Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (54 page)

“Up to three days,” Khiara replied. “I will seek my mentor.”

Annon nodded. “I will stay by the tree for a while. There is something I must do here. It is Druidecht magic, so I must do it alone.”

Khiara nodded in deference to his desire. “Join us by the gate when you are finished.”

As the two of them left, Annon turned back to the great oak, staring at it in wonder, and stroked Nizeera’s fur. It was impossibly old. Was it as ancient as the oaks in the Scourgelands? The oaks they needed to penetrate to unravel the riddle of the Plague? He was awash in feelings in that moment, the terrible weight of the task. He was grateful for Erasmus’s sharp thinking and Khiara’s skills. They would both be so helpful on the journey.

Annon approached the tree humbly, bowing his head so as not to look at her. He knelt before the tree, feeling as insignificant as one of the many thousand ants scrabbling up her bark. He reached out and touched the tree.

“I do not know you,” he whispered, keeping his voice low. “I am a stranger to you. But I would ask a boon. I would speak with Neodesha. I need her help. Or yours. Please.”

Annon clasped his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes shut deliberately. Waiting. Breathing.

“I am here, Annon,” she answered.

He looked up in surprise, his heart trembling with emotions. She smiled at him, that curious smile. It was a secret smile, one she only gave him. At least he hoped it was that way.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Thank you for your aid during the fight with the Arch-Rike’s people. I heard the spirits bring your message. I did not know they could travel so fast.”

She smiled and sat down in the turf near him, her dress a different color but the same style. “Of course I would help you, Annon. I did not want you to die.”

He flushed, trying to control his feelings. “Thank you for saving my friend. I would not have risked removing the Kishion ring without that message you sent me.”

“You will find that most prisons are forged in someone’s own mind. And they invariably possess the key to their release if they could but think to use it. But some prisons are forged by others and it requires another intervening on our behalf to open the lock. Such is the case with the Kishion magic. It would not have worked if he had shed someone’s blood. The ring would have exploded and killed you. What did you wish to ask me? Why did you summon me here?”

“I was not certain you would come,” Annon answered.

“I cannot leave my tree for long. What would you ask me?”

“Two questions.”

“Name them.”

He nodded quickly. “I need your advice. I am not a leader of men. I am not a manipulator like Tyrus, who pretended to be my uncle. It is pretty certain that I’m young and inexperienced, yet Tyrus seemed to place the burden of leadership on me. You know the ways of mortals. Give me your counsel on how I may lead them.”

She gave him an appraising look. “My kiss has certainly improved your thinking. A very good question. Will you hearken to my counsel, if I give it to you?”

“I will. I promise.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Being a leader is not about rank or power. It is not even about skill or cunning. The best leaders, Annon, serve those they lead. You are united to a common goal. They will not follow you because Tyrus said so. They will follow you if they believe in their hearts that you care about them. That you sincerely desire their good regard. That you treat them with honor and respect and humility. The more of yourself you give
away, the more they will flock to you. They will heed you. They will sacrifice for you. They will suffer with you.” She smiled and touched his arm. “That is how to lead men. That is how to earn the respect of Mirrowen.”

He nodded, remembering every word. “I must serve them. Be sure their needs are met. Show them that I care. I can do that, I think. A Druidecht believes in serving others.”

“I know,” she replied.

“I’m frightened,” he confessed. “The Arch-Rike will send everything he can to stop us. I do not understand why, but I will do what I can to stop him. Without my uncle…I mean, without Tyrus, I do not know how much of a chance we stand.”

She nodded sympathetically but said nothing.

“Thank you for your help,” he said. “I do not think you would know where Basilides is, since it is within the Arch-Rike’s sphere of control, and he does not control the woods west of Silvandom.”

“You are right,” she answered. “I cannot help you. Was that your second question?”

He shook his head. They had not known each other for very long, but he felt connected with her in a way that defied explanation. Their time together in the woods had created a bond. The thought of anyone damaging her tree again and banishing her from the world filled him with horror. He did not know how she felt about him.

He swallowed his nervousness. When the trouble with the Scourgelands was over, he hoped to be able to return to Silvandom. He hoped to learn more of her and of the spirits in the land. “Do you have any jewelry that you wear? A bracelet, say. Around your…your ankle?”

There was that smile again, a very personal smile. She looked pleased and a little startled.

Instead of answering, Neodesha smoothed the hem of her skirt away, revealing her bare feet. And bare ankles.

Tyrus’s words floated through his mind, his memory perfect from her kiss.
When a Dryad chooses a mortal, she wears a bracelet around her ankle until the man is dead. It is an ancient custom. She does not choose a man very often.

It was not lost on him that the Dryad chose the man. He stared at her face a while longer, knowing he would see it always in his mind.

“Thank you,” he offered, hoping they would all survive the challenges ahead. Unlike Tyrus’s previous group.

“While I was visiting one of the many orphanages in the city, I beheld an iron plaque on which was inscribed the following tenet: Thou must be emptied of that wherewith thou art full, that thou mayest be filled with that whereof thou art empty. The wisdom of the remark struck me. It is said that the orphanage, curiously, has produced a prodigious number of Paracelsus, including a very famous one known to all in Kenatos.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
he magic of the Tay al-Ard channeled Tyrus and the Kishion leagues away. Tyrus clenched his fists, preparing for the moment when the colors quit whooshing, his innards quieting at last. In a moment, the briefest instant, they were there and the struggle commenced. It was a small thicket of spindly evergreens, the ground overgrown with moss and rain-slick from mist. The churning rush of a waterfall enveloped them, pummeled them. Its pressure and force sent Tyrus spinning, uncertain which way was up. He lost his grip on the cylinder. He kicked against the Kishion as they thrashed beneath the foaming waters, struggling to reach the surface before he ran out of breath.

Tyrus tried to see, but the violence of the waters prevented him from understanding which way was even up. He kicked with his legs and groped, hoping to find the surface. His lungs burned with the want of air. He felt something snatch at his boot, a glancing blow. He struggled further, kicking and pulling, feeling his cloak a burden that was trying to drown him. He touched a jewel on his ring and felt the force of spirit magic propel him
upward. Breaking the surface, Tyrus took in an enormous gulp of air and quickly cast around for the nearest way to the shore.

He felt the power of the Fear Liath instantly, a blind terror that made his mind cringe and quiver. But what was chasing him was worse than the demon hiding in the waterfall. Tyrus used the power of the ring to draw him toward the edge like a piece of magnet finding iron. The muddy bank clung to him, and Tyrus crawled forward, sputtering, trying to gain some strength again. It surprised him how tired he was already. There was little time. If he could get to Drosta’s lair, he could hide beneath the stone, putting a solid barrier between him and the Kishion.

Gasping, Tyrus pulled himself to his feet and began running. The ripples of fear sent spasms of panic through him. He had to force his mind to accept that it was only the Fear Liath’s power, nothing more. It would not be dusk for a long while. It would not be able to hunt him yet.

He sensed a presence behind him.

In that moment, all the terror of his experience in the Scourgelands returned. The naked fear. Desperation. All the intangibles of mortality rising like surf to overpower his emotions. He could sense the Kishion emerge from the pool and he knew, in his gut, that he was too far from Drosta’s lair.

What to do?

He had gambled in that last moment. He had hoped the waterfall, the disorientation of a natural force—not magic, but a real force—would nullify the Kishion’s power. A man would panic when faced with drowning. Tyrus had known where they would end up after their journey by the Tay al-Ard. The Kishion would not have known.

Tyrus’s clothes were soaked and heavy. They were scant protection against a knife. He knew he would not be able to outrun
his murderer. The little respite he had hoped for had failed. Wasn’t that always the way of things?

He abandoned his plan, realizing by instinct it would not work. He needed to do another, to create one out of nothing. The strong gibbering fear of the monster inside the falls did not seem to affect the Kishion in the slightest. He approached, dripping wet, but his face was unconcerned.

“You left the Tay al-Ard in the water,” the Kishion said, his voice low but clear. He had a rich voice. Tyrus wondered for a moment if he had ever been a performer or an orator.

“Did you drop your knives as well, by chance?” Tyrus responded civilly, backing up but preparing to fight.

The Kishion’s face was clean-shaven. Multiple scars ran along one side. He had dark hair, nearly black, that was pointed like quills and dripping. He closed the distance quickly.

“I will not let you take me back,” Tyrus said.

The Kishion’s expression was placid. “The Arch-Rike does not want you alive.”

“I can free you,” Tyrus said. “I can free you from that ring.”

There was almost a smile on the Kishion’s face. Some inner chuckle. A flicker of contempt. He said nothing.

Tyrus closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain. He opened his eyes again and began unleashing magic on the Kishion. He had rings and bracelets, charms and jewels. Each held a unique power. Each was bound in service until a single act would release it. He already knew fire would not harm him. He tried ice. He tried poison. He tried wind. He tried love. Spirit magic shrouded the Kishion in a multihued orb. Violet and orange, red and greens—dust and spirit and magic all weaving and thrusting, trying to overwhelm the Kishion’s defenses. The man was immune to it all. He walked through the storm of colors as if it were nothing more than a drizzle.

Tyrus tried one more. It was a foolish notion, but everything else had failed. He opened a locket from around his neck and music emerged. It was a spirit song that was so haunting, so poignant, it never failed to make Tyrus weep. The melody invoked memories of his sister, long since dead. Of the parents he could no longer remember.

The Kishion stopped.