by Jeff Wheeler
“You already know that I’m a terrible uncle,” Tyrus said matter-of-factly. “I faced those limitations a very long time ago. You look well. Did you have any trouble along the way here? The taverns are ripe with tales from the kingdoms beyond. The dangers that walk the land…”
“There was more danger within the city than without,” Annon said. He waited for Tyrus to explain. He did not want to appear overly anxious to hear Tyrus’s news or too eager.
“What news in Wayland? Any new treaties signed?”
Annon shrugged. “I would not know.”
“You do not keep abreast of politics in the King of Wayland’s court then?”
“I am a Druidecht, Uncle. My place is the politics of nature. I can tell you about a beaver’s dam that was disturbed by woodcutters. Does that interest you?”
“Not really.”
Annon knew his uncle was testing him. He did not want to play games. He knew if he waited long enough, the truth would come out. He was not disappointed.
“Why not cut to the quick? I sent for you for two reasons, Annon. You barely know me, and that is my fault. But it’s not that I don’t have interest in you, lad. My…responsibilities in the tower are only getting heavier. I am not free to come and go as I would wish. My work keeps me confined to Kenatos.”
He glanced down at the tabletop and then withdrew a thin golden circle with a cut in the middle—a hoop. He sighed. “I probably should have done this earlier, but it is too late for regrets.” Tyrus looked at Annon fiercely, his expression no longer calculating. He looked deadly earnest. “You see, boy…you have a sister. I should have spoken of her before, but I did not. But now it is out in the open.”
There was no way to prepare for such news, so it struck Annon in the pit of his stomach and nearly stole his voice. For a moment, he could not breathe. The words buzzed in his ears. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “What?”
“I believe you heard and understood me.”
Tyrus had always been his only relation. His parents were dead. He had been told that explicitly. The Plague had taken his father. Sadness had killed his mother. Emotions flooded inside his chest, but the chief of them was rage. Blood-scalding, fire-seething, implacable rage.
“Her name is Hettie.”
“I cannot believe that you…”
“Let me finish, Annon.”
“You tell me I have a sister as if you are commenting on the weather. For pity’s sake, how do you think this makes me feel about you?”
Annon tried desperately to tame the anger roiling inside. A sister? How could that even be possible? Was it some sort of trick? Tyrus was the sort who manipulated others for his own ends. Reeder had warned him of that, but surely Reeder had not known. His loyalty was to Annon, not Tyrus. He would have told him if he had a sister.
“You are angry.”
“Obviously that matters very little to you, or you would have told me earlier. This is outrageous. I’m not sure I should even believe you,” Annon said, his voice nearly choking with rage and humiliation. “Surely, Uncle, you would have said something before now if it were true.”
“A liar, am I?” Tyrus said, his eyes like flint. “Really, Annon, I told you before that you needed to master your temper. This will not do.”
“How did you expect me to react?” Annon said, his voice shaking. The emotions spun and twisted him. He took a step forward, not sure what he would do.
A glass globe on the varnished desk suddenly lit with orange light. It was bright, like the sparks from a blacksmith’s anvil. The light darted and bounced against the curve of the glass, toward Annon, as if it were a little bee stinging in rage.
Tyrus scowled with annoyance. “Be still,” he muttered and fetched a dark velvet rag to cover the globe. “You are angry and rightly so. I owe you an explanation. I was attempting that when you began spitting at me.” He glanced over some of the other globes, which also started to flicker awake with light. He whistled a low tone, and then began to warp it into a tune, a haunting yet soothing melody. He glanced at Annon and then scooped something up from the table.
Tyrus held up the golden hoop. “You are not the only one who has known a life of pain, Annon. I was raised in an orphanage here in Kenatos. My sister brought me here as an infant to earn wages scribing languages. My brother…to be honest, I would rather not even talk about him. I know about loneliness and unfulfilled hopes. I overcame them, and I have prospered here. You can even give me some credit in choosing your mentor. Now tame your feelings. Master yourself. We do not have much time, and you need to understand something. You told me that you know of beavers and woodcutters, but what do you know of the Romani?”
Annon struggled against his feelings, for he desperately still wanted to lash out at Tyrus. Sweat trickled down his ribs as he battled to tame himself. Irritation clung to his voice. “Everyone knows of the Romani. They run goods between kingdoms, except for Silvandom. They are worse than thieves.”
“About their customs? Do you know what this is?”
“It is an earring. Romani wear them, the boys as well as the girls.” Annon was impatient. He wanted to know about his sister, not the Romani. “Their ears are pierced at a young age, as babies, I believe. I’ve met several caravans through Wayland, though never trusted them. I was warned not to.”
“You are correct. The Romani travel the lands and move goods from one place to another. They steal anything that has value. Give it a thought, Annon, but you are probably still too angry. What has the most value in a land routinely cursed with Plague? Children. They are worth more than gold ducats. The Romani covet children. When they are stolen, they are marked in their ear by a single hoop. This they wear until they are eight, when they are first sold. The fee is for ten years.”
Tyrus set down the hoop and waved his hands over several of the glass globes resting in intricate metal stands all over his desk. As his hand passed over them, some flared and flickered. Some dashed against the glass, as if trying to sting his hand. Some glowed brightly and remained lit.
His voice snagged Annon’s attention back. “Then the Romani return and take back what was sold. They are sold again at eighteen. This is when their other ear is marked. Two hoops. They are sold again, ten years later. And again. And again. Each time, the price decreases until they are old. Each time, they earn another ring.”
“It sounds like a miserable life,” Annon said distastefully. “Do they marry?”
Tyrus nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. The Rikes of Seithrall would ban them from Kenatos if they did not. But the marriage only lasts until the term is done. If the husband refuses to pay again, they can be sold to another man.”
“What if the child is a boy?”
“We are not speaking of the boys, Annon. We are speaking about the girls because you need to understand this to understand your sister. Hettie was stolen by the Romani when she was a babe. As you are almost eighteen yourself, so is she. You are twins but look nothing alike. It is time for her to be sold for her second hoop.”
Annon shook his head, astounded. His emotions were simmering now, but he was still incredulous. “You are serious? She was stolen from you?”
“If I had a black ring like the Rikes wear, I would give it to you. Yes, she was stolen.”
“And you are telling me that with all of your resources, you could not reclaim her? You have no small reputation in this city, Uncle.”
“Which the Romani know. You do not understand them as well as you pretend.”
“I did not pretend to know them. I’m only in shock that you could not hire an army or a band of mercenaries or something to reclaim her.”
Tyrus waved his hand over an especially bright globe and a satisfied smile played across his mouth. Annon noticed the thin white scar on his lip. “I really am too busy for all this chatter. Let me be plain with you. She was stolen. You were not. When she was nearly eight, I did hire a Finder to help me track her down. Let’s suffice it to say that they demanded a kin
g’s ransom for her. I refused to pay it. She was being sheltered, fed, cared for. I left. The Finder went back for her later. He paid for her out of his own purse. Not for me. I never asked him to, as they learned. She has lived with him in the woods, wandering near the lowlands of Alkire for the last ten years. She has become a Finder herself. And so she found me. She’s here in the city.”
Annon was amazed. He realized he was gripping the edge of Tyrus’s table so hard his fingers hurt, and he slowly relaxed his muscles. He had met many Finders in Wayland. They were skilled in tracking, snaring, and hunting animals and occasionally, for the right price, people. “Here?” His heart suddenly panged with regret and longing. He had a sister?
“Not my tower, but here in the city. She is staying at the Bhikhu temple nearby, one that I occasionally squander ducats to support. Hettie can buy her freedom, you see. For one lump sum, she can purchase her freedom forever and no longer have to wear the earring. Of course, you understand that the sum will be outrageous. I am rather famous.” He gave Annon a sidelong look. “Here is what I propose. I have no wish to see her sold as a wife or whatever someone may desire her for. But the price is set on one’s ability to pay it. I cannot be involved in the deal or the price will be much higher.”
“But you are involved,” Annon said, frustrated. “They no doubt believe she is here. They will attempt to extort you again.”
“As I told you, I am unwilling to settle the account myself. If I do not bid for her, then the price will be more reasonably set.”
“You would have me do it?” Annon said, a sour smile on his mouth.
“How many ducats do you own, pray tell?” Tyrus chuffed to himself, wagging his finger over a globe as it continued to try and sting him with its spark-like light. “No, I was not thinking that at all. There is another way to buy her freedom. I know many things, being here in the tower. Many things that were whispered of in the past. There was another Paracelsus long ago, you know. A Cruithne, if you believe it, named Drosta. He was a good man. He left a great treasure in the mountains. The Romani learned of it and have been searching for it.”
Again he paused, tending the globes one by one. His eyebrow arched as he looked at Annon.
“You know where it is?”
“I know a man who knows where it is,” he replied cryptically. “And I know the key words that will open the door to it. The man is not in Kenatos, but lives in the east, in Havenrook. I have told your sister about him and encouraged her to seek Drosta’s treasure to buy her freedom. Do not call me sentimental. You know I am not.” He continued to look at the globes and methodically covered each with a velvet shroud. “As I said, she is staying at the temple orphanage, the Bhikhu temple. I have asked the master to send someone to protect her on her journey. I thought you might want to know this, as their journey will require a great deal of travel out of doors. A Druidecht would be useful, so I sent Reeder to find you before she leaves tomorrow.”
Annon slid his finger along the smooth wood of the desk, staring at one of the little globes that was still uncovered. He reached his finger toward it, and the wisp of light responded immediately, throbbing into several shades of color: blue, then purple, and then lavender.
“What are these?” Annon asked, his finger nearly touching the glass. “They seem sentient.”
“If you ask a Druidecht about his craft, he will say it is merely Druidecht and nothing more. Do you expect a Paracelsus to be any different? Please do not touch the glass. They are fragile things.”
Annon was tempted to. He stared at the color and the comforting shade. Was it merely a bauble, some craft intended to delight a wealthy man’s little girl? His finger nearly grazed it.
“Where is the Bhikhu temple?” Annon asked simply.
Tyrus gave him a knowing smile.
Annon frowned. He had the very real feeling that he was being manipulated. “You are withholding too much of the story from me. There is much more to this than you are saying.”
Tyrus steepled his fingers over his mouth. “I can only reveal so much at this time. For your own sake. You will have to trust me. Maybe later I will be able to explain what you wish to know.”
“Trust you? That is a bold request. How can I possibly trust you? Surely there is something else you can give me. At least tell me why you did not tell me before.”
He shook his head. “I cannot. I have spent far too much time already. You do not understand the nature of my obligations and duties. I truly have very little time. You must trust me, Annon. Will you aid your sister?”
Annon stared at him as if he were mad. “You may be a terrible uncle, but I will not be a terrible brother. I will see her now.”
“The highest possible stage in moral culture is to realize that we ought to control our thoughts. And no group does this better, in my opinion, than the Bhikhu. This order originated thousands of years ago and was the chief offering of the Vaettir to the establishment of Kenatos. It is said among the Bhikhu that the Vaettir can fly because their thoughts are so elevated. My observations, on the contrary, lead to a more prosaic conclusion. I have witnessed that their ability to float in the air is simply an act of respiration. They inhale and rise. They exhale and sink. It is a strange form of buoyancy that other races experience in bodies of water. Only Vaettir-born have this trait, and thus, the Vaettir make superior Bhikhu. I have been to the training yards and seen younglings race along the ground and then scamper up a wall as if it were not perpendicular to the ground. It is fascinating to observe. One may call their natural power ‘magic.’ In my experience, what is called magic is not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin saw the girl from the corner of his eye, smothered in shadows against the blazing noonday sun. She moved beneath the covered walk while he was in the middle of the training yard. He noticed the bounce of her hair and her tightly folded arms, and then he saw the gouged staff swinging at his eyes. Had he blinked at that moment, it would have broken his nose. Arching his spine, bending his knees, Paedrin leaned back as the staff whistled just over the tip of his nose. With so much backward momentum, he had no choice but follow it up with a flip, kicking out with his legs before landing on his feet in a low squat.
Another staff went over his head, and Paedrin lunged forward, striking with his fists, three times in rapid motion. The other Bhikhu crumpled and dropped the staff, which Paedrin snatched and spun around from one end. It clacked with another staff and soon the two were sweeping, striking, and parrying until Paedrin caught his opponent’s fingers with an especially well-placed blow, making him yelp and drop his weapon. There she was again, walking down the aisle, arms folded, face intent on the ground, never once looking at the training yard. Her stride was quick and impatient.
Three more charged him the next moment, staves whirling dangerously in circles. It looked impressive to an outsider, but it was easy to disrupt as he jammed his staff into the wheeling wooden spokes. One strike to the chest and the fellow grimaced with pain. Another on his toe with a crunch that probably meant his toenail was cracked and would fall off in a few days. With the staff held before him, Paedrin disarmed the second and third attackers, a series of dizzying blows that were too fast to follow, let alone defend. Crack—crack—clatter. Another staff down.
Paedrin spun on his heel, bringing his weapon over his shoulder and dropping a silently approaching fourth opponent. The fifth and final Bhikhu charged him, face twisted with vengeance. Paedrin planted the end of his staff, took in his breath, and lifted himself up on the pole, swinging his body around it once, his foot clipping the last fighter in the temple, dropping him; Paedrin proceeded to swivel around the staff, coiling around the upper end like a lizard, balancing on it like a pennant of flesh. He made a perfect stance, shoulders back, legs locked, arm extended for balance, fingers raised up. He clung to the top of the staff, held his breath to keep his body floating, enjoying the feel of the
sun on his neck and the sweat trickling down his back.
And not once—even once—did the girl bother to look his way and notice his triumph. Still concealed in the shadows, she hastily disappeared into the causeway of the temple and vanished.
He let out his breath and slid gracefully down the length of the staff.
“Did she look at you that time?” grumbled a voice as one eye peeped open from one of the fallen Bhikhu.
“Not even a glance,” Paedrin said.
“I think you broke my toe,” came another voice, outraged. “And she didn’t even look?”
“Not once,” Paedrin said, hoisting his arms on each side of the staff, like he was about to tote water barrels on each end. “Even if we were all wearing nothing but our smallclothes, she wouldn’t have looked. She’s determined not to.”
Another of his brothers rose to a sitting position, shaking the dust from his dark hair. “I almost had you, Paedrin. What if I had broken your nose and knocked you flat?”
Paedrin smirked. “The day you can hit me, Sanchein, is the day I will drop my smallclothes and then walk into the girl training yard with nothing on. You are slow and heavy-footed.”
“It is not our fault we were not born Vaettir.” It was another of his friends, the tone sulky.
Paedrin grinned. “Well, we cannot all be wise, fast, and sleek as serpents. If you work really hard for the next year, I may let you sand the calluses off my heels.”
“Where is your humility?” Sanchein said with a sniff.
“You just saw her go through those doors,” Paedrin said, pointing the way with one end of the staff. “She is my humility. My bane. My mystery. Can you believe that she has been here for two days and I still do not know her name? No one does, except Master Shivu, and it would be the height of rudeness to ask him only out of pure curiosity.” Paedrin spun the staff around, whipping it as fast as a scythe in circles on each side. He slammed the butt down on the flagstones and scowled. “There is something undeniably unfair about being tortured by a girl.”