There was a nagging sensation in her mind, as if she were missing something obvious. Why was the bag sitting at the base of the tree? Had it been there all along? Had she seen it while circling the tree and that was what had brought her closer? She could not remember. Someone had whispered her name and then she had found the bag. How did the tree know it was her?
She stared at its ancient boughs, feeling overwhelmed and small. Deftly she stuffed the bag into her tunic belt and retreated from the branches. There were two workers, idling with their flask, staring at her. One raised it toward her, inviting her over. Men were always the same, especially when drunk.
She gave them a cold, disdainful look and then left the Paracelsus Tower, walking briskly away, going as fast as she dared. Her heart raced. There was something so odd and strange about the experience. Something crucial, but she could not remember it. She continued down into the lower realm of the city and ventured back toward the Bhikhu temple. She would hide the stones there for now. It would be safer than if she were caught with them. Anxiety throbbed in her stomach. Something was wrong. Something was missing. She wanted to run, to sprint.
When she saw the Bhikhu temple, she nearly wept with relief. The door was open, so she entered and hurried inside, walking past the training yard where she had first seen Paedrin practicing with his fellows. The memory was sharp and acrid in her mind. It was painful as well. Where was he? Had the Arch-Rike provided information about his whereabouts yet?
Hettie went to her chamber and silently knelt on the pallet, removing the small leather bag and testing the drawstrings again. Her fingers were trembling. She did not know why.
Tilting the bag, she emptied the stones into her palm. They were cold, ice cold. It was uncomfortable. The stones were blue with milky white streaks through each one. They each looked unique; they were not a matching set. She stared at them a moment, feeling the cold burn her palm, and then she dumped them back into the leather bag and rubbed her hand against the side of her leg.
A shadow fluttered in the corner of the cell.
Kiranrao leaned against the far wall, his eyes gazing into hers quizzically. “My, my, you are resourceful. There is an old Romani saying. There are three creatures beyond ruling. A mule, a pig, and a woman. Is it still true?”
Hettie’s heart nearly failed her. She was shocked to see him in the heart of Kenatos, in a city where he could be arrested and killed on sight. He had earned the Arch-Rike’s contempt many times over.
She responded to his quip with one of her own. “I don’t know. Is the saying true that a man who owns a cow can always find a woman to milk her?”
Kiranrao smiled pleasantly. “Well said, little dove. Well said.” His expression hardened. “I think it is past time that we had a talk about your loyalties.”
“One often hears of Seithrall as a religion. It may be called that, for thus has it evolved. But the term itself, as I have come to read in the Archives, is more likely a mistranslation. The earliest reference I have seen was written by the first Arch-Rike of Kenatos, Catuvolcis, who said that in order to survive, the populace must be held under the thrall of faith. Over the centuries, these words have been rewritten and copied inaccurately through laziness on the Archivists’ part. I abhor such errors. Some versions show that he claimed ‘the thrall of fate.’ Both Vaettir words—saith and seith—are one letter apart but have vastly different meanings. They are loosely translated as faith and fate. In our day, the Rikes have become less of a religion and more of a political faction. Their order was originally created because it was believed that the Plague was attracted by the thoughts of the populace. That is blatantly absurd. But centuries ago, the Rikes roamed the city, speaking platitudes to help reduce panic and instill confidence that those who lived in Kenatos would survive. Whether by faith or fate it makes little difference. It is now clear, and the Paracelsus would affirm it, that the Plague is transmitted through bad air. Thoughts have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
It was a prison, and Paedrin was trapped. The dimensions of his confinement were narrow enough that he could plant his palms against each wall. It was tall enough to stand, but too narrow to sleep stretched out. The door was made of tall metal rungs fastened into a mesh, the hinges capped in steel. A tiny privy hole was in the far corner; it smelt badly. There was no light of any kind.