“I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, Bhikhu. Hettie isn’t here to stay my hand. Not that she could this time.”
Paedrin shifted his hips, trying to ignore the squeezing pain in his legs. If he were flat on his back with the ague, he couldn’t be more helpless. But he was not defenseless. He had trained his entire life to prepare for such a moment. The Uddhava would help him. Kiranrao looked almost trancelike. His inner spark was gone. His personality had been bleached away. Delay him—make him react to you.
“I always knew Hettie controlled you. So, Kiranrao, are there any Romani proverbs for such an occasion? Any words you say to the man you’re about to murder? A good beginning is half the work?”
A weary expression came over Kiranrao’s face—almost a smile, but not quite. “A postponement till morning . . . a postponement forever.”
Paedrin held up one hand, palm facing Kiranrao. “I recall one that Hettie told me. It is no secret that is known to three.” He slowly brought the sword behind his back with the other, watching the Romani advance.
“Fair words, Bhikhu. At least you understand now why I’m killing you.”
“I propose a bargain,” Paedrin said.
“There’s no stopping the force of a going wheel by hand,” Kiranrao said, starting to flank Paedrin on his left.
“I have a new one for you. The youngest thorns are the sharpest.”
Paedrin brought the Sword of Winds to his chest, pommel up, and summoned the power of the stone in the hilt.
It was the same trick that the imposter Kiranrao had used against him in Shatalin. The magic of the stone went out in a flood of greenish light and Kiranrao screamed in pain and began slashing the air in front of him, his eyes blistering with the magic. Paedrin ducked low and began slicing through the roots with the blade.
Kiranrao roared with hatred and agony, the blade dangerously close to Paedrin’s shoulder as he maneuvered away from the random sweep. The Bhikhu sawed at the roots and one came free, releasing the crushing grip on his right ankle, and he dropped to the lowest stance he could muster, feeling the weight of Kiranrao looming above him.
Paedrin didn’t have time to swing the sword around, but he struck Kiranrao’s abdomen—his liver, to be precise—with his open palm and the Romani tumbled backward, thrashing on the ground. Paedrin resumed sawing on the other cord of root and managed to sever its grip as the Romani made it back to his feet again and lunged at him, slashing wildly with the dagger.
Paedrin took in a sharp breath of air and used the Sword’s magic to vault into the sky, above the danger. He stared down at Kiranrao, feeling the temptation to flee. But no, he had to face Kiranrao now. There would not be a better time to fight him, with his eyes burning in pain and his wits scattered.
Paedrin exhaled sharply and came down hard, landing on Kiranrao’s shoulders, knocking him to the ground. He swung the sword against Kiranrao’s neck, but Paedrin’s legs were kicked loose from beneath him and he struggled to keep himself up.
Paedrin scurried backward as Kiranrao charged him again, his face a mutation of savagery. The Bhikhu twisted sideways as the dagger was thrust at him once, twice, almost grazing the fabric of Paedrin’s tunic. He could not think about the risk he was taking. One cut from the blade . . .
Paedrin jumped and did a reverse circle kick, smashing his heel into Kiranrao’s cheek. That also staggered him, but just for a moment and he was back again, coming down with the blade against Paedrin’s shoulder. Reflexes saved the Bhikhu. He caught his enemy on the forearm with a block and their arms became tangled as both sought to wrestle the other into submission.
Kiranrao’s knee came up into Paedrin’s groin, a merciless blow that sucked his breath away and sent his body into convulsions of agony. He sank to one knee and whipped the Sword around, slashing through Kiranrao’s front and spraying blood. Paedrin saw the cut wasn’t deep and regretted it immediately.
If the Romani was debilitated by the pain, it was only slightly. Paedrin went at him again, trying to use the reach of the Sword to greater advantage. Kiranrao twisted sideways to defend himself, keeping out of the blade’s path through uncanny reflexes. They collided again and Paedrin grabbed Kiranrao’s wrist, trying to twist him around and put a hold on him that would disable him, but Kiranrao knew the ways of escaping such methods, and the grip faltered.
“Have I lasted . . . longer than you expected?” Paedrin huffed, trading blocks and kicks.
The dagger passed just a hairbreadth from his chest, and Paedrin swallowed as he jumped back, realizing that he was being foolish still. He was nearing the edge of the cliff and began retreating toward it.
Kiranrao’s face was mottled with pain and anger. He deftly pursued Paedrin, feinting with the dagger, listening keenly for a sound that would trigger him to lunge at the Bhikhu.