“The problem with you, Paedrin, is that you have always talked too much. I don’t need to hear every thought in your head to know they are there.” She held up her hand and pointed at her finger. “Yes, you can leave me here all alone. You won’t because you’d worry about me getting captured.” She flicked one finger down. “You can get out of the city easier. But can you do so without escaping notice? There are Finders who will be tracking us. I can help there.” She flicked another finger down. “You can travel faster without me. Very true. Any man can hasten to his own death. It may require both of us to claim the sword. One to distract and the other to steal it. That is how the best thieves do it.” She lowered the third finger. “You cannot trust me. Trust must be built and earned. I told you I would ring the bell if trouble came. I did. I told you I would be waiting for you here. I was.”
It left a final finger in the air. She looked at him pointedly, her eyes burning into his. “The last thing, you did not mention. I have magic that will be needed in the Scourgelands. But I think that it would be wise to not have to rely on it alone. If I use it too much, I will go mad, you see. If I don’t use it, I may be defenseless. I was hoping, along our journey, that you might start teaching me the Bhikhu ways.” The final finger came down and then she opened her palm to him, an offer of almost submission.
He blinked at her in surprise. “Teach you?”
Her expression was carefully guarded. “If you would.”
He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “You are serious.”
“There is much I can learn from you, though it pains me to admit it.”
Paedrin was uncertain how he felt about it. It gratified his pride that she asked him. He would enjoy teaching her the Bhikhu ways and to school her in pain. Was she trying to manipulate him? He would have to test it.
“Bhikhu don’t eat meat,” he said simply. “The philosophy comes with the training, not just the fighting. I won’t train a mercenary.”
“Agreed,” she answered, looking in his eyes firmly. “I will eat what you eat. I will do what you bid me to do. Will you teach me, Paedrin?”
Restore the Shatalin temple. Forgive.
He stared into her face, amazed at how familiar it was to him. They had not known each other very long, but the shared experiences had given them a tight bond. “Not even a rabbit.”
“Not even a bird,” she agreed.
He sighed. “Very well. I will teach you. But there is something we must do first. We must shear off all of your hair.”
He could tell by her expression she was not certain if he was joking or not.
Before either could speak they heard the ominous sound of boot steps approaching and promptly fled their hiding place.
“There is a saying among the Romani, or so I am told. ‘It is folly to cross a bridge until you come to it, or to bid a hungry bear good morning until you meet him—perfect folly. All is well until the stroke falls, and even then nine times out of ten it is not so bad as anticipated.’ It means that we should not dwell on our troubles until they materialize for they are often not as desperate as we fear. Of course, this may be complete rubbish.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
She was caught.
Phae realized it immediately, knowing that there was no chance she could run. The night was dark and chill. Her ankles and knees were throbbing, her face itching from tiny cuts. Small twigs and crushed leaves had been her pallet as the stars had swirled above. Lifting her head, she gazed at the one who had hunted her relentlessly. She tried to speak, but her throat was thick and she nearly choked. It took some coughing and swallowing to master it again. There was something she had to know. She dreaded his answer.
“Did you kill him?” she whispered hoarsely.
He was shrouded with the darkness, staring down at the ground in silence, his expression void of emotion in the pale light. He plunged the nub of a stick into the dead leaves, stirring them lazily.
“Did you?” she demanded, slowly sitting up. Her body groaned with the effort. “Did you kill my friend?”
He tossed the stick away and shrugged. “He wasn’t a threat. I let him live.”
She let out a breath of relief. Leaves clung to the tangled net of her hair. She was dirt stained, filthy, and looked like a shambling mess. But her heart surged with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said softly.
The man said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for something.
“Who are you?” she pressed, rubbing her arms, which were very cold in the night air. She was trembling and felt her voice quaver. She tried to subdue it.
He brushed some leaves from his pants and then rose, adjusting the cowl so that it covered most of his face. She took a moment to study him. Woodsman garb, a heavy tunic and sturdy pants and boots. He had leather bracers across his arms and gloves. The cloak was travel-worn and fraying at the edges. She saw his chin in the moonlight, but it was too dark to see the scars or his eyes. As he moved, the cloak ruffled and she saw the hilts of two daggers at his belt. Both had sculpted hilts with hawk-like heads for the pommels and tight leather wrappings along the handles. Oddly, he carried no knapsack or bedroll but he did carry a leather flask for drinking. Where was his food?