Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (31 page)

There was a giant dead oak tree in the middle of the courtyard. Amazingly, none of the branches had fallen as a result of the explosion. Nor had fire touched its bark. She stopped, staring at it curiously.

How peculiar
, she thought. She began walking the perimeter of the oak, beneath the veil of branches, and saw not a single brick or stone beneath the boughs. There were bricks littered elsewhere, but none directly beneath it. The branches were bare of leaves, which would not have been the case normally due to the season. But as she scrutinized it, she did see a few scattered branches with foliage, and some with clumps of lush mistletoe. The presence of the mistletoe meant the tree was still alive, if barely.

She followed around the perimeter of the oak, wondering at its age and how it came to be in the center of the Paracelsus Tower. Had it been tended or had her uncle purchased it and moved it, as the rumors stated had happened. Some workers rested under its paltry shade and shared a flask between them. She walked around to the other side and found no one there; she slowly approached the trunk.

The bark was rough and craggy, like an ancient woman’s skin. The branches seemed to be sagging, as if they had been defeated long ago. As she approached, she felt something stir inside of her, a warm, buzzing feeling. It was difficult to describe. It was a little like drinking sweet wine, and it made her slightly dizzy. She approached warily, reaching out until she touched the
bark with her fingers. It was brittle, making it easy to pry loose a chunk with her fingers.

She gazed up the length of the trunk until the branches began mushrooming away from the base. The majesty of the oak tree had always impressed her. Oak was great to burn and produced a solid, satisfying flame. Acorns could be made into food. It was interesting that there was no debris beneath the canopy. Not even a desiccated leaf.

The feeling came over her again. It was a warm feeling, like a lingering kiss. It made her shiver involuntarily. Her breath started up. What was happening to her? Why was the tree making her so dizzy? She started to back away from it nervously, unsure at the flood and surge of emotions conflicting within her. There was something eerily comforting about the tree, and she was not used to that feeling. It was a dangerous feeling. It threatened her with tears.

She turned and was about to walk away when she heard it whisper her name.

“Hettie.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Was it her imagination? There was a presence behind her. She knew it. She could feel it.

Whirling, Hettie turned to face it.

The spinning motion disoriented her, nearly making her stumble. There was no one there. She blinked with surprise.

A leather pouch nestled in the earth at the base of the tree. It had not been there before.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Fear snaked inside her skin. Kneeling by the trunk, she reached for the leather pouch. It was thick and slightly heavy, but it felt empty. As she touched it, she felt hard objects encased within the leather. Her lips were suddenly dry. Opening the drawstrings, she peeked inside at the smooth, uncut stones.

There was a nagging sensation in her mind, as if she were missing something obvious. Why was the bag sitting at the base of the tree? Had it been there all along? Had she seen it while circling the tree and that was what had brought her closer? She could not remember. Someone had whispered her name and then she had found the bag. How did the tree know it was her?

She stared at its ancient boughs, feeling overwhelmed and small. Deftly she stuffed the bag into her tunic belt and retreated from the branches. There were two workers, idling with their flask, staring at her. One raised it toward her, inviting her over. Men were always the same, especially when drunk.

She gave them a cold, disdainful look and then left the Paracelsus Tower, walking briskly away, going as fast as she dared. Her heart raced. There was something so odd and strange about the experience. Something crucial, but she could not remember it. She continued down into the lower realm of the city and ventured back toward the Bhikhu temple. She would hide the stones there for now. It would be safer than if she were caught with them. Anxiety throbbed in her stomach. Something was wrong. Something was missing. She wanted to run, to sprint.

When she saw the Bhikhu temple, she nearly wept with relief. The door was open, so she entered and hurried inside, walking past the training yard where she had first seen Paedrin practicing with his fellows. The memory was sharp and acrid in her mind. It was painful as well. Where was he? Had the Arch-Rike provided information about his whereabouts yet?

Hettie went to her chamber and silently knelt on the pallet, removing the small leather bag and testing the drawstrings again. Her fingers were trembling. She did not know why.

Tilting the bag, she emptied the stones into her palm. They were cold, ice cold. It was uncomfortable. The stones were blue with milky white streaks through each one. They each looked
unique; they were not a matching set. She stared at them a moment, feeling the cold burn her palm, and then she dumped them back into the leather bag and rubbed her hand against the side of her leg.

A shadow fluttered in the corner of the cell.

Kiranrao leaned against the far wall, his eyes gazing into hers quizzically. “My, my, you
are
resourceful. There is an old Romani saying. There are three creatures beyond ruling. A mule, a pig, and a woman. Is it still true?”

Hettie’s heart nearly failed her. She was shocked to see him in the heart of Kenatos, in a city where he could be arrested and killed on sight. He had earned the Arch-Rike’s contempt many times over.

She responded to his quip with one of her own. “I don’t know. Is the saying true that a man who owns a cow can always find a woman to milk her?”

Kiranrao smiled pleasantly. “Well said, little dove. Well said.” His expression hardened. “I think it is past time that we had a talk about your loyalties.”

“One often hears of Seithrall as a religion. It may be called that, for thus has it evolved. But the term itself, as I have come to read in the Archives, is more likely a mistranslation. The earliest reference I have seen was written by the first Arch-Rike of Kenatos, Catuvolcis, who said that in order to survive, the populace must be held under the thrall of faith. Over the centuries, these words have been rewritten and copied inaccurately through laziness on the Archivists’ part. I abhor such errors. Some versions show that he claimed ‘the thrall of fate.’ Both Vaettir words—saith and seith—are one letter apart but have vastly different meanings. They are loosely translated as faith and fate. In our day, the Rikes have become less of a religion and more of a political faction. Their order was originally created because it was believed that the Plague was attracted by the thoughts of the populace. That is blatantly absurd. But centuries ago, the Rikes roamed the city, speaking platitudes to help reduce panic and instill confidence that those who lived in Kenatos would survive. Whether by faith or fate it makes little difference. It is now clear, and the Paracelsus would affirm it, that the Plague is transmitted through bad air. Thoughts have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

I
t was a prison, and Paedrin was trapped. The dimensions of his confinement were narrow enough that he could plant his palms against each wall. It was tall enough to stand, but too narrow to sleep stretched out. The door was made of tall metal rungs fastened into a mesh, the hinges capped in steel. A tiny privy hole was in the far corner; it smelt badly. There was no light of any kind.

When he awoke in the dank, shadowless cell, he did not remember his own name at first. Slowly the memories returned, flitting through his mind like butterflies. He stretched out his arm tentatively, expecting excruciating pain—but the injury was healed. So was his damaged shoulder. He had no recollection of his healing. He did not remember being placed in the cell.

Food arrived once a day, a watery gruel made of millet, the portion tasteless and not enough to strengthen a man. He was weak with hunger and thirst. Lights appeared in the hallway, so painfully bright he had to shield his face while the clomp of boots arrived, delivering the thin gruel, and then retreated. Then the darkness prevailed again and spots danced in front of his eyes.

The cell was too small to practice any of his Bhikhu fighting forms. It was too small to do nearly anything but sit cross-legged and meditate. That worked well for a while, but soon he was chafing because of the inaction. How long had he been trapped there? Why had they not sent anyone to interrogate him? There was no way of counting time. No stars swirling overhead. No rise and fall of moon and sun. The world was a void, and he was trapped inside it.

Maddening. The solitude was absolutely maddening. The air was stale and rank. He could hear no other prisoners, not even the scuttle of rats. He was completely isolated and alone. Being raised in the temple, he had always been surrounded by others. There was no one to talk to, and so he did not speak at all. All his life he had sparred with his fists and feet and tongue. He wanted an enemy to fight, even the Kishion.

How long would they keep him? How long had it been? Sleeping and dozing came fitfully. At least in his dreams there was sunlight and grass. When he awakened, he was met by the horror of the void. He wanted to scream. But maybe that was what they were expecting. Maybe they were trying to break him.

Paedrin exhaled slowly, beginning another round of meditation. His strength was failing. Hunger ravaged his gut. But still there was only darkness, and in the darkness and loneliness lay madness. He felt it there in the cell, crouched in the corner by the stink hole. Gibbering madness.

The flash of light startled him. He shielded his eyes with his forearm; he was used to the searing light by now. He gritted his teeth to avoid seeming too anxious for the gruel. There was the sound of boots on the floor, but it was a different sound. It was firmer. It had a clipping sound. A metal torch was fastened to a wall bracket. Silence.

Paedrin tried to look at the light, but it was too bright. His eyes throbbed in pain, but he forced them to remain open, to adjust to the searing pain that stabbed him. There was a shape beyond the bars. A man.

“Who are you?” Paedrin croaked. His voice was hardly a whisper.

“My name is Band-Imas. I am the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”

Paedrin flinched at the sound, the delicious sound of a human voice. He craved it desperately. Part of his mind warned him that he should not trust this man. The Bhikhu served the Rikes of Kenatos. He should not have been allowed to languish in a cell.

“Why am I here?”

“Paedrin.”

The sound of his own name startled him. He tried to stare past the glare at the man who was slowly coming into focus. A haze of frosty hair glittered on his scalp, little stubble that did not grow. Eyes that were so gray they were nearly white, except for the twin black pupils. He wore a magnificent robe and the jeweled stole of his office. A velvet doublet festooned with gold buttons and red stitching showed beneath the fur-lined robe.