Another of his brothers rose to a sitting position, shaking the dust from his dark hair. “I almost had you, Paedrin. What if I had broken your nose and knocked you flat?”
Paedrin smirked. “The day you can hit me, Sanchein, is the day I will drop my smallclothes and then walk into the girl training yard with nothing on. You are slow and heavy-footed.”
“It is not our fault we were not born Vaettir.” It was another of his friends, the tone sulky.
Paedrin grinned. “Well, we cannot all be wise, fast, and sleek as serpents. If you work really hard for the next year, I may let you sand the calluses off my heels.”
“Where is your humility?” Sanchein said with a sniff.
“You just saw her go through those doors,” Paedrin said, pointing the way with one end of the staff. “She is my humility. My bane. My mystery. Can you believe that she has been here for two days and I still do not know her name? No one does, except Master Shivu, and it would be the height of rudeness to ask him only out of pure curiosity.” Paedrin spun the staff around, whipping it as fast as a scythe in circles on each side. He slammed the butt down on the flagstones and scowled. “There is something undeniably unfair about being tortured by a girl.”
“Is she from Kenatos, do you think?” asked Beshop.
“No,” said Sanchein.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“But how do you know?”
Paedrin hissed a low whistle to shut him up. It would go on for hours that way. He spun around again, slowly this time, full of restless energy. The staff was part of him, a tether, a kite string that kept him from floating away when he gathered and held his breath. He started rising again, slowly, gracefully, until he balanced on the end of the staff, his feet pointed toward the sky. He loved that feeling—the almost-flying feeling of being a Vaettir. He was the only one in the temple who was orphaned as a boy, unclaimed by any Vaettir family in the city. Peculiar, for certain, but Paedrin did not care. The temple was his home and his family. His lungs burned and he slowly exhaled, his body coming back down to earth.
He gripped the staff and stared at the door she had gone through. “That is enough,” he said simply.
“What is enough?” Beshop asked, coming around.
“It is already turning black. Paedrin, you broke my toe,” muttered Jaendro, still sitting on the flagstones. “Give me your hand, you sod! I need help standing!”
“What is enough?” Beshop pressed, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking at what Paedrin was looking at.
He gave Beshop the staff and started after the girl.
Who she was, Paedrin had no idea. She had appeared at the temple orphanage, wearing woodcutter’s garb and keeping mostly to herself. How old was she? Paedrin guessed she was his age, or maybe slightly older. Twenty, perhaps. The curl and sneer of her lip made her seem older. As did the disdain with which she treated everyone and everything within the temple. She had dark hair cut past her shoulders, thick and heavy and slightly curled. She was Aeduan, he thought with a snort, nothing to be so proud of. Yet she walked with all the confidence of a Vaettir, as if she belonged to the orphanage as its overseer and not as a guest who could not afford lodging in the city beyond the walls. That was the only reason someone chose to sleep on the floor, on an uncomfortable mat, on hard flagstones, day after day.
Paedrin pulled open the doors and went into the momentary blindness of the deeply shadowed interior. The temple was a hodgepodge of structures, mostly one level tall with vaulted roofs, interconnecting to each other like the sluices they used to control water in the city.
From the roof, one could see a great deal of the city below—its serpentine maze of streets, squares, water fountains, and courtyards. From the roof, where Paedrin often went to be alone, he could see the vast lake in the distance and dream of the kingdoms and haunted wilderness beyond. The thought of Plague did not terrify him. He feared nothing except remaining trapped in the city his entire life, disciplining pickpockets and protecting the city from enemies of Kenatos. In his heart, he would rather be with his own people in Silvandom. But he owed the orphanage and the city his duty.
The dusty tiles met his sandals soundlessly as he maneuvered past columns and enormous urns. He listened and heard her voice, then changed his direction. He had heard her speak occasionally, and she spoke with a strong accent, a wild accent, as if she were from some unmannered country. Yet if that were so, why did she comport herself with the disdain of someone very wealthy? Was she in disguise, perhaps? That kindled Paedrin’s curiosity even more. Out of favor with a wealthy father, a duke in Wayland? He could not help but let his imagination run wild.
He heard Master Shivu’s voice next, a comforting but firm tone in it. He was resisting her request. He was patient about it, as he always was, but he was telling her no.