“Tyrus of Kenatos is a traitor to Kenatos,” the Arch-Rike said. “He seeks to overthrow the religion of Seithrall. He conspires with the enemies of the city to do his bidding. He is a most dangerous man, Paedrin. He sent you to recover an artifact that was commissioned and paid for but never delivered. It was stolen. He was behind the theft. That weapon is very dangerous. Did he tell you what it does?”
Paedrin felt the compulsion to tell the truth. Drosta had told them, not Tyrus. He mastered his tongue. “He did not.”
“Let me explain it then. It is a most marvelous blade. There is only one of its kind. There can only be one of its kind. The spirit that powers it is stronger than death. It holds the very power over death. You are young. You do not understand the nature of the Plague and how death destroys knowledge. This city was created to preserve knowledge. The blade is a tool. Whoever it kills, it will preserve their memories and experiences and trap them inside the hilt to be used by the bearer of the blade. You must understand this, Paedrin. I cannot lie in the presence of the ring. That blade is the key to our survival. When the Plague comes again, and it will, for I have foreseen it, then those who are afflicted will be relieved of their suffering and their memories preserved. Think of it! Even were the Plague to strike me, my essence, my knowledge, my wisdom would be preserved for the next Arch-Rike to benefit from.”
Paedrin felt sick inside. “What gives you the right to claim their memories?” he asked. “Are all of their secrets laid bare?”
“Yes,” the Arch-Rike answered, his eyes glittering with passion. “Their secret thoughts. Their secret treasons. Our rings cannot force a man to divulge the truth. The blade can. It was fashioned at great expense. It was meant to preserve knowledge.”
Paedrin scowled. “It would also make a great temptation to murder.”
“Yes. Yes, I agree with you. It requires great wisdom to direct its power. I do not wish to hold it myself, only to direct its wise use.”
Slowly Paedrin rose from his crouch. “What gives you the right? Why should you be allowed to dole out death?”
The Arch-Rike smiled, a thin-lipped, cold smile. “Because each time the Plague grows more fierce. Each time more lives are lost. Only through wisdom and unity will we survive. The Cruithne will die in Alkire. The Preachán will perish in Havenrook. The Vaettir will be dead. Even the barbarians of Boeotia will perish. All civilization will come crashing to an end, except for this city. I have foreseen it, Paedrin. Before the end comes, we must harvest the wisest from all cultures and preserve their knowledge. If you were the last of the Bhikhu, I would order you cut down to preserve the priceless knowledge that you hold.”
He paused, smiling wryly. “But you are not the last Bhikhu. You are merely a pawn in a game of power played between Tyrus of Kenatos and myself. He would send us back into the abyss of ignorance by freeing all of the serving spirits. Yes, I said serving. He and others claim they are slaves. They serve us. They are not our slaves. Every one of them will be set free when their commitment is fulfilled. They are preserving us, Paedrin. They will help us survive the coming onslaught. And Tyrus seeks to hasten it. Tyrus aids our enemies and undermines our ability to save as many souls as we can.”
Paedrin shook his head, hearing the Arch-Rike’s words but unable to understand what he meant. “By this ring, I can see that you believe you are telling the truth. But certainly there can be two opinions on this matter. Locking me in this cell is hardly befitting one who has been trained to serve Kenatos.”
“Of course you will continue to serve Kenatos. But you must die first.”
Paedrin shook his head. “How can I serve Kenatos when I am dead?”
“You will serve me best as a Kishion. They are dead as to things of this world. They do not marry. They do not have children. They have no past. They have no future. You will accept blame of your role in the theft of the blade Iddawc, and you will be hung for the crime. But of course a Vaettir cannot die by hanging, so long as he has breath. You will survive and you will be reborn. I have great need of you, Paedrin. You must serve Kenatos still.”
Paedrin felt a sheen of sweat appear on his back and trickle down. He thought of his master. He thought of Hettie. He thought of the man with the ravaged face who had broken his arm.
“I will not,” he answered. “I would rather die by hanging.”
“Or remain here in the dark for the rest of your life?” the Arch-Rike said with a small smile. “Come, Paedrin. You will serve me. Twist the black gemstone on the ring.”
An overpowering compulsion rushed inside his body. Unable to stop himself, he turned the gemstone on the ring. The stone detached itself.
“Give it to me.”