“My name is Aransetis,” the man said, his voice deep and slightly hushed. He was stern but not unfriendly. “You are my humble guests.”

He entered the room and inclined his head to each of them. “Forgive my appearance if I have startled you. You have traveled long and are weary. In your eyes, I represent those who have hunted you. But I do not serve the Arch-Rike or his minions. This jerkin helps to remind me of our cause. One only knows his enemy when he has worn his shirt, as they say. Welcome to Silvandom. Welcome to the mastermind.”

Paedrin stood and bowed in respect. Hettie had not released her grip on the knife hilt. Her instincts were at war. Kiranrao looked unimpressed, and he gazed at their host with an air of indifference.

Hettie glanced back at the girl, Khiara. Her eyes were aglow, her expression softening as she stared at Prince Aran. It was as obvious as the moon at night that she had feelings for him. Hettie scorned her blatant adoration.

“Please, you must have questions,” the prince said. He walked to the head of the table and seated himself in a graceful move. “Let me answer what I can.”

“Where did you get your outfit?” Kiranrao asked, his voice slightly smug.

“I had it made. And you are?”

“Kiranrao. Do you know of me?”

The prince’s expression was stern. “Your reputation extends to these woods. You will find no Romani here except for the two of you.” He extended his hand, palm up. “I believe you have my stones.”

Kiranrao’s eyebrow twitched. He said nothing.

“They will not serve you, Kiranrao. They are powerless in your hands.”

Hettie felt the tension increase between the two men. Paedrin leaned forward—just slightly. His gaze shifted between them.

“What do they do?” Kiranrao asked at last, his voice disinterested.

“They will find someone who is lost. It is easy to lose one’s way in the Scourgelands. The trees there are ancient.”

“Trees?” Kiranrao asked with a half-chuckle.

“Ancient ones. As old as the world. The stones, please.” His palm did not waver.

Kiranrao stared at him silently. He did not move.

Hettie felt uneasy. She knew Kiranrao was sizing him up. He was examining him for weaknesses. She was not sure what she had expected. A pampered Vaettir lord who was soft and simple? This one surprised her in every possible way. He had none of Paedrin’s bravado. His eyes were deadly earnest. He had the look of a Bhikhu who had killed.

“You are a guest in this house,” Khiara said, her voice serious. “It is the only thing that shelters you in this land. Though you are Vaettir-born, you are not familiar with our ways. The prince has been lenient thus far. Do not try his patience.”

“Do not try my patience,” Kiranrao warned softly.

“The stones,” the prince repeated firmly.

Hettie’s hands began to tremble. There would be violence here. There would be blood spilled. She sent a pleading look at Paedrin, but his eyes were fastened to the prince’s. The air in the room was oppressive and heavy. Even the incense smelled too strong.

Kiranrao flung a small leather bag onto the outstretched palm. It was tossed too hard and would have bounced, but the prince’s fingers closed like talons, seizing it.

He opened the drawstrings and emptied the stones into his palm.

The feeling in the room began to shift. The tension ebbed.

Each stone was a mottled blue color, unpolished, uncut. They could have been river pebbles, except for the streaks of green and white that marked them. The prince stared down at the three, his gaze firm and hard. The stones began to glow. Satisfied, he stuffed them back into the pouch.

“You didn’t trust me?” Kiranrao said with a smirk.

“It’s for her own good that the cat purrs.”

Hettie was startled, for that was a Romani saying. It was not a commonly known one. She nodded to him in deference. Kiranrao did not, but she saw his countenance darken.

“You said welcome to the mastermind,” Paedrin said, speaking at last. “Where did you get that word?”

The prince did not smile, but his expression softened slightly. “The Arch-Rike taught it to Tyrus. Tyrus taught it to me. We are a mastermind. All of us. Some who use the word consider a single person. A force behind a single idea.” He shook his head gravely. “They sadly misunderstand. The formation of Kenatos was a mastermind. The congregation of thieves in Havenrook is a mastermind. When individuals choose to align themselves for a common goal—that is a mastermind. Before you were born, Bhikhu, Tyrus led a mastermind into the Scourgelands to defeat the Plague. We are preparing now to go back and finish what was started. We…”

Kiranrao looked perplexed. “I have no part of this…”

The prince gave him a withering look for interrupting him.

“You are warned,” Khiara said softly.

Kiranrao’s face flushed with emotion. He said nothing, but Hettie could see the fury roiling in his eyes.

“You have all been summoned to join this great mastermind,” Prince Aran continued. “Those in Kenatos would call it a conspiracy. But I say to you that it is a rebellion against death. When Tyrus came to me, he was bleeding and nearly dead—defeated from his last attempt. I swore on the honor of my house that I would be ready to join him the second time. I was too young back then. I have been training since that day to join the cause and usher in an era where the Plague cannot kiss another child with death. You are here for this purpose. Tyrus chose you. All of you. Yes, even you, Kiranrao. You are all needed in this task. We may fail. We may die. But he is coming to tell us his plan. He is coming to explain his purpose. Come back to this place at dawn. Then, your questions will all be answered.”

Prince Aransetis rose. Khiara rose as well, her eyes still adoring. He nodded to them again, each in turn, and left the spacious room. Khiara followed, speaking softly to him, and then returned. “Rooms are in the hall outside, one for each of you. There are mats to sleep on in the corner. Rest yourselves, for you are weary. There is a chamber for bathing beyond. We will join you in the morning.”

She left, sliding the door shut behind her.

Kiranrao stood slowly, exhaling. “I nearly killed him.”

Paedrin snorted, earning a withering stare himself. “Not likely. I have never been in the presence of a Chin-Na master before. Until tonight.”

“I am not afraid of a Bhikhu,” Kiranrao said contemptuously.

“He is not a Bhikhu,” Paedrin replied. “Chin-Na is different. A Vaettir floats and flies. One who practices Chin-Na is heavy. They become part of the earth and its energy. Hitting one is like hitting a boulder. They are fast and strong. One punch can stop a man from breathing. They can kill by robbing one’s breath.”

Hettie gazed at him intently. “I thought the Vaettir do not kill.”

“I think this one does,” Paedrin replied ominously.

Hettie could not sleep. The mat was terribly uncomfortable and the lingering smell of the incense was alien and unfamiliar. Everything about the room and structure was different than what she was used to. It was a different culture. It was a different lifestyle. It was the closest thing to feeling safe she had ever experienced in her life.

In the wilds beyond Silvandom, the Romani were everywhere. But here, in this kingdom, they were unwelcome. That meant she did not have to worry that someone would slip monkshood into her food and murder her. For the first time in her life, she began to experience the possibility that she might actually free herself from her Romani bondage. Not through paying an outlandish bribe. But by living in a place where the Romani were not welcome. If she aided her uncle in his quest, if she truly joined the mastermind, would she gain the privilege of living in Silvandom?

She was awestruck by the beauty of the land, the forested hills, and the amazing cleanliness of the city. The air did not reek as it did in Havenrook. The people were civil and respectful, if a bit odd too. But she would gladly accept their traditions and customs if it gave her a chance to live her life and choose her own future. She wondered if Paedrin would want to stay as well. Going back to Kenatos would not be possible for him.

Unable to sleep and restless with anticipation for Tyrus’s arrival, she rose from the mat and padded softly to Paedrin’s room. She needed to talk to someone. Her feelings were nearly bursting inside her. She slid open the door to his chamber and found it empty. The mat looked undisturbed.

Hettie retraced the path back to the main room where they had eaten the night before. The sky in the windows was beginning to brighten with the dawn. Outside, she began to hear the chirping of birds. She gazed in the room and almost withdrew, but she saw something flash in the corner of her eye and turned, gazing into the corner. There was Paedrin, hunched over, rocking slowly. He looked as if he were in great pain.

Rushing to his side, Hettie found him wet with sweat. He was huddled on the floor, arms clasped around his middle.

“Paedrin!” she gasped. He stiffened and looked at her, his eyes wild with panic. She touched his shoulder.

Calmness began to settle over him, as if her touch were magic somehow. The quivering muscles began to ease. His breathing slowed. She watched, transfixed by the metamorphosis. The strange look in his eyes began to soften.

“Are you sick?” she whispered at last, watching the final tremors fade away.

“I felt a fit coming on,” he replied, his voice strained. “I get them, from time to time. They pass quickly. I did not want to wake anyone.”

“I was worried when I did not find you in your room.”

His eyebrows arched. “You were looking for me in my room?”

She realized how it sounded, and flushed. “I needed to talk to someone. It is almost dawn. Tyrus is coming. What do you think of all this? What Prince Aransetis told us? You always have strong opinions.”

Paedrin breathed out heavily, pausing as he considered her. “How do we know we can trust him?”

“The prince?”

“No. Tyrus. Hasn’t he misled us from the start?”

She was surprised to hear that coming from him. He was never one to wrestle with self-doubt. “I used to think that. But the more I have thought about this, the more I believe he was trying to protect us.”

Paedrin lay still, his eyes far away.

“Are you all right, Paedrin?”

He flinched. “I am now. I wish you had not seen me like that.”

She sighed and laid her hand on his arm. “No one expects you to be invincible.” She sighed. The urge to tell him the truth gnawed at her. He deserved the truth, especially since he had disclosed his own weakness. It burned on her tongue. A secret is a weapon and a friend. It would give him power to hurt her. Sharing it might strengthen their friendship. She hesitated.

“I just wish I could fully trust Tyrus,” Paedrin muttered softly. “If you look at it a certain way, he abandoned us to that Kishion. Those who stay with him have a peculiar habit of ending up dead.”

Hettie felt a stab of concern at the way Paedrin was speaking. “He is my uncle.”

“Are you sure he is?” Paedrin asked, staring at her. “Do you really know anything about him? Were you told by the Romani you were his niece? Are they trustworthy either?”

Hettie shifted away from him. “This isn’t like you,” she said with concern.

Paedrin frowned and shook his head, as if reproaching himself. “I’m sorry. All my doubts tend to come out at night. I will be…more myself…in the morning.”

A chorus of trilling began just outside the window. The musical sound startled them and made them both start laughing. But on Hettie’s part, it was nervous laughter. Something was different about Paedrin. Something wasn’t right, but she could not decide what it was.

You have said enough. You planted doubts in her mind. You have done well, Paedrin. I applaud your efforts. Now be watchful. Look for the moment when you can seize the blade. We will appear suddenly, with enough force to distract Tyrus. My spies in the Druidecht camp say that he has it and that he disappeared this morning at dawn. He will meet you soon. You have led us to the end of the hunt. Soon you will be one of my Kishion. You will be very powerful in the realm. You will do great things.

The Arch-Rike’s voice shriveled from Paedrin’s mind, like a snake shedding skin. It was a horrible, violating feeling. It made him want to vomit. He stared at the ring on his finger. He knew he was betraying his friends. He knew he was betraying his race. He knew he was betraying the Bhikhu. If he could kill himself by removing the ring, he would have. All his life he had wanted to visit Silvandom. This act of treachery would never be forgiven. It would be better to die.

When he tried to will himself to remove it, his hands began shaking and would not obey.