She waved the dagger at him. “How can you wear Kiranrao’s face? What magic gives the illusion?”
He licked his lips. “I wear a Druidecht talisman,” he gasped. His face contorted and tears squeezed from his eyes. “The pain! Lass, it’ll kill me soon!”
“Give me the talisman,” she ordered, holding out her hand.
One of his arms was useless, but with the other, he reached up to his collar and she saw the cord she hadn’t noticed before. He fished it from his shirt and she recognized the design from the one her brother wore.
“Take it off slowly.” Her voice was full of menace. She hefted the dagger, ready to throw it.
His face contorted again and he began gasping.
“I swear, I will kill you right now and take it from you,” she promised.
“Have you ever tasted monkshood?” he said savagely. “Oh by the gods, it hurts! The cramping. I swear it, lass, you will die. I will kill you. I will—”
“A postponement till morning is a postponement forever,” she interrupted. “Give it over!”
He was reluctant. She could tell. But he could not see any other way and slid the talisman over his head. His entire body seemed to collapse upon itself, a grape shriveling into a raisin in moments. The illusion was gone. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a wiry Preachán. The only part of him that had not changed was the expression of absolute hate. She blinked in surprise at the complete metamorphosis. There was something familiar about him.
“It’s you,” she whispered, realizing the deep truth finally. He was from Havenrook. He was one of Kiranrao’s closest men. He whipped the talisman around by the cord and it struck her on the side of the face. The metal bit hard, causing a rip of pain as her skin tore. The blow was so sudden and hard that she dropped her dagger. Suddenly he lunged at her, grabbing her shirtfront and pulling himself forward, his teeth widening to dig into her.
Hettie managed to bring her arm up in time and his teeth sank into her flesh, biting hard enough to shear through her skin. Their bodies tangled and they fought, each as desperate as a savage alley cat. Though her arm was bleeding she would not cry out with pain. She kneed him in the groin twice, dug her thumb into his eye, and finally managed to twist herself free from his terrible grasp. Grabbing the hair at the base of his scalp, she smashed his face into the floor. Blood exploded from his nose, the blow dazing him. Hettie found her fallen knife nearby, grabbed it, and brought it up to plunge into his back.
Only she did not.
The Preachán lay gasping on the floor, his body convulsing. His face was smeared with his own blood and hers. Her arm hurt from the bite marks. Gritting her teeth, she stared down at him.
“Kill me,” he begged. “Do it! The Bhikhu should have killed me. He should have killed me in Havenrook. I killed them all. The whole temple. Please…you must kill me.”
Hettie stared at him with loathing and understanding. This was the Preachán that Paedrin had fought defending Erasmus’s house in Havenrook. A man whose arm was broken and blade claimed and then the spirit trapped inside was freed. The man who had come to Kenatos and poisoned the Bhikhu well with monkshood.
The man’s eyes were full of desperation. “You are Romani,” he said, his voice quavering with agony. “Kill me, or the Arch-Rike will.”
Hettie noticed the Preachán’s hand and saw the Kishion ring around his finger.
“Close your eyes then,” Hettie ordered.
The man complied, his breath heaving with pain. Hettie grabbed his wrist, and pulled it away from his chest, exposing his heart.
“Answer my questions first and be quick. How does the talisman work?”
“You must know the person you intend to mimic. You must know them very well.” He grunted with pain as the poison continued its terrible work. “A casual glimpse is not enough. You must know his voice, his mannerisms.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The Arch-Rike. He wears one as well.” He started to moan. “Quickly, lass!”
Hettie swallowed. “The Sword of Winds. Where is it?”
“On the floor where you threw it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Little. I know little. Oh, the pain, lass. The pain!”
“Pity the Romani girls, not yourself. They live in fear of it. What of the sword?”
“Even in the sheath, it is powerful. With it, I can fly like a Vaettir. Even better…than a Vaettir. Faster. It is very fast. It cannot be drawn though. Only the champion can draw it. Anyone else who tries will be blinded. The stone in the hilt stings the eyes.”