But it was different. In the dark, his conscience accused him. She was a Shaliah, someone whose very existence was one of self-sacrifice and honor. It was cloying, actually, and he found himself despising the woman despite needing her gifts to stay alive himself. He had promised to repay her. Was it that broken promise that haunted him now? Why should it—when he had broken so many?
Somehow, Kiranrao realized deep inside that he had crossed a new border of ignominy. He had done it almost on a whim, to hamper Tyrus’s efforts more than to help his own cause. Yet now, he was lying to himself again. He had thought about killing her before. The power she possessed . . . the ability to heal and restore was completely anathema to his own power, the power over death. The blade Iddawc had whispered to him to kill her. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his wrists, still holding the stained blade in his hand. He had not sheathed it since coming into the Scourgelands. There was something in its power . . . something in the way it whispered to him.
He shuddered again, trying to banish those murky thoughts. He could have retreated into the woods without anyone to stop him. He should have done that. Yet he had not, and there was no way to undo the death he had caused. Why had he succumbed to that impulse?
When had he lost control over his own mind?
He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to listen for the telltale sound of danger. He had to survive the Scourgelands. Tyrus would not be the only man to have succeeded. Kiranrao was hungry, but determined to preserve his dwindling supply of food. He dared not forage for sustenance, knowing the diseases inflicted on those who ate. Khiara had removed that disease, a keramat of tremendous power. He coveted power. What power he could not have, he wanted to destroy so that others could not. He gritted his teeth in anger and frustration. He would kill Tyrus, of course. He would kill them all. Even that Quiet Kishion was weak compared to the power of the blade. Even an immortal could be killed.
Even Shirikant.
Kiranrao smoldered in silent fury, thinking on the Arch-Rike’s face, wishing his hatred could summon the man in person. What a puppet master the Arch-Rike pretended to be. Well, Kiranrao would sever the strings and let the entire play collapse in a heap of wooden parts.
Even with his eyes closed, he saw Khiara in his mind, her eyes accusing. A stain of brown blood was on her tunic front. He could almost feel her standing near him, her eyes full of pity as well as condemnation.
“Leave me,” Kiranrao muttered. “Begone.”
The silent eyes continued to bore into his skull. Was that a whisper of breath? He opened his eyes, gazing in shock, fully expecting to see her shade kneeling by him. He saw nothing, but he still felt that she was there . . . or some other malevolent shade.
He looked furtively into the blackness, craning his neck to listen. Was that a sound? His imagination?
He started wildly, trying to calm his tattered nerves. No one could know. That was the end of it. That was why his thoughts were sloshing back and forth like a barrel of beer on a wagon. He would kill them all then. Every one of the band who had seen his shameful act, he would put them to death and silence their accusations forever. The Archivists of Kenatos would never scribe down what he had done.
He would destroy all of his enemies, including the Arch-Rike . . . or Shirikant . . . or whatever name he sought to call himself. And when he was done, he would rid his conscience of the stain. He would go to a Dryad tree and he would force the Dryad to purge the guilt. He would be free of all responsibility then. No one would know, not even himself.
He had spent his energies trying to escape the Scourgelands. He realized that he needed to stay . . . to find a Dryad tree and to make sure the others had perished. Perhaps he could find the Mother Tree itself? Perhaps that tree would unchain him from his conscience.
He would kill Prince Aran first. A cold certainty began to seep inside his inner parts. One by one, he would hunt them down. One by one, he would kill them.
Kiranrao fell asleep with thoughts of murder toying in his mind.
When the smoky shape emerged from the mist as Kiranrao, Paedrin stared with shock. He doubted his senses then, for he had been deceived by imposters before. He struggled against the tangling roots fastening to his legs, but it was like swimming with chains.
“Pity you’re not Prince Aran,” Kiranrao said with a sulky tone. “I had thought to kill him next, but you will do, Bhikhu.”
A spasm of terror shot through Paedrin at the words, at the total lack of humanity in Kiranrao’s dead eyes. He tried to squelch it, but it was like commanding his heart not to quail in the midst of a lightning storm or a shipwreck.
“I also pity that,” Paedrin said flippantly. “I wish he were here too.”
Kiranrao sauntered closer, the blade poised and ready. Paedrin’s mind worked furiously. Should he start sawing at the roots? Would they yield like normal plants, or was this some sort of magic that was trapping him?