Tyrus shook his head. “It will if you venture back into the Arch-Rike’s domains. But even if it did, it will not harm you. You are not protected by magic, Kishion. You are what you are. You cannot be harmed except by the blade Iddawc. You are not trusted by the Arch-Rike. He does not want you to remember.”
“Prove it,” the Kishion said menacingly.
“I do not need to convince you,” Tyrus said, shaking his head. “Your heart already tells you that I speak the truth. These are my motives. I seek to end the Plague. That is my goal and my destiny. I have assembled a mastermind, if you will, to help accomplish this. Just as the Arch-Rike has assembled one to prevent it, to conceal the knowledge that was lost. Tell me why the Arch-Rike seeks to thwart me? Give me his reasons? You cannot, for he has told you nothing. You are a slave to be sent to kill whoever crosses him. Then he strips away your memory under the false guise that he is saving your conscience. He knows how to stop it and conceals that knowledge to preserve his own power. Why else would he have summoned you to kill me? Listen to reason! You owe him loyalty because he tells you that you do? He cannot force you to obey him. Come with us and learn the truth. Protect my daughter from the dangers that threaten in the Scourgelands. Let us reveal the secrets that have long been guarded.”
Phae was terrified at her father’s words. She had no desire to enter the Scourgelands. But she knew that it had something to do with her being Dryad-born, that her ability to steal memories played a role in the absence of the Kishion’s. She did not know why her father had abandoned her for all of these years. But seeing him in person, seeing the look of emotion on his face, she felt relief swelling up inside her as well as fear that he was gambling with her life.
She stared up at the Kishion’s face next. “Please,” she begged. “At least we can listen to him?”
The Kishion stared at Tyrus defiantly, his expression stiff and furious. “I cannot trust your words alone,” he said. “Stand aside. Let us pass. Prove you won’t interfere with my mission.”
“Please!” Phae implored.
A voice came from above. It was like a whisper but it pierced her soul, the echo of it thrumming in her mind. It was as if the sky had spoken it. Kishion, kill her now.
Phae saw that they all heard the voice. She did not know where it came from, but it made her soul despair and her knees buckle. She faced the Kishion fully, gazing into his eyes with anguish. She would not run from him though he still held the dagger aimed at her ribs.
One breath. Two breaths.
She reached up and touched his face, feeling the grooves of the claw marks. Her touch brought his eyes down, meeting hers. She had contact with his eyes. She could snatch the memory away if she blinked. She could steal it all away.
She did not.
He stared at her in surprise, his expression a mix of anger and awe.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please protect me.”
The dagger fell from his hand, sinking blade-first into the road. He gave Phae a quick nod just before shoving her away from him as hard as he could, sending her backward into the air as if a battering ram had struck her. He turned on his heel, sank into a crouch, as if praying, and exploded into a deafening blast of light. Had she been standing next to him, it would have killed her.
“One of the ancient Cruithne kings carved this into a monument in his great city: He that is kind is free, though he is a slave. He that is evil is a slave, though he be a king.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The explosion rang in Phae’s ears, the blast buffeting them all and knocking each sprawling. Heat and a tingling pressure lingered in the air, sending streamers of smoke from her clothes. A strong hand grabbed her forearm and helped her back to her feet. It was the Vaettir prince, his expression stern and forceful. He said something to her, but the ringing in her ears prevented her from understanding him.
She shook her head and shoved past him, staring in shock at the Kishion’s kneeling form. He was hunched over, head bowed, at the edge of a small crater. The blast ran out in a circle around him, charring the earth as if a stroke of lightning had landed there, though there were no clouds in the sky. Rock fragments were strewn about and pine cones and shattered branches rained from the nearby trees. The Kishion slowly stood and turned to face them.
The look in his eyes was haunted. She stared at him, realizing he had shielded her from the explosion with his own body, uncertain whether his immunity would save him from death. Her ears pierced with noise, but she approached him, staring down at his hands.
The gloves were smoking, charred with soot. He shook them off, revealing the ring on his finger. The sigils carved into it were marred and twisted. Slowly, the Kishion wrenched it from his finger and stared at it in his palm for long moments. Then he tossed it into the crater.
The Prince and Tyrus approached them.