walls.
That
was the only reason someone
chose
to sleep on the floor, on an uncomfortable mat, on hard flagstones, day after day.
Paedrin pulled open the doors and went into the momentary blindness of the deeply shadowed interior. The temple was a hodgepodge of structures, mostly one level tall with vaulted roofs, interconnecting to each other like the sluices they used to control water in the city.
From the roof, one could see a great deal of the city below—its serpentine maze of streets, squares, water fountains, and courtyards. From the roof, where Paedrin often went to be alone, he could see the vast lake in the distance and dream of the kingdoms and haunted wilderness beyond. The thought of Plague did not terrify him. He feared nothing except remaining trapped in the city his entire life, disciplining pickpockets and protecting the city from enemies of Kenatos. In his heart, he would rather be with his own people in Silvandom. But he owed the orphanage and the city his duty.
The dusty tiles met his sandals soundlessly as he maneuvered past columns and enormous urns. He listened and heard her voice, then changed his direction. He had heard her speak occasionally, and she spoke with a strong accent, a wild accent, as if she were from some unmannered country. Yet if that were so, why did she comport herself with the disdain of someone very wealthy? Was she in disguise, perhaps? That kindled Paedrin’s curiosity even more. Out of favor with a wealthy father, a duke in Wayland? He could not help but let his imagination run wild.
He heard Master Shivu’s voice next, a comforting but firm tone in it. He was resisting her request. He was patient about it, as he always was, but he was telling her no.
“I can pay,” he heard her say. “When the job is done.”
“We have little need for treasure, little one. It is contrary to our order to accept payment of any kind.” He was excruciatingly patient. Paedrin did not understand this, considering how difficult little orphaned boys could be. “It is our duty to serve the races.”
“But I am in need of a service for hire,” the girl insisted. “It will not be a long journey. A fortnight or two. I need a protector.”
Master Shivu came into view, his head bent thoughtfully, his wrinkled eyes warm with sympathy. His hair was a patchwork of silver and white stubble. “What protection do you need that these walls cannot provide?” He held his hand out, gesturing toward the structure around them. “If you are hunted, you are safe here. The Bhikhu will defend you. You are an orphan, as you said. There is work for you to do right here among us. There is no need to venture into the woods.”
“But I do not
belong
here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger. “Nor am I safe here from my enemies. You do not understand. I turn eighteen soon.”
Paedrin licked his lips, intrigued beyond calculation. If he lingered much longer, he would learn more about this girl. But it was rude to delay his approach. Even though he walked on cat’s feet, she still heard him. Her expression shifted at once from sincere desperation to annoyance.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Master,” the girl said and started to go the other way, abandoning Master Shivu with a quick toss of her head.
It was in the moment Paedrin saw the subtle gleam in her right ear—the gold earring. Only one.
The pieces began to assemble in his mind.
“A word before you go, child,” Shivu said, stalling her.
“Yes?”
“I would like you to meet your protector.” Master Shivu opened his palm and gestured. “This is Paedrin.”
“He’s Vaettir,” she said, sizing him up with cool eyes. The tone in her voice was insulting to him.
“I am,” he answered, closing the gap between them. “And you are Romani, though you try to hide it. What is my assignment, Master Shivu? Protecting a special caravan?”
Her eyebrows arched. “I meant that you were Vaettir-born and that our people have a
That
was the only reason someone
chose
to sleep on the floor, on an uncomfortable mat, on hard flagstones, day after day.
Paedrin pulled open the doors and went into the momentary blindness of the deeply shadowed interior. The temple was a hodgepodge of structures, mostly one level tall with vaulted roofs, interconnecting to each other like the sluices they used to control water in the city.
From the roof, one could see a great deal of the city below—its serpentine maze of streets, squares, water fountains, and courtyards. From the roof, where Paedrin often went to be alone, he could see the vast lake in the distance and dream of the kingdoms and haunted wilderness beyond. The thought of Plague did not terrify him. He feared nothing except remaining trapped in the city his entire life, disciplining pickpockets and protecting the city from enemies of Kenatos. In his heart, he would rather be with his own people in Silvandom. But he owed the orphanage and the city his duty.
The dusty tiles met his sandals soundlessly as he maneuvered past columns and enormous urns. He listened and heard her voice, then changed his direction. He had heard her speak occasionally, and she spoke with a strong accent, a wild accent, as if she were from some unmannered country. Yet if that were so, why did she comport herself with the disdain of someone very wealthy? Was she in disguise, perhaps? That kindled Paedrin’s curiosity even more. Out of favor with a wealthy father, a duke in Wayland? He could not help but let his imagination run wild.
He heard Master Shivu’s voice next, a comforting but firm tone in it. He was resisting her request. He was patient about it, as he always was, but he was telling her no.
“I can pay,” he heard her say. “When the job is done.”
“We have little need for treasure, little one. It is contrary to our order to accept payment of any kind.” He was excruciatingly patient. Paedrin did not understand this, considering how difficult little orphaned boys could be. “It is our duty to serve the races.”
“But I am in need of a service for hire,” the girl insisted. “It will not be a long journey. A fortnight or two. I need a protector.”
Master Shivu came into view, his head bent thoughtfully, his wrinkled eyes warm with sympathy. His hair was a patchwork of silver and white stubble. “What protection do you need that these walls cannot provide?” He held his hand out, gesturing toward the structure around them. “If you are hunted, you are safe here. The Bhikhu will defend you. You are an orphan, as you said. There is work for you to do right here among us. There is no need to venture into the woods.”
“But I do not
belong
here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger. “Nor am I safe here from my enemies. You do not understand. I turn eighteen soon.”
Paedrin licked his lips, intrigued beyond calculation. If he lingered much longer, he would learn more about this girl. But it was rude to delay his approach. Even though he walked on cat’s feet, she still heard him. Her expression shifted at once from sincere desperation to annoyance.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Master,” the girl said and started to go the other way, abandoning Master Shivu with a quick toss of her head.
It was in the moment Paedrin saw the subtle gleam in her right ear—the gold earring. Only one.
The pieces began to assemble in his mind.
“A word before you go, child,” Shivu said, stalling her.
“Yes?”
“I would like you to meet your protector.” Master Shivu opened his palm and gestured. “This is Paedrin.”
“He’s Vaettir,” she said, sizing him up with cool eyes. The tone in her voice was insulting to him.
“I am,” he answered, closing the gap between them. “And you are Romani, though you try to hide it. What is my assignment, Master Shivu? Protecting a special caravan?”
Her eyebrows arched. “I meant that you were Vaettir-born and that our people have a
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