The broken man did not scream. His face was contorted with rage. He reached in his belt for another blade and began hefting it. Paedrin stomped on his stomach next, watching the man’s eyes bulge out. He had damaged him severely. It would take him months to recover.
The pain in Paedrin’s side was getting unbearable, but he did not let it show on his face.
The two stared at each other, fixing the moment in their minds. It was the first time in his life Paedrin was tempted to kill. The look of hate on the man’s face meant revenge. It meant he would stop at nothing to hunt Paedrin down for another chance. He knew if their positions were reversed, there would be no qualm on the other’s part, and he would have buried the dagger to the hilt in Paedrin’s chest.
But that is why I am a Bhikhu, he reminded himself. Even a life as miserable and wretched as this man’s was too sacred to steal. It meant that Paedrin had to be better than him. Always. There could be no room for doubting that. Paedrin stared into the hateful eyes, unflinching, and gave him a subtle nod as he lay on the dirty street, unable to even stand up. Two broken arms. Some grave internal damage. It would stop him from following them.
No one faced him in the man’s place. The wave had crashed with all its fury and might and was now slinking back to the place where it came from. Gripping the heavy iron weapon in one hand, Paedrin knelt and retrieved his nicked staff, and he walked away from Havenrook, knowing that he if he ever ventured there again, he would die.
“I am always fascinated by the baubles and trinkets which are invented by the Paracelsus order. They know how to enchant weapons with special powers. They created the magic that gives light to the city. Their genius knows no boundaries. Even the Rikes use their magic to heal the sick or Plague-ridden. They say that each item must be carefully crafted. I do not understand the principles involved, but I have grown to appreciate the genius behind it.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The fire was small and sheltered within a hollowed-out stump to help conceal the light. Annon winced as Hettie pulled back Paedrin’s blood-stained shirt and exposed the gash. It was an awful wound, yet Paedrin sat like a stone, his face impassive. Several layers of skin and tissue that was white and purplish lay exposed. It made Annon ill to look at it.
Hettie shook her head slowly. “It’s too deep for just a compress. We’ll need to stitch it.”
Paedrin shrugged one shoulder.
“It will hurt,” Hettie said. “Do you want some ale for the pain?”
He looked at her coldly. “Do your worst, woman.”
Annon noticed Erasmus pacing around the camp, looking at each stump and tree, counting off the paces between them, looking at each patch of ground, often testing it with the toe of his boot.
“Annon, what do you make of this?” Paedrin said to him, tossing the dagger he had claimed in Havenrook.
He caught it easily enough, then realized it was surprisingly heavy. “This is odd,” Annon said. Immediately the stone in the hilt started to glow. That surprised him as well, and he brought it closer to the fire, where Hettie and Paedrin were.
“It did that in his hand,” the Bhikhu said. “Right before he cut me.”
Annon nodded, staring at the stone. He brought it closer to his face and thought he saw something inside, a little pulse of light. It was so tiny, yet it seemed to zigzag inside. It reminded him of Tyrus’s tower in Kenatos, all those orbs with the light that Tyrus seemed to sooth.
The light grew brighter and the zigzagging more intense.
Does it understand my thoughts? Annon wondered. Is it responding to my memories?
The stone dimmed and then flashed again, even more violently. It was as if something were struggling inside the stone trying to speak to him.
He glanced at Hettie and saw her looking at it also, her eyes curious. Then she removed her travel pack and started rummaging in it for supplies to stitch Paedrin’s wound.
“Not yet,” Annon said, halting her. “Hold a moment.”
He stared at the stone and saw that it was not a stone. It was a round orb of glass, no larger than a child’s toy. It was connected to the blade through an intricate mesh of metal weaving.
“There is something curious about this,” Annon said. It was a strange feeling, a familiar feeling.
“Why does it glow?” Paedrin asked.
“Because it is worth five thousand ducats,” Erasmus said, glancing over at them. “It has some power within it. Power that makes it more useful than just a blade alone. It is the craft of the Paracelsus to make such things.”