Phae stared at him in surprise. An apology was not what she had been expecting. He could have rebuked her for running away despite his warning. He could have justified himself in countless ways. For a moment, she wondered if her damaged ear had heard it wrong.

She looked down at her hands in her lap, struggling with her dread. “Why do you even care?” she asked.

“Because you are harmless. Innocent. A frown would have been enough to prove my displeasure,” he answered. “I acted last night out of…fear. I lost control. That has been happening to me…more and more.” He sighed, rubbing his mouth. His breathing started to quicken. He shook his head.

“Fear?” Phae asked, perplexed. “Nothing can harm you. You were stung by a hundred bees and then jumped off the roof. Trasen shot an arrow at you and it didn’t even pierce you. Look at you now. Your clothes are torn, but the bear didn’t harm you. You were afraid? Of what?”

The Kishion stared down at the matted grass. He plucked one and twirled the stalk between his fingers. “When I am near the Arch-Rike, my thoughts are always calm and orderly. I understand what is happening and how to interpret my feelings and the emotions of others. But I am far beyond the influence of his power right now, and I have found those thoughts and feelings less certain and—” He paused, thinking how to stay it. “This will not make sense to you. Never mind.”

“Please,” she said, almost reaching out to touch his arm, but she did not dare. “Try. You frighten me for certain. You are not…afraid of me are you?”

He met her eyes for a moment then looked down. “I’m afraid of my past. Of what I cannot remember.”

Phae swallowed. He was starting to open up to her. She had always had a natural gift for making people trust her with confidences. Even though she was terrified of the Kishion, her natural empathy had caused her to respond to his words, his confusion. The more she understood him, the better chance she had of escaping him. She did not ask him to elaborate. She just gave an encouraging nod for him to continue.

“A Kishion does not have a name. We do not have a past. I do not know where I was born. I cannot remember my childhood or anything beyond a few weeks ago when I was summoned…to serve the Arch-Rike again.”

She stared at him, keeping her expression neutral. “Were you an orphan?”

“I assume so. Part of the magic that binds me to the Kishion steals my memories.” He looked at her pointedly. “I think it is Dryad magic, in some way.” He shook his head. “Every kingdom requires men to fulfill its justice. The King of Wayland has several headsmen, paid to execute those who violate his laws. That is what we are. That is what I am. But the toll is heavy for men in my role. The Arch-Rike relieves us of the guilt of our actions by stripping away the memory of the deeds. He takes it upon himself.” The Kishion sighed deeply. “It helps, to be sure. But there is something awful in not being able to remember how vicious you truly must be. To know you have done horrible things that you would not wish to remember. The fact that I can’t means that I must suspect or wonder at what I have done.”

Phae’s stomach revolted at the thought. “You have no past,” she said with a frown. “With the bad memories, you lose the good as well.”

“If there were any,” he replied mockingly.

She could not imagine such an existence. Her entire life was a series of shared memories that had bound her to the Winemillers and all of her adopted brothers and sisters. What would it be like to not remember Trasen? To not savor the memory of trampling the grapes at harvest time? Memories sustained Phae when she was sad or discouraged. Stripping them all away would be a terrible punishment. It was why she had decided to stop stealing memories for the most part, even though she had the power to.

The sun peeked over the mountains at last, sending stabbing rays into her eyes. She saw the tattered shirt hanging over the Kishion’s body. She fumbled with the straps of her pack and dug around inside for a moment, finding a spare shirt she had packed. It would not fit him, so she dared not suggest it. But at the bottom was a spool of black thread and sewing needle set inside. Master Winemiller had always taught her to prepare for things.

“Let me repair your shirt,” she offered, showing him the spool. “I work quickly. It will not take me long.”

“I can get a new shirt in the city.”

“How far it is to Kenatos? I think it will take a week to get there, if I remember correctly. By horse it is faster.”

The Kishion’s mouth twitched. “We will be there in two days at the most.”