Phae nodded, tears welling in her eyes. It was so hard to listen to him speak of her father’s murder with so little emotion. Part of her hated him for it. Another part of her hated her father for betraying the Arch-Rike.

She swallowed and found her throat very dry. “What was—” She swallowed again. “What was his name please?” She brushed away the tears.

“Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. You look…like him. I see the resemblance.”

Phae blotted the tears on her sleeve. “When we are back in Kenatos, you will give me over to the Arch-Rike. Then he will take away your memories again. You won’t remember…me. Or this.”

He stared at the grass and nodded solemnly.

She struggled to master her own emotions. She wanted to start sobbing, but she fought against the despair. “I don’t think I could live without my memories. Even the painful ones. Even last night.” She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “I think you should stop being a Kishion. You have a name. Someone out there must know it.” She nodded forcefully. “When you are done with this assignment, you should seek it.”

He looked at her in silence, staring at her thoughtfully. “You do not ask me to free you.”

Phae shook her head, working quickly on the remaining tear. “I know you will not. Your duty binds you. But I do ask you to free yourself.”

“What if I cannot live with myself?” he asked. “What if the memories kill me?”

She bit the last thread. “That is probably what the Arch-Rike wants you to think.”

There was enough light now. He stared in her eyes, as if her words were sinking deep into his heart. She could blink and snatch it away. She could snatch away his memory of meeting her. She almost did. But Phae could not bring herself to do it, not after giving her promise.

There was the sound of groaning iron. The gate opened ponderously. Phae looked up and realized men had gathered on the battlement walls and were pointing in their direction. She saw the flash of metal in the sunlight as riders emerged from the gate, coming at them from a trot to a full gallop.

The Kishion snatched the shirt from her hands and pulled it on quickly. Rising to a crouch, he tensed with recognition. “Romani,” he said venomously.

“Every civilization has a history, typically an oral tradition, that defines how it came into being. Many of these traditions are remarkably similar and require the belief in an unseen realm ruled over by an entity that is good. There is another similarity amongst these many stories. That is the part of evil and how it came to be. The stories all say that pride is what introduced evil into the world. It is good beings that turn into evil ones. If this is so, and pride makes a good man evil, then it requires humility to make men good. So often man wishes to be happy even when he so lives as to make happiness impossible.”

—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Even in Stonehollow, the Romani were recognized and feared. Of all the races or people, they were distrusted the most. Phae’s insides writhed with apprehension as she saw the horsemen emerge from the gate.

“What do we do?” she asked in fear.

“They already see us,” he answered, rising to his full height and brushing his hands together before fitting on his gloves. “They expect us to run. They expect us to be afraid and to barter for our lives.” He gave her a sidelong look. “If it frightens you to be taken to the Arch-Rike of Kenatos, consider yourself fortunate not to be abducted by the Romani. You are young enough. They would pierce your ear and train you in their ways before selling you at eighteen. If you disobey, they poison you.”

Phae gasped with dread and touched his arm. “What will we do then?”

The riders closed the distance quickly and the thundering of the hooves made Phae cringe and tremble. The Kishion faced the approaching Romani and stepped in front of her, blocking her with his body.

“The horses will not trample us,” he said. “If one of the men tries to grab you, drop low. They won’t be able to reach down that far. Stay near me. I will deal with them.”

“How?” she demanded, for at least twenty approached. She pulled her pack and slung it around her shoulders.

“Just stay near me,” he said as the first rider drew up to them. “Do not run.”

“I bid you good day!” a Romani said, leaning forward in his saddle to regard the pair. He had dark hair, a charming smile, but his eyes were ruthless. Other riders slowed to a canter and filled in around them, blocking them in on all sides.

The Kishion said nothing.