Paedrin tried to stop his arms from moving, but he could not. The compulsion was incredibly powerful, going directly through his arms and fingers. He reached through the bars and handed the stone to the Arch-Rike, who fastened it to a jeweled necklace around his neck. There were matching ink-black stones inset into gold.
“With this necklace,” the Arch-Rike said, “I control all of you. You are my servants. You will forget your name. You will remember being born in the darkness. You will say what I wish you to say. You will do what I wish you to do. Is that clear, Paedrin?”
The feeling was total and utter hopelessness. Every instinct screamed at him to resist, to defy the Arch-Rike. But somehow part of him was taken away when the stone left the ring. Some spirit magic was at work now. It crushed him.
“Yes, my lord,” he whispered in a choked voice.
“The Romani girl was snooping around the Paracelsus Tower today. What was she looking for?”
Again his tongue loosened without the ability to stop. “Tyrus sent her for spirit magic that he had left behind. A leather bag with three uncut gems.” Stop it! Stop speaking! he screamed at himself. The realization of his helplessness struck him with horror.
The Arch-Rike’s brow wrinkled. “Peculiar. We discovered no such artifacts when we searched the debris. Well, we will have a chance to speak with her tomorrow. She is at the Bhikhu temple, you see. When Master Shivu comes to see you in the morning, I will send a Kishion to fetch her. She is Romani, after all, and Romani are forbidden to enter the city. One cannot trust them, you see.” The glint of his smile revealed his triumph.
Reaching for the torch, the Arch-Rike gave Paedrin one last look before retrieving it. “You realize that removing the ring will kill you. I am certain you are clever enough to consider that, but just to be sure.” He walked back down the hallway, plunging him into blackness.
“I was once at a banquet with the Arch-Rike and some intimate associates. For all his vast wealth and lavish accommodations, he exercises the most amazing self-control I have ever seen. I saw him eat no meat, only natural things like apples and cucumbers and the like. He refused any attempt to refill his wine goblet. Some say he is overly suspicious of poison and that is why he eats so little. I propose that he will not take any substance into him that might addle his thoughts or control his emotions.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
When Paedrin was a child, he had broken a bone for the first time climbing a tall dresser. He had managed to pull out the drawers to act as rungs and thought it was a brilliant idea until the entire structure came down on top of him and smashed his leg. He was five years old. Paedrin remembered the brace, the tight bandages, and the crutches that allowed him to hobble around. Mostly, he remembered the pain, especially at night. While there were leaves he could have chewed on to remedy it, he was given nothing. Pain was a teacher. It was cruel at times.
The pain in the night was the worst tormentor. It was easy to be brave in the daylight. But at night, with his leg throbbing and swollen, it was easy to succumb to tears. In the blackness of the Arch-Rike’s prison, it was tempting to do the same. There was no one else to hear him cry. No one would tease him about it later. He almost did succumb, for never had he been so discouraged. He was going to become a Kishion. He would be bound to the Arch-Rike’s ring for the rest of his life.
He missed Annon at that moment. Perhaps some tidbit of Druidecht lore was needed. He did not believe the ring was poisoned in some way. It was likely bound with a spirit. Annon had freed a spirit from the blade and it had healed him as a result. Was there a way to free the spirit in the ring? Maybe it would require him losing his finger. He would gladly make that exchange. But certainly the ring would try to prevent him from cutting it loose or kill him in the attempt.
He hunkered in the darkness, victim to despair. The absence of light. The persistence of hunger. How many days had it been? There was no way of knowing.
A sound came in the distance, and he wondered if it were food. The thought of tasteless sludge did not arouse his passions. Light appeared in the distance, and he covered his eyes, knowing it would hurt. It did. There were several sounds of boots, but in addition, the clap of sandals.
Paedrin leaned forward, shielding his eyes. The pain of the light stabbed and hurt, but he forced his eyes to focus, to adjust. Was it? Could it be? He grabbed the bars and pulled himself closer, wincing with pain at the light.
Fingers wrapped over his.
“Paedrin,” Master Shivu whispered.
The feelings in his heart. The voice in his ears. It nearly unmanned him with tears. He squinted, seeing only the shadow of the face kneeling before him.
“Paedrin?”
An immediate compulsion seized him. He began to sob mournfully and tap his forehead against the bars. “I am so sorry, Master. I am so sorry. Forgive me!”
“Hush, Paedrin. You must listen to me. You must listen to my words.”