to moan. “Quickly, lass!”
Hettie swallowed. “The Sword of Winds. Where is it?”
“On the floor where you threw it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Little. I know little. Oh, the pain, lass. The pain!”
“Pity the Romani girls, not yourself. They live in fear of it. What of the sword?”
“Even in the sheath, it is powerful. With it, I can fly like a Vaettir. Even better…than a Vaettir. Faster. It is very fast. It cannot be drawn though. Only the champion can draw it. Anyone else who tries will be blinded. The stone in the hilt stings the eyes.”
“Is the blindness permanent?” Hettie asked.
“No. The Bhikhu’s vision will return. It’s the Kishion test. To be the master here, one must wrestle the champion for the blade. No one can defeat the champion, though.”
“Cruw Reon,” Hettie said. “He’s the champion. Where is he?”
“No one knows,” the Preachán snarled. “No one dares to fight him. He’s the Arch-Rike’s champion. His bodyguard.”
Hettie gasped. “The Quiet Kishion?”
“Yes. He’s the master of the blade. He’s the only one who can draw it without being blinded. I’m going to die anyway! Just end it now! Give me the blade. I’ll do it myself. I don’t want him in my mind. I don’t want him spoiling me again. Please, girl! End it!”
Hettie grasped the Preachán’s wrist, staring down at the iron ring on his finger. It was the same kind of ring that Paedrin had been forced to wear.
“Hold still,” Hettie whispered.
The trembling Preachán sucked in his breath. He held as still as he could, though his body trembled.
With a quick stroke of the dagger, Hettie cut off his hand and tossed it beneath the bed.
The Preachán screamed in pain, his eyes open and livid. His face was a mask of shock and despair. Hettie grabbed a nearby blanket and stuffed it against his stump. With some cord from her backpack, she tied a tourniquet around the wound and sliced away the excess fabric. He began sobbing in pain and despair.
“Why won’t you kill me?” he groveled. “I murdered them all at the Bhikhu temple. Even the young. The Arch-Rike swore he could remove the memory of it. He could take away the guilt.”
Hettie found the discarded talisman and slipped it around her neck. Then she went to where the sword lay and strapped it to her belt. She stared down at the quivering Preachán, his face ashen. She tugged the small leather pouch from the side of her boot and withdrew a fleck of desiccated leaf and held it above his tongue.
“Just kill me,” he whimpered. “I beg of you. If not with a knife or sword, let the poison do it, at least! I would rather die than live.”
Hettie crouched lower, staring into his eyes. “If I were a Romani still, I would oblige you. But as you can see, I no longer wear the earring. I am free and so are you. I am a Bhikhu now. We do not seek revenge, even for the worst wrongs. Pain is a teacher. Let this pain teach you. What is your name, Preachán?”
His upper lip quivered. The hate seemed to leak from his eyes. “I am Janis-Stor. They call me Stor.”
Hettie sheathed her dagger and placed the fleck of leaf on his tongue. “I spare your life, Janis-Stor. I will not kill you, though you are worthy of it. Go back to Havenrook and join your people. Fight the Arch-Rike’s dominion. There is a rope dangling from the balcony facing the sea. Use it to claim your own freedom.”