Around the base of the promontory, the woods of the Scourgelands pressed against the rock, giving it the impression of an island rising in a lake of oak burs. All the trees looked alike, of course, as they typically did to a young man raised in a crowded city. But as he glided along the far end of the promontory, there was a single tree that struck his attention and caught his gaze.
What struck Paedrin was the hideousness of the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was even an oak tree at all, because it was so misshapen and distorted. At first look, it didn’t even look like a single tree but as if twelve other trees had all grown together into a single, contorted mass. It was not the largest tree he had seen in the Scourgelands either. But it was singularly grotesque, and the trunk seemed to split in the middle, revealing a cave-like maw at the base that showed light from the other side, as if the tree had two massive legs and it were squatting. A variety of gnarled branches had grown from the hulking shape, most stick straight like the quills of a porcupine. Rotten foliage hung in clumps around it.
Paedrin stared, his heart burning with fire as he saw the mist descend and shroud the image of the tree below. He felt an overwhelming urge to fly down to the misshapen behemoth for a closer look, but a wave of sudden dread soured his mind. What would be guarding it? He thought it wise to land atop the promontory and watch it a moment, to see if he could discern any guardians. He knew it likely that a Fear Liath was hunting in the mist. He could sense them, their foreboding presence and darkest evil. Had Baylen reached the top of the promontory yet, and would he meet the Rikes and soldiers soon? His mind twisted itself in knots with all the possibilities.
At the edge of the promontory, just below him, Paedrin saw a fallen wall, broken to crumbled bits. He lowered himself down, breathing out softly, and decided to make his watch there, amidst the rubble. It was near the queer-looking tree, a place he would remember and be able to describe later. It was away from the escarpment where the Rikes gathered and would provide a good view of the tree below.
A horrible dread filled Paedrin’s stomach. He had to be away, had to try to escape while he could. How would he find his way back to the ramp in the mist? He could not worry about that. He needed to position himself on the promontory. This was the legacy he would bring back to Tyrus—the atonement he would offer for his failure.
As Paedrin’s feet touched the uneven stone, black roots shot up from the cracks of moldering stone and fastened around his ankles and up to his calves. They felt like iron and began squeezing with ruthless intensity, causing wrenching pain to shoot up his legs. He had barely noticed the solitary shell of an oak tree nearby. The clutches of the roots tightened further and suddenly he saw something dark materialize from the shadows. It wasn’t the bulk of a Fear Liath—it was made of snatches of night that coalesced. Paedrin saw the dagger gripped fiercely in the man’s hand. He saw the expression of hate on Kiranrao’s face.
The fear in the Bhikhu’s chest was a razor.
XXXI
Utter exhaustion had finally driven Kiranrao to tempt sleep in the crook of a shattered tree. He leaned against the rugged bark, trying to stifle the ribbons of pain on his arms and legs and across his shoulders. The last attack from the Weir had almost destroyed him, but he had managed to slay each one of the beasts. He could still smell their fur and blood, and the scent made him nauseous. His head drooped and he caught himself, listening keenly into the darkness. He was nothing but a shadow smudge himself, but he knew he could not rest for long. He knew the forest was still hunting him.
So was the memory.
A wave of self-loathing threatened to smother and choke him. Alone, in the darkest night of his life, he shuddered at the memory of murdering Khiara. Why should the death of one person be the rack on his conscience, one that threatened his very notion of himself? He was Kiranrao, master of Havenrook, lord of the Romani, father of all greed. He had swindled men and then left them dying in puddles of their own blood when they attempted retribution against him. He knew about suffering in all of its shades. He remembered a madwoman in Kenatos who used to sing before the wealthiest citizens and was reduced to living in squalor and bird droppings. He had faced the gallows and not flinched. Why was murdering Khiara so different?