Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (3 page)

Light drained from the sky, showing small tufts of clouds that promised a balmy summer’s eve. He smoothed the hair from his forehead and watched the signs of life surrounding him. Not just the dragonflies and the ravens, or the nervous gaze of a doe
and her young. No, the woods were full of spirits as well, and they could not be seen unless one knew what to look for or unless one had been touched by them. They lived in an invisible realm called Mirrowen. It was in the world, but it could not be seen. Glimpses of it were fleeting.

Sometimes he had stared long and hard at a sacred oak, stared at it for hours, and in the moment of a half-breath, he saw it. Teasing him. Luring him. Mirrowen. The Druidecht were the intermediaries between the beings who dwelled there and those who lived and breathed and died. Occasionally there were Druidecht so accepted by the spirits that they were invited to dwell in Mirrowen. There was no death there, or so it was told, unlike the world he lived in—a world where death met his gaze often. Where the slightest misstep of chance could end a life. The worlds were opposites. One full of life. The other of death.

Annon smelled the smoke before he saw the hovel and smiled with relief that it was nearby. Through a thicket of maples and witherberries, he spied the small, cramped structure and heard the grating rasp of a whetstone and blade. There were voices drifting in as well, and Annon pursed his lips, surprised to find another visitor already there. His annoyance flared, but he shoved the emotion aside. He had not expected another guest to have found this place. It was one of his favorite haunts.

The feeling melted away when he saw the older Druidecht sitting on a stump, mouth open over a bowl of stew, savoring the blend of flavors. It was Reeder. Annon emerged from the copse of trees, sweating slightly, and beamed when he saw his mentor sitting with the couple he knew so well. Reeder was tall and had copper-colored hair that flowed down to his shoulders. It had receded from his scalp significantly since their last meeting. A small gray-flecked beard covered his sturdy jaw. He looked up as Annon approached. It had been several years since they had seen each other.

Reeder swallowed another bite from the stew bowl and then stood, towering over Annon like a bear, and set the bowl down on the stump. “Look at you, Annon. A child no more, but a man grown!”

“It is good to see you, Reeder,” Annon said warmly. “You found one of my favorite places to eat.”

“I know! I was telling these good people that I can see why you visit them so often. The bread is especially tasty. Now, if I were not journeying to Silvandom at the moment, I might stay and learn the secret of their white honey.” He grinned as he gripped Annon’s shoulders, smiling genuinely. “Look at you. It is good to see you again.”

Dame Nestra smiled pleasantly. “I told Reeder we might expect you for supper, Annon. He waited all afternoon for you, but I made extra stew for you both.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Annon replied. “How is your ax, Master Woodcutter? Worn it to a nub yet?”

“Well used, but sharp as the whetstone gets it.” He reached out and shook Annon’s hand with a grip as sturdy as his tool. “I have some more cutting to do, but don’t forget the tunes you promised us, Reeder!”

“Yes, you said you would sing for your meal,” Dame Nestra insisted, a pleasant look on her face.

Both she and her husband were much older than Annon, but they had been unable to have children and doted upon him as if he somehow made up for that fact.

“Songs you will have, after I’ve talked with my good friend. I was his mentor, you know, though he has proven my equal already.”

Annon smiled and felt embarrassed. “What brings you westbound, Reeder?”

“Some mischief afoot in Silvandom. I learned of it while in Kenatos. I’ll go and see if my old bones may do any good in the conflict. Likely not, but it is a pleasant country to visit besides.”

Nestra returned with another bowl full of broth and vegetables and brought it carefully to Annon, bowing as she handed it to him. He smiled his thanks and inhaled the aroma.

“You eat another bowl if you are hungry,” she admonished him.

“The young are always hungry,” Reeder said, motioning for Annon to eat. “I’d like to finish mine as well. It’s nearly as tasty as the bread. The couple says you wander here often. I’m not surprised,” he added with a wolfish smile.

They supped together, finishing the stew and two generous helpings of Nestra’s bread, sweetened to perfection. Reeder had a healthy appetite and did not refuse a third slice. His face glowed with warmth and humor. “You have a good reputation in these woods, Annon,” he said after finishing the bread and brushing the crumbs from his lap. “Among the spirits. It was not difficult finding you. Do you think you will choose to dwell here longer? Or are you ready to move to another land?”

Annon shrugged, staring at his empty bowl. “I had not given it much thought. There is much still to learn here.”

“I am much older than you,” Reeder said, “and still that is true. Yet the woods of Silvandom have different breeds of spirits. And so do the mountains of Alkire. Each land has its own troubles.” He stared into the darkening wood, his face turning serious, the smile fading. “And then there are lairs where even the Druidecht fear to tread.” He looked down at his hands and then at Annon. “North, for example.”

“Kenatos?” Annon asked wryly.

Reeder pursed his lips. “You know what I mean, Annon. I mean beyond Kenatos, beyond the mountains. The Scourgelands are safe for none of the races.”

Annon smirked and stretched, loosening his weary limbs. “So you have told me, and so I believe you, old friend. What reason could I possibly have to wander in that forsaken place?”

But Reeder was serious. “A warning twice given is a warning still. It does no harm to repeat it. I was bid to come south and find you quickly.”

Annon’s stomach lurched and his mouth went dry. He was quiet, so quiet he could hear the fire snapping inside the hovel and the occasional clang of pots and dishes. “Who bid you, Reeder?”

“I said I was recently in Kenatos. That should be your clue.”

Annon was stunned. For a moment, his ears started ringing and anger and hurt surged in his heart. Black, seething anger. The kind that made his jaw clench and his eyes squint. It was difficult to squelch it. But beneath that anger was pain. The pain of being abandoned. The pain of never measuring up. “My uncle?” he asked through a swallow.

Reeder nodded. “He is a powerful man in that powerful city. He is known by one and all. Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. They say his power rivals the Arch-Rike’s. When he learned I was there, he sent word for me. I left his study not two days ago. We had tea together actually.”

Annon could feel the bitter feelings swirling inside him like black waters. His uncle. Tyrus. The blackness brought a feeling of loathing and defiance. It was a sore wound still, a wound that had never healed. He tried to speak but found himself hoarse. He coughed against his fist, trying to tame the wild surging in his heart. “And what did my uncle bid you tell me?”

Reeder was wise, and he looked at Annon with compassion. He knew of Annon’s festering feelings. His disappointment. He
knew that Annon had waited years for an invitation to join his uncle at Kenatos and that it had never come.

“He wishes to see you,” Reeder said softly.

“Why?” Annon demanded, too hotly. Then he felt ashamed of himself. He stared down at the ground, resisting the impulse to pace and rant. Control—he needed to learn to control his resentment.

“He would not say. You know him better than that. He guards his thoughts like a Preachán guards his coins. He broods and plots and asks for no one’s counsel, and he accepts none but his own.” He reached out and rested his hand on Annon’s shoulder. “I know you once wished he would send for you, but I do not think he bids you to join him and learn his ways. I cannot even guess why he asked to see you. But I knew that you would want to know he called for you, so I did not delay. It is your choice, Annon. I am bound for Silvandom. You can go with me there if you choose. Or you can see your uncle first and make your decision later. A Druidecht builds his reputation by traveling far and wide. You are known in Wayland already. It may be time to move on.”

Reeder dropped his hand and stared at his empty bowl. He sighed heavily. The look he gave Annon next was piercing. “But if he bids you go north, tell him no.”

Annon stared, confused. “Why would he do that?”

“I am old enough to remember. I outlived the last Plague. You know that. There were whispers back then. Word that your uncle led men into the Scourgelands to their deaths. Only he survived. They say it started the Plague anew. Now I do not know what to believe, Annon. Men are false by nature. I have had experience with many who wished to deceive, but not one who wished to be deceived. Since they are unwilling to be deceived, they are unwilling to be convinced that they have
been deceived. They are jealous and petty and suspicious, save for the Vaettir, who distrust no one and serve all. And so they are robbed and cheated and wronged and consider themselves blessed in the bargain.”

Reeder grinned and chuckled lightly. “But I have looked your uncle in the eye. I have seen the scars on his face and his hands. They have mostly healed and are tiny to the eye. But he has the look about him—of one who is well acquainted with death and all of its faces. He has no compassion for anyone. Even his own kin.”

Annon grunted. “I know.”

Reeder slapped his knees. “I have done my part. I have given you the message. Since I told these wonderful people that I can sing in three languages, they begged me to share a song from each of the kingdoms. You know I love to sing.” He stared up at the sky and yawned. “I’m getting old and perhaps had too much bread. I’ll depart in the morning for Silvandom. You decide what you will do, Annon.”

The young Druidecht nodded, staring off into the distance. It surprised him how much of the hurt was still in his heart. He thought he had buried it long ago. Yet the pain of the memory suddenly was fresh, and tears pricked his eyes. He refused to give in to them, though. Memories could torment like poison.

His uncle had finally appeared. It was ten years before, when he was not yet a boy of eight. How young he had been. How softhearted. Uncle Tyrus loomed over him, an obelisk of iron will, his amber beard grizzled with gray. He looked uncomfortable being with Annon, as if the boy’s presence caused him pain that he was determined to endure. It was so long ago, but he could never forget that moment of hope. His uncle had come for him at last. Tyrus had taught him about his anger. He had warned Annon what it could do. He had even shown him, and Annon remembered with guilty pleasure the look of his hands
as the flames leapt from his fingertips. Most importantly, he had revealed the Vaettir words that could tame fire.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

Annon stared at his hands, struggling to subdue the disappointment of lost hope.

As a young boy, he craved to learn the lore of the Paracelsus. He wanted to learn it desperately, to prove to his uncle he was smart and determined. He assumed his uncle wanted to teach him the ways, to bring him as a student to Kenatos, and open the library corridors stuffed with all the recorded knowledge from all of the races. Annon practiced over and over, learning to control the flames, to control his anger. The invitation never came. A year went by. And another. And yet another. Disappointment turned to shame. Why had his uncle not thought him worthy to learn? Shame turned to guilt. He had done something wrong in his uncle’s eyes. He had failed to act in some way to earn his uncle’s trust. Guilt turned to resentment.

When Annon was twelve, he gave up hope of ever being invited to Kenatos. Four years was long enough to waste on an empty dream. So Annon had redoubled his commitment to learning the Druidecht ways, to immerse himself in the lore. He rose quickly, earning the right to wear a talisman at age sixteen. It was rare for one so young to be so recognized by the inhabitants of Mirrowen. Reeder had not worn his until he was twenty.

He began to pace, his heart rushing with conflicting emotions. Not even Reeder’s singing could distract him from the hive of his thoughts. An outside fire pit crackled and spat, the smoke warding off flies, but Annon stared at the coals, the orange pulsing coals, and he could only think of his hands, his child’s hands cupping a flame. He could reach into that nest of fire and pull out a burning log and it would not harm him so long as he had uttered the words in his mind.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

It had been several years since Annon had summoned that power. When he had rejected his uncle, he had rejected his uncle’s teaching. It was not Druidecht. He should never have been taught how to do it. Annon never told Reeder—or anyone—what happened. He carried it in his memory as a secret shame.

Staring into the eyes of the fire, he wondered if he should obey his uncle’s summons. He did not need to think about it very long, for Annon knew in his heart that he would wonder about it for the rest of his life if he did not. He was no longer that hopeful little boy. He was no longer bound to the past.

Annon was a Druidecht.