Fireblood

by Jeff Wheeler

  He looked at her coldly. “Do your worst, woman.”

  Annon noticed Erasmus pacing around the camp, looking at each stump and tree, counting off the paces between them, looking at each patch of ground, often testing it with the toe of his boot.

  “Annon, what do you make of this?” Paedrin said to him, tossing the dagger he had claimed in Havenrook.

  He caught it easily enough, then realized it was surprisingly heavy. “This is odd,” Annon said. Immediately the stone in the hilt started to glow. That surprised him as well, and he brought it closer to the fire, where Hettie and Paedrin were.

  “It did that in his hand,” the Bhikhu said. “Right before he cut me.”

  Annon nodded, staring at the stone. He brought it closer to his face and thought he saw something inside, a little pulse of light. It was so tiny, yet it seemed to zigzag inside. It reminded him of Tyrus’s tower in Kenatos, all those orbs with the light that Tyrus seemed to sooth.

  The light grew brighter and the zigzagging more intense.

  Does it understand my thoughts? Annon wondered. Is it responding to my memories?

  The stone dimmed and then flashed again, even more violently. It was as if something were struggling inside the stone trying to speak to him.

  He glanced at Hettie and saw her looking at it also, her eyes curious. Then she removed her travel pack and started rummaging in it for supplies to stitch Paedrin’s wound.

  “Not yet,” Annon said, halting her. “Hold a moment.”

  He stared at the stone and saw that it was not a stone. It was a round orb of glass, no larger than a child’s toy. It was connected to the blade through an intricate mesh of metal weaving.

  “There is something curious about this,” Annon said. It was a strange feeling, a familiar feeling.

  “Why does it glow?” Paedrin asked.

  “Because it is worth five thousand ducats,” Erasmus said, glancing over at them. “It has some power within it. Power that makes it more useful than just a blade alone. It is the craft of the Paracelsus to make such things.”

  Annon turned the weapon over in his hand. The stone grew bright again, almost frantic. There was something about the weave of the metal in the hilt and how it formed an ornamental fashion around the stone.

  “Five thousands ducats, you say?” Annon murmured. That was a lot of money in Kenatos or anywhere in the world. The light flashed almost pleadingly.

  Erasmus stamped his boot on a spot of ground, probably after having inspected it a dozen times, and then slowly settled into the earth, wrapping the cloak about him protectively. “Five thousand. Maybe more, depending on the power.”

  Annon held the handle in the flat of his hand and stared at it hard.

  Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

  He fed the flame with his anger, letting it bubble up within him. He focused it on the weave of metal, letting the flames dance over the swirls. He gripped it tightly in his hands until the metal became warmer and warmer, but it did not burn him. Still he fed the flames, letting it burn into the metal, softening it.

  “Annon,” Hettie warned, looking at his face.

  He was in control of the power, but he noticed he had a smile on his face. It was a pleasurable feeling. He gritted his teeth and focused it more, focusing it on the band around the place where the stone was embedded. The metal began to hiss with smoke.

  The hilt sizzled and the stone plopped to the ground, free from the metal encasing it. As soon as it touched the ground, it cracked with a loud snapping sound, and there was a blast of white-hot light.

  The stone sang with joy.

  Annon closed his eyes, flinching from the sudden explosion, but he heard it now as clearly as a song. A spirit voice.

  Thank you! Many blessings on you, kind Master! Three centuries have I been trapped, but now I am free! Bless you, kind Master!

  Annon opened his eyes, and he saw the spirit hovering in the air before him. It was as small as a butterfly, but instead of gossamer, its wings were crooked and spiny with thorns. Its tiny body was thick with thorns, like a desiccated rose branch. The creature bowed in homage to him, singing again in a tone so clear and beautiful it made his heart ache fiercely.

  You set me free, kind Master. I am of the Briarlings. One of your companions is wounded by my hand. I shall heal him for you.

  The spirit zipped over to Paedrin, who flinched and batted at it as it disappeared into the gash; he stiffened with surprise.

  The cut was mended before their eyes.

  Many tender thanks, kind Master! I go to Mirrowen at last. Farewell!

  The light streaked through the woods and vanished.

  “The cut is gone!” Hettie said, shocked.

  Paedrin looked down and then at Annon. “Did you do that?”

  Erasmus chuckled from beneath his cloak. “You have never seen Druidecht before, Bhikhu? I’m surprised.”

  Paedrin explored his skin, pinching the flesh and examining it closely. He moved his arms around in circles, testing them for movement. “Amazing.”

  “Even more amazing that he wasted five thousand ducats to heal you,” Erasmus said dryly. “Whoever owned that blade will want you dead.”

  “He already does,” Paedrin quipped.

  Annon stared at the warped, mangled metal in his hand. “I did not heal you,” he said softly, looking at the shattered object for what it was. A prison. A gloriously fancy one too. “There was a spirit trapped in the stone. I set it free. It chose to heal you because its power had wounded you.”

  Paedrin’s eyebrows lowered. “A spirit? You mean the light?”

  “You all saw it as light,” Annon answered, fingering his talisman. “Only I could see it for what it was. It was trying to speak to me from inside the stone, but I could not hear it. The nature of its imprisonment prevented it. But it could sense my thoughts and tried its best to communicate with me.”

  In his mind, he thought about his uncle’s desk and the dozens of orbs there. It filled his mind with unspeakable anger to think about what beings might be trapped there. More than Briarlings. There were many species of spirits. Trapped. Imprisoned. Unable to speak. It angered him.

  “Annon,” Hettie said warningly again, gripping his arm. His fingers were glowing.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, trying to master himself. “I was remembering my visit to my uncle a few days ago. Things are not as they seem.”

  Erasmus snorted.

  Paedrin shot an annoyed look his way and then stood and pulled back on his robe, still stiff with blood. He wrapped his belt around it and adjusted it. “It would be wise, before we go any further, if we spoke more truthfully to each other about what is going on.”

  Annon looked up at him. “There has been no attempt to deceive you, Paedrin.”

  The Bhikhu waved his hand impatiently. “Not on your part. But it is clear to me, and I am no fool, that there is much your uncle should have told you and did not.”

  “Such as?” Hettie challenged.

  Paedrin turned to her. “Let’s start with your story. You are a Romani girl near the age to earn a second earring. That is a pretty significant custom among your people, as I understand things. I cannot say I know many Romani, but that is nothing to complain about. You were told of a location where a great treasure is buried that you might use to free yourself without implicating your uncle. Clearly…and I hope you are not as dense as Erasmus is…your uncle knew full well that Kiranrao has been looking for Drosta’s lair. Maybe it is not the treasure we need but something that Kiranrao can provide.”

  Annon frowned and shook his head. “What are you saying, Paedrin?”

  “It was no coincidence that we ended up in that place. We just disrupted trade on an enormous scale and made several thousand enemies, one of which is a man who can outbid Tyrus to determine your future.” He looked pointedly at Hettie. “Maybe your uncle was intending you to buy your freedom with Kiranrao’s coin?”

  Hettie flushed darkly. “I do not want that
man’s help,” she said venomously. “I am even regretting my uncle’s interference in my problem. He told us nothing about what we would face. He sent us into the middle of Havenrook with very little information.”

  “Exactly my point!” Paedrin said, rounding. “What is truly going on here?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Hettie shot back. “I went asking for help, to find a way to earn my freedom. Part of me just wishes to march back to Kenatos, spit in my uncle’s face, and have done with all this.”

  “Not a wise course of action,” Erasmus offered with a smirk. “You have no idea how many ill things are caused by spittle.”

  “You are not in the least curious about what Drosta’s treasure is and why Kiranrao wants it?”

  “No, not really,” Hettie answered petulantly. “I do not like being used.”

  “I do not fancy it either, but quitting now seems hardly the right approach.”

  Annon chewed on his thoughts, struggling with the dangling pieces. “Hold a moment,” he said, raising his hand. He tapped his chin, struggling to remember. It was only a few nights ago, but so much had changed that he had nearly forgotten it.

  Hettie’s arms were folded defiantly, and Paedrin looked as if he were ready to continue arguing until dawn. Annon looked from one to the other.

  “Please, sit down. I need your help to think this through.”

  Hettie came down next to him. “What is it? Do you remember something?”

  Paedrin cocked his head curiously.

  “My mentor came and saw me recently. He is a Druidecht, of course, and he gave me a warning. He warned me about visiting my uncle. He said that my uncle might try and persuade me to go north. Into the Scourgelands.”

  For a moment there was nothing but silence and the snap and hiss of the fire.

  Annon stared into the darkened woods. “He warned me about trusting my uncle. That he has no care or feeling for anyone, even his own kin.”

  Paedrin stared at him hard. “That would have been helpful to know before leaving Kenatos.”

  Annon bit his lip, shaking his head slowly. “I was so startled to learn that I had a sister that I forgot all about the warning. Reeder told me that years ago Tyrus led a group into the Scourgelands. None of them survived. He was the only one who did.” Annon tapped his palm. “I think that perhaps he did not tell us everything about his intentions for us.”

  Erasmus’s voice floated toward them. “Tyrus Paracelsus takes counsel from no man or woman. He keeps his own counsel. As do I. From what you have said tonight, I think he is like a spider, catching many flies in the same web.”

  Hettie grabbed a stick and jammed it into the fire. “I hate this.”

  “Hate what? That we are being manipulated?” Annon asked, half smiling.

  “But to what purpose?” Paedrin said. “What is there to fear in the Scourgelands?”

  Erasmus sat up, the firelight playing off the grooves in his face. “That is just the thing, sheep-brains. The only man known to have ever survived that place is the one who has brought us all here by this fire tonight.”

  “It is not recorded when the Plague began. Every kingdom was ravaged and their populations decimated. Some races have ceased to exist. The remaining few banded together, united in a single cause—to preserve knowledge. Thus was the formation of Kenatos. It was created as the last bastion of knowledge. No one kingdom would rule it. All contributed to its survival by donating books and provisions and wealth. We do have records dating back to the founding of Kenatos. None describes when the Plague began. If we have learned anything, we have learned this: it is not the strongest of the races that survives, or the most intelligent. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change. Thus only the Aeduan race will survive the Plague. All others races will succumb to it.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Annon awoke from the dream, startled by the thoughts whispered into his mind from a pair of Jasmine spirits. They were night dwellers who only came out during the moonlight. As he blinked awake, he smelled their sweet aroma.

  You are hunted, Druidecht. A band of Preachán, roaming the woods in the dark. There is a Vaettir among them. The leader. Be warned.

  Annon swallowed the rising panic. How far away? He pushed the thought at them.

  Far still. These woods are vast, and they fear being found out by the Cruithne. They hunt you, Druidecht. Be warned!

  The two spirits flitted away, taking the smell with them. Annon rolled onto his stomach, nestled in the blanket for warmth, for there was a chill in the night and streamers of fog above the trees. He heard voices speaking in low tones and cocked his head slightly. It was Paedrin and Hettie. They sat side by side, their voices hushed to avoid waking anyone.

  “But you are free,” Paedrin said. “We cannot be bound by traditions invented by madmen for the purposes of enslaving others. These are traditions, Hettie. They are not binding.”

  “Traditions can be more binding than sturdy ropes,” she answered. “You don’t understand.”

  “You are right. I don’t. I don’t see why you cannot just walk away. There are places you could go—Kenatos for example—where the Romani will not be able to take you.”

  She snorted derisively. “You are a fool if you think Kenatos is safe from the Romani. They operate within the walls of the city through a guild, of sorts.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been told.”

  “Exactly my point. Fear feeds these sorts of traditions. They want you to believe that there is nowhere you can go. They use fear to keep you from thinking, from believing in yourself. You are free already. You do not need to pay a king’s ransom to earn it. You are free now. Accept it.”

  She sighed. “It is not that simple, Bhikhu.”

  “Why not? Explain the complexity to me. It will be a long while until dawn yet. Tell me.”

  “I do not wish to wake the others.” She turned and glanced toward where he was sleeping, but Annon shut his eyes and held still, listening to their banter.

  “You don’t want to discuss it because you know I’m right,” he answered.

  “You are arrogant.”

  “You are evasive. Explain this to me then. What will happen to you if you forsake the Romani and someone snaps that ridiculous earring off you? Hmm? What will they do to you?”

  Annon opened his eyes and watched her lean her face against her arms, crossed over her knees.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What were you taught?”

  “Nothing. Only that the punishment would be extreme. It was never something specific. Not like receiving lashes with a switch or punishment like that. Punished in other ways. It was always…vague.”

  Paedrin breathed out like a hiss. “And you were a child when you were told this?”

  “Yes.”

  Paedrin let out a pent-up breath, a seething sound. “Truthfully?” It was quiet for a long moment. “There is no pain so awful as that of suspense. It is the cause of even the wise man’s fear. Not knowing what will happen. It is more effective than any threat at binding someone’s mind.” He exhaled again, shaking his head. “To be so cursed as a child. You were bound with strong ropes indeed.”

  “I was taught the only way to freedom was to buy mine.”

  “Indeed. They bound you with cruel, vague threats and said the only key was coin. Do you understand me, Hettie? The key is in your mind. You need but turn the lock and free yourself.”

  “But if I am caught by a Romani…”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I know. So many possibilities. That is part of the trap.” He pointed at her. “You were born free. You were abducted as a babe and purchased as a child. And because that is all you have known, you perpetuate the trap they have created for you.” He tapped his forehead deliberately. “The lock and key are right here. Open them. I know that is asking much from a sullen Romani girl who gets lost in the woods. But truly, Hettie, you have little to lose.”r />
  “What if they kill me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  He glanced at her sharply and snorted. “As if death would not be preferable to living as a slave-servant-wife for the next thirty to forty years?” He chuckled softly and shook his head. “I will, of course, strenuously object to any Romani who comes along and tries to kill you.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” she replied sarcastically.

  He shrugged deferentially. “I am all kindness, I know. So answer me this. Why has it taken you so many days to drop your sneering and behave?”

  “It is the middle of the night, Paedrin. I am too tired for pretenses.”

  “So if I am ever to have a normal discussion with you, I must wait until midnight? How uncharitable.”

  “If you were not such a braggart and a spleen beetle, I might have talked to you before now.”

  “I have never bragged in my entire life!” he said archly.

  She elbowed him in the ribs and then caught herself. “I’m sorry. Is that where you were wounded?”

  “Good thing the magic healed me first or that would have hurt. You have quite a temper.”

  “Yes, but didn’t you drone on about how pain is a teacher?”

  Paedrin chuckled. “I could almost grow to like you. But I am afraid that your sulky disposition will forever ruin any chance of that happening.”

  “If you have nothing of intelligence to say, then I will get some sleep since you are supposed to be on watch now. You are a braggart, Bhikhu. I know I will always dislike you.”

  “I do not care about your good favor, Hettie. But sleep well, all the same. In the morning, we will be good enemies again.”

  Hettie crawled over to her bedroll that was near Annon’s and slumped inside with a yawn. There was just enough light from the moon and stars to make out her face, her expression, as she rolled over and faced him.

  “I’m sorry if we woke you,” she whispered.

  “I was sleeping soundly up until a short while ago. I’m glad we have him with us.”

  Paedrin’s voice lifted slightly. “You should be.”

  Hettie scowled and shook her head. “Silence, braggart!” she hissed over her shoulder.