“As iron is eaten away by rust, so the envious are consumed by their own passion. I heard it said once, and this by a wealthy man in Kenatos, that what he needed most was to love and to be loved. Happily he wrapped those painful bonds around himself, and, sure enough, he would be lashed with the red-hot pokers of jealousy, by suspicions and by fear, by bursts of anger and quarrels. Some fools cannot discern the difference between love and jealousy.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
IV
Studying emotions at a drab and colorless monastery, with all its cracks in the cobbles and moldering stone walls, had not truly prepared Paedrin for the rest of his life. He had been taught by Master Shivu that emotions could be controlled, directed, and would ultimately provide a calm assurance and peace that would persevere until the stubble of black hair on the dome of his head had frosted over. Always Master Shivu had a quirk of a smile on his face as he waggled his fingers at his young pupils, warning them not to be caught in the snares of the heart. Men murdered for love. Fools bargained with Preachán for tastes of it.
But there was something about seeing Hettie walking side by side with Kiranrao that made Paedrin forget all of Shivu’s cautions.
The young Bhikhu sighed deeply, wrestling against his surging feelings. How could he describe it? The tranquility Master Shivu promised was still there, woven link by link like the chain he had fastened to his wrist and now used as a weapon—a series of conscious choices that had purified his body and his mind and allowed him to perform feats of great discipline and grace. Tranquility was as subtle and sweet as a juicy grape. But at the same time, he experienced the red-hot burning on his tongue brought by a mouthful of fiery peppers—hate, jealousy, revenge, contempt. These were powerful emotions, and their presence nearly drowned out the calmer ones completely. He realized that it was difficult to be patient and wise when his mouth was blistering with unspoken insults.
What galled Paedrin even more was that Tyrus would not address his concerns or explain his reasons for allowing Kiranrao to join the expedition. It was like bringing along a snake and trusting it not to bite you. Tyrus would offer no reason. He only said it would become very clear once they entered the Scourgelands.
The walk through an area like Boeotia normally would have required his concentration, but with such vast open plains and rolling, scrub-packed hills, there was little that could advance on them unawares. No fearsome Boeotian warrior could possibly be squatting behind such stunted weeds or barren brush. Paedrin wanted to fight. He wanted to challenge Kiranrao right at that moment. He recognized his own tempestuousness, but recognition didn’t help him cope.
Why did he care so much that Hettie seemed accepting of Kiranrao’s company? Was he, a Bhikhu, attempting to own her in his way? She was a Romani girl, stolen at birth by a midwife and raised to be sold every ten years starting at age eight. Paedrin had snapped off her earring in Kenatos, and she had become a disciple of the Bhikhu ways. But he also knew that she was a cunning liar. Conflicting memories of her bashed around inside him. He had grown to trust her at last, through all they had suffered together to reach the Shatalin monastery and claim the Sword of Winds. A shiver went through him at the memory of huddling close to her at a cliff face. She had nearly plummeted to her death that night and he had saved her. In return, she had saved him from the Kishion training yard.
Yet Kiranrao was her old master. He who pays the piper calls the tune. Was Kiranrao calling the tune or was Tyrus? Was Hettie showing deference to Kiranrao so as not to provoke him? Would Paedrin fare better if he stopped provoking him too?
The man is insufferable, he thought blackly. How would Shivu have handled him? Black thoughts scudded across his mind. It did not matter for Master Shivu was dead, killed by Romani poison.
Annon stopped and the lack of motion caught Paedrin’s attention instantly. He shoved aside his teeming feelings with great effort and began searching the area for signs of a threat. The big cat was nestled by Annon’s leg, its tail lashing like a snake. Annon turned and began to hurry to Tyrus. Paedrin, not wanting to miss any of their conversation, reached the Paracelsus first.
“What is it?” Tyrus asked Annon.
“The spirits tell me we are hunted,” Annon answered in a low voice. Some of the others gathered around as well. “They will stay out of sight until after nightfall, but I fear we may be surrounded. Our progress is being tracked.”
“From behind?”
Annon nodded. “For now. Word is spreading about us. They may seek to box us in. Should we change direction?”