Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (45 page)

“I read this in a volume written a thousand years ago, ‘Tears at times have the weight of speech.’ They do indeed.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

A
nnon would never forget her face.

The Dryad’s kiss had altered him permanently. It was unsettling to realize that his memories were so sharp he could cut himself on them. Insignificant details from his past flitted through his mind as he walked back to Canton Vaud. Nizeera padded silently next to him, subdued by the experience that nearly cost them their lives.

You have powerful allies, Druidecht. And powerful enemies. Be cautious.

It was dawn again when he reached the camp, the night having passed in sullen silence. He was fatigued, weary from the march, but he first sought Reeder’s tent to see if Erasmus was still there. He was not.

He asked for directions to the Thirteen and was pointed toward a series of grand pavilions. Thin trailers of mist crept amidst the awakening Druidecht. Small dashes of light displayed the presence of the morning spirits, some carrying gossip. He was approached by several, some bowing in respect before flitting
on. Nizeera’s tail began to swish again. He thought he heard the faint murmur of her purring.

As Annon approached the grand pavilions, he caught sight of Palmanter emerging from the folds. Several spirits attended him, and he nodded his head to them and offered a few words in response. Gazing around the camp, his eyes fell on Annon. He seemed surprised.

“It happened that quickly?” he asked in a low voice after approaching. “You met the Dryad?”

Annon nodded. “I must speak with my uncle.”

Palmanter pursed his lips. “I thought you might. Your Preachán friend is with him.” He put his meaty hand on Annon’s shoulder. “He sought asylum here, lad, but we cannot grant it. He bears something of great evil. A blade that speaks to the mind. We cannot permit it to remain longer in Canton Vaud. There are many Druidecht suffering from its effects. Will you leave with him?”

Annon stared at the older man. He was not sure of the answer. Palmanter sensed his hesitation. His eyes narrowed. “Be wary, Annon. There are stories about your uncle. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Palmanter gestured to another pavilion, a smaller one. Several Bhikhu guarded it.

“He is your prisoner?” Annon demanded.

The older man shook his head. “They are there to protect him from the Kishion. At his request.”

Wise of him
, Nizeera thought.

Annon stroked Nizeera’s head and then walked over to the small tent. He could hear voices inside. The Bhikhu stared at him, studying his features, and then nodded; they opened the flap.

Tyrus was inside, sharing a morning meal with Erasmus. Both were seated on large cushions, eating a variety of gathered fruit.

“I estimated you would arrive this morning,” Erasmus said smugly to Annon. “I should have wagered a few ducats on the outcome. Your uncle offered that you would breakfast in the city of Silvandom and not here. I was a fool not to take the wager.”

Tyrus looked up at Annon. “Have you eaten yet?”

Annon shook his head. His jaw muscles felt as hard as iron. He kept his emotions in check and stared at Tyrus’s face for any sign of resemblance. There were the tiny scars, as if claws had ravaged his face long ago.

“There is a place in Silvandom,” Tyrus said. “A bridge on the outskirts of the city proper. Not many know of it because it connects to the city amidst the mountains at a higher elevation. A waterfall is nearby. It’s impressive. There are shops on the bridge. A place for weary travelers to rest before entering the city. A place to eat. It is called Shearwater.”

Tyrus rose to his full height. He withdrew the long cylindrical object that Annon had last seen him holding. Holding it in his fist, he extended his arm toward Annon.

“If we had made that wager this would be cheating,” Erasmus said as he gobbled another piece of fruit and hurriedly stood. He rested his hand on Tyrus’s arm.

Annon stared at the jeweled object. There were stones set into cunningly worked gold. The stones sparkled in the lamplight. The device was extended to him—an offer. An invitation.

“You are not my uncle,” Annon said, unwilling to move. His anger started to rekindle. He shoved it back violently.

“I know,” Tyrus answered simply. “Come with me. Learn the truth. I promised you in my tower that you would.”

Annon hesitated. A part of him whispered a warning. Another part of him was too curious to resist. This was the invitation to learn Tyrus’s secrets. He knew it would only be offered once. He had to make a decision. One choice was to stay at
Canton Vaud and learn more of the Druidecht ways. The other was to accompany Tyrus and eventually face the Scourgelands.

He reached out and gripped the open end of the cylinder.

“Have a hold on your cat,” Tyrus said, a pleased glint in his eye. As Annon grabbed the ruff of Nizeera’s neck, he heard the angelic song of spirits shudder as the device made everything go black.

In a moment, the blink of an eye, they were leagues away. The air was frigid and sharp. It smelled of fir trees and juniper. The land was choked with snow. They stood on a stone bridge, wide enough for a single wagon to cross. On the other side was a stone house with works of timber for a roof and faded red tiles. The roof had a curious slant to the corners, which were pointed like an ox’s horns. Instead of a straight edge, it sagged, creating little dips and sways that gave it a distinguished appearance. There were three levels to the building—a large main section of house and then two narrower levels forming a second and third floor, each with their own slanted rooflines and pointed corners.

The strange house was built into the rock itself, and it was difficult to see where the walls began and the mountainside ended. The air was frightfully cold, and Annon hugged himself immediately.

“Look,” Tyrus said, pointing at the edge of the bridge down into a lush valley below.

Annon stared in amazement. The valley was teardrop shaped and full of majestic trees and enormous stone structures, each with the same shape and design of the home ahead of them—only grander and more impressive. The structures below existed with the trees and were shaped and defined in open spaces. It
seemed that no tree had been felled to clear the way, but that the structures had been built amidst the trees deliberately.

Erasmus whistled. “Silvandom. It is too beautiful to describe. The timber here is worth a fortune.”

“Many poets have tried to describe it,” Tyrus said. “And many Romani have tried to steal it. It’s protected by the mountains on all sides. Only a few narrow passes lead into the valley. See the cliff edges? This valley was carved by ice thousands of years ago. Giant walls of ice strong enough to split stone. See that bald rock face over there? The other half is there, on the opposite side.”

Annon saw it and was skeptical. How could ice have carved such a thing? The cliffs on each side were full of waterfalls, emptying into rivers and streams in the valley below. It was an idyllic place. No wonder the Vaettir had claimed it.

“That is the Shearwater,” Tyrus said. “We can rest and eat there and then journey to the city later. You have questions, I am sure. Hopefully they are good ones.”

Tyrus took them to the stone house on the far side of the bridge. He paused on the entryway, staring up at a blotchy stain on the wood frame at the top of the door. Annon wondered about the stain, noticing Tyrus’s slight pause on observing it. He rapped firmly on the door and then pushed it open.

Inside was a tiny Vaettir woman, her hair well silvered; she walked with an obvious shuffle caused by age and pain. She looked at Tyrus and smiled a beaming smile and began to prattle off in the Vaettir tongue. Tyrus answered fluently, much to Annon’s surprise. He made some requests and then motioned toward a table and benches. The old woman nodded in reply and limped to the kitchen. No one else was in the room.

Tyrus seated himself at the table, planting his elbows on the pocked wood, and motioned for Annon to sit across from him.
Nizeera wandered over to a large hearth and settled down on the warm stone.

Erasmus prowled around the common room, silently counting the number of seats and tables. Annon knew he would be lost in his guessing for a while. He sat down opposite Tyrus, unsure of what even to say. Then a thought came to him.

“My mother’s name was Merinda,” Annon said softly, remembering it suddenly. “I only heard you say it once. She was not your sister.”

Tyrus shook his head. “No.”

Annon felt weary. The emotions of the night were still thrumming beneath the surface. “You led me to believe she was. I grew up believing I was your nephew. Why did you deceive me?”

“Why do you think?” Tyrus asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You promised me answers.”

“You must earn them. You were kissed by a Dryad, Annon. I see it in your countenance. You have new gifts of insight and wisdom. Use them. Open your mind to the possibilities. Trust what your heart tells you. You already know the answer. You cannot be lazy with me. Think.”

Annon rubbed the rounded edge of the table. It was a light, stained wood. Easily twenty men could sit around it. “You protected me from my mother. She was sick. She used the magic without controlling it. You took me away from her to protect me. But I have no recollection of my sister. Why is that?”

Tyrus nodded slowly. “You would not. She was stolen nearly at birth by a Romani midwife who did not realize there were twins. Neither did I. I did not have the knowledge I needed at the time. I could have saved Hettie and lost you to death in the birthing process. Or save your life and lose Hettie to the Romani. It was a terrible choice.” His face was like flint. “But I chose to save you and lose her. The story I told to the locals was that Merinda
was my sister. Which is one of the reasons the Romani kidnapped Hettie in order to blackmail me.”

“Surely you did not lack for ducats,” Annon said tightly.

“Not ducats,” he answered. “Freedom.”

“I do not understand.”

“No. Of course you do not. It took me years to understand that I was a prisoner in Kenatos. Granted, it was a gilded cage. But a cage still. Whenever I tested the limits of my freedom, I felt the bonds around me cinch tighter. Allow me to explain, Annon. I must tell someone, for the Arch-Rike is determined to kill me. I know too much. I pass this knowledge on to you in case I am murdered. Someone else needs to understand the pieces. I have chosen you.”

Annon nodded. His heart throbbed with curiosity. He leaned forward on the bench. Part of him was cautious. Tyrus had deliberately deceived him. He needed to judge for himself whether he was told the truth or not.

“It is my life’s work to banish the Plague, Annon. I chose that calling as a young man. I have lived to see its devastation twice. The suffering is unimaginable. I cannot even begin to explain. There is a great principle you must understand. If you study the lives of the great men and women from any age, you begin to discern a pattern. There are famous individuals, like Band-Imas, the Arch-Rike of Kenatos who built the great temple of learning, but greatness is never achieved alone. One person cannot change the world. I learned this from him as a child. He surrounded himself by others more talented than himself. He united them in a cause—a cause so important they gave their very lives to attain it. The preservation of knowledge. Kenatos. A principle and a doom.”