Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Is she from Kenatos, do you think?” asked Beshop.

  “No,” said Sanchein.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “But how do you know?”

  Paedrin hissed a low whistle to shut him up. It would go on for hours that way. He spun around again, slowly this time, full of restless energy. The staff was part of him, a tether, a kite string that kept him from floating away when he gathered and held his breath. He started rising again, slowly, gracefully, until he balanced on the end of the staff, his feet pointed toward the sky. He loved that feeling—the almost-flying feeling of being a Vaettir. He was the only one in the temple who was orphaned as a boy, unclaimed by any Vaettir family in the city. Peculiar, for certain, but Paedrin did not care. The temple was his home and his family. His lungs burned and he slowly exhaled, his body coming back down to earth.

  He gripped the staff and stared at the door she had gone through. “That is enough,” he said simply.

  “What is enough?” Beshop asked, coming around.

  “It is already turning black. Paedrin, you broke my toe,” muttered Jaendro, still sitting on the flagstones. “Give me your hand, you sod! I need help standing!”

  “What is enough?” Beshop pressed, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking at what Paedrin was looking at.

  He gave Beshop the staff and started after the girl.

  Who she was, Paedrin had no idea. She had appeared at the temple orphanage, wearing woodcutter’s garb and keeping mostly to herself. How old was she? Paedrin guessed she was his age, or maybe slightly older. Twenty, perhaps. The curl and sneer of her lip made her seem older. As did the disdain with which she treated everyone and everything within the temple. She had dark hair cut past her shoulders, thick and heavy and slightly curled. She was Aeduan, he thought with a snort, nothing to be so proud of. Yet she walked with all the confidence of a Vaettir, as if she belonged to the orphanage as its overseer and not as a guest who could not afford lodging in the city beyond the walls. That was the only reason someone chose to sleep on the floor, on an uncomfortable mat, on hard flagstones, day after day.

  Paedrin pulled open the doors and went into the momentary blindness of the deeply shadowed interior. The temple was a hodgepodge of structures, mostly one level tall with vaulted roofs, interconnecting to each other like the sluices they used to control water in the city.

  From the roof, one could see a great deal of the city below—its serpentine maze of streets, squares, water fountains, and courtyards. From the roof, where Paedrin often went to be alone, he could see the vast lake in the distance and dream of the kingdoms and haunted wilderness beyond. The thought of Plague did not terrify him. He feared nothing except remaining trapped in the city his entire life, disciplining pickpockets and protecting the city from enemies of Kenatos. In his heart, he would rather be with his own people in Silvandom. But he owed the orphanage and the city his duty.

  The dusty tiles met his sandals soundlessly as he maneuvered past columns and enormous urns. He listened and heard her voice, then changed his direction. He had heard her speak occasionally, and she spoke with a strong accent, a wild accent, as if she were from some unmannered country. Yet if that were so, why did she comport herself with the disdain of someone very wealthy? Was she in disguise, perhaps? That kindled Paedrin’s curiosity even more. Out of favor with a wealthy father, a duke in Wayland? He could not help but let his imagination run wild.

  He heard Master Shivu’s voice next, a comforting but firm tone in it. He was resisting her request. He was patient about it, as he always was, but he was telling her no.

  “I can pay,” he heard her say. “When the job is done.”

  “We have little need for treasure, little one. It is contrary to our order to accept payment of any kind.” He was excruciatingly patient. Paedrin did not understand this, considering how difficult little orphaned boys could be. “It is our duty to serve the races.”

  “But I am in need of a service for hire,” the girl insisted. “It will not be a long journey. A fortnight or two. I need a protector.”

  Master Shivu came into view, his head bent thoughtfully, his wrinkled eyes warm with sympathy. His hair was a patchwork of silver and white stubble. “What protection do you need that these walls cannot provide?” He held his hand out, gesturing toward the structure around them. “If you are hunted, you are safe here. The Bhikhu will defend you. You are an orphan, as you said. There is work for you to do right here among us. There is no need to venture into the woods.”

  “But I do not belong here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger. “Nor am I safe here from my enemies. You do not understand. I turn eighteen soon.”

  Paedrin licked his lips, intrigued beyond calculation. If he lingered much longer, he would learn more about this girl. But it was rude to delay his approach. Even though he walked on cat’s feet, she still heard him. Her expression shifted at once from sincere desperation to annoyance.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you, Master,” the girl said and started to go the other way, abandoning Master Shivu with a quick toss of her head.

  It was in the moment Paedrin saw the subtle gleam in her right ear—the gold earring. Only one.

  The pieces began to assemble in his mind.

  “A word before you go, child,” Shivu said, stalling her.

  “Yes?”

  “I would like you to meet your protector.” Master Shivu opened his palm and gestured. “This is Paedrin.”

  “He’s Vaettir,” she said, sizing him up with cool eyes. The tone in her voice was insulting to him.

  “I am,” he answered, closing the gap between them. “And you are Romani, though you try to hide it. What is my assignment, Master Shivu? Protecting a special caravan?”

  Her eyebrows arched. “I meant that you were Vaettir-born and that our people have a history. I do not see why he chose you.”

  “I chose Paedrin,” Master Shivu said, “because he is the best our temple has to offer your uncle. He has been trained in all martial weapons as well as the subtle ways of hand and foot. He is nearly done with all of his philosophical training and will soon be introduced to the city as a defender. There is no one else I would trust more with your safety.”

  “Has he traveled beyond the city before?” she asked, her voice slightly mocking.

  “I am right here,” Paedrin said, not sure which emotion he wanted to subdue more—his excitement to be chosen or his animosity toward this girl. “No, I have not…”

  “I guess this is the best I can expect then,” she said, interrupting him. She nodded to him and then to Master Shivu and turned to leave.

  Master Shivu waited until she disappeared through the archway leading to the female quarters.

  “You should not lurk in shadows, Paedrin,” Master Shivu said with no malice.

  “Was I lurking?” Paedrin asked, smiling broadly to hide a grin. “I was trying to be respectful and not intrude on your conversation, Master.”

  “You were lurking, Paedrin.” Master Shivu began to walk away, his colorful amber robes fluttering. Master Shivu was a Vaettir as well, so old his stubs of hair were white as snow instead of black. He had a flat nose and high cheekbones. “I should have told our guest that good manners or soft-spokenness is not one of your skills.”

  “Our guest is Romani,” Paedrin said, keeping pace with him as they crossed the vast hall. “What do they know of good manners?”

  “She is Romani, but she wears her hair long to cover the earring,” he explained. “She wraps her spirit in many layers, burrowing deeper into her cocoon. She is safe here, but she does not believe she is safe anywhere. She does not trust. A sad existence, Paedrin. Life is about laughter; it is about believing what one does not see. Are you happy here, Paedrin?”

  The young Bhikhu smiled. “I am, Master.” He did his best impersonation of Master Shivu. “Felicity is produced not so much by great pieces of good fortune that seldom happen as by little
advantages that occur every day.”

  Master Shivu laughed. “You mimic my tone very well. I enjoy your humor, Paedrin.”

  “I enjoy yours as well, Master. It must be difficult being a Romani. To have a family and yet be afraid of it. Has she run away then?”

  “Hmmm? No, she is not fleeing her people or her traditions. She is trying to solve her problem in the way of the world. The way of Kenatos. With money.” He rubbed his fingers together, as if stroking two coins. “She imagines herself to be captive to traditions and customs that were defined by her people. I told her she is already truly free. She does not need to buy her freedom from anyone regardless of her age. We are free, each of us. I am free to enjoy a cup of tea with some lemon juice and a taste of honey. Would you care to enjoy freedom with me?”

  “I would,” he said, chafing a bit, for he wanted to float up to the roof and let out a scream of triumph at the thought of leaving Kenatos. But it was rude saying no to Master Shivu.

  “That would be pleasant. There is much we need to discuss. I have received a request from Tyrus Paracelsus. He has asked that I provide an escort to his niece. I have chosen you for this assignment, obviously.”

  Paedrin looked at his master with eager eyes. “I am honored, Master, that you chose me. I am only seventeen. I thought I was not permitted to leave the monastery until eighteen. You have always given me that as the answer when we discussed this before.”

  “That would normally be the case,” Master Shivu said. “But this is special. Of all the students, you are the best equipped for such a journey. First, you have always longed to visit the world outside Kenatos. This may be your only opportunity. Second, you are Vaettir-born, which gives you abilities that will be useful in such a task. Finally, you are also the most accomplished Bhikhu student I have trained in many, many years. I think you are ready.”

  Paedrin flushed with pride. “As accomplished as Aboujaoude?”

  “He was accomplished and humble. You, my son, are ambitious. And proud. And your feet smell strongly of dung, if I am being perfectly honest.” There was a gleam in his eye that made Paedrin grin in response.

  “Tell me more of this assignment, Master. I have heard of Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus, as he is called. He is an important patron of the temple. They say he was raised in an orphanage too, one run by the Rikes.”

  “I believe so,” Master Shivu said. “That was long ago. He shares his great wealth with us, with this temple, to settle a debt he believes he owes us.”

  Paedrin smirked. “For a wise man, he is foolish. What debt could he owe us?”

  Master Shivu smiled. “As you well know, there is no true debt. It is as with the girl; he believes he owes it. What was given was given freely. What was lost was lost freely. You must safeguard his niece. See her safely on her journey.”

  Paedrin wrinkled his brow. “Where are we going, Master? Not Silvandom, surely.”

  The bell attached to the outer doors rang, sending a shudder through the walls. The temple did not receive many visitors, so everyone would be wondering who it was.

  Master Shivu turned and looked back at him, as if he were being especially dense. “That may be a messenger from Tyrus. You leave at dawn for Havenrook. It is the seat of Romani power.” He reached out and rested his hand on Paedrin’s shoulder. “It is a dangerous town, Paedrin. Even the road leading there through the woods is dangerous. Be careful. You are used to the laws and customs of Kenatos. They will not be the same there. You are used to the city and its shops, food, and mix of people and races. It will not be the same out there. Remember your training. Remember the ways of the Uddhava.”

  With a self-satisfied smile, Paedrin bowed to his master. “Thank you for choosing me. I will not disappoint you.”

  Master Shivu turned to the main doors as the bell sounded again. There was something in his eyes that Paedrin could not make out. It was a look that was almost anxious. “We do this as a favor to Tyrus Paracelsus to help secure a young woman’s freedom. Not for any reward. Remember that, Paedrin.”

  “There is an occupation prevalent in nearly every kingdom called a ‘Finder.’ It is actually a shortened name from a Preachán word that is practically meaningless now, as the Preachán have adopted the Aeduan tongue as their own. A Finder is trained to ‘find’ what is lost—be it a person, an object that is stolen, or a safe path through the maze of the city. They even have a guild. Finders also exist in the wilderness, and their services are highly prized and well paid. It was said by one of the wise ancients that it is the very perfection of a man to find out his own imperfections. In a sense, that is what Finders do, but to others, not themselves. Even the tiniest impression of a boot heel can bring a criminal to justice or retrieve that which is lost. The most subtle and patient are the best Finders.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Hettie returned to her barren sleeping chamber and sat down on the reed mat, leaning back against the rough stone wall. Master Shivu had chosen a Vaettir to be her companion on the journey to Havenrook. It was a disaster in one sense, but a workable one. He was quick to speak and take offense. That made him a danger to himself and to her goal.

  She rubbed her eyes, trying to clamp down her burgeoning resentment. The meeting with Tyrus had not gone as she expected. The stay at the temple had not either. There was so much to accomplish in so short a time. Her fingers strayed to her left earlobe, untouched by a pinprick or an earring. She had a fortnight to win her freedom. It almost seemed too much to hope for.

  Biting her lip, she let her head rest back against the stone wall, staring up at the cobwebs and the dust in the corners. There were no windows, only open slats near the ceiling allowing the sunlight and breeze to enter unimpaired. She recalled seeing shutters on the exterior and thought how cold the temple would be during the winter. It was a life devoid of comforts. At least she had spent the last ten years in a cabin in the mountains of Alkire, always with plenty of wood to stay warm, providing she expended the effort to chop it.

  A bell sounded from the outside, grabbing her attention instantly. Bells were harbingers of change in the city. She had been told that certain bells announced the arrival of Plague and that the city would be locked down as a result. This was a quiet bell, and she recognized it as belonging to the front gate. Was it Tyrus come to see her again? To provide the information he had withheld on how to open Drosta’s treasure?

  It was all such a riddle and a game. It frustrated her. Find a Preachán in Havenrook named Erasmus. He would know the location of the lost treasure. The key to securing it, in whatever form that took, would be given to her Bhikhu protector or to another individual he might enlist in the effort. He had assured her that she would leave on the morrow and she wondered whether the additional aid had arrived. Having the Bhikhu along would prove troublesome and likely aggravating. Adding another? She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed deeply.

  Havenrook. Of all the kingdoms in the land, why did it have to be there?

  It was not a long wait, but she did hear the sound of clapping sandals and the softer noise of sturdy walking boots. She listened closely, recognizing the footfall of Master Shivu. The other sound, she did not recognize. The step was too light to be Tyrus. One of his minions then, she thought.

  The two stopped at her door; she heard a knock. She rose, tried to brush some of the travel dust from her pants, and opened the door, ready to dislike the person immediately. Most people hated Romani, and though she tried to obscure the fact that she was one, she could count on her uncle disclosing it.

  As the door opened, she caught her breath.

  Master Shivu, she recognized. But the young man next to him was her own age and bore a striking resemblance to her own reflection, especially his facial features. He was a little taller than her, his hair the true reddish hue that hers was when she did not dye it. He had some hair on his face, but definitely not a full beard. She saw the Druidecht talisman immediately.

  “M
y name is Annon,” he said, looking at her with an intensity in his eyes that startled her and a depth of emotion in his voice that struck her heart like an arrow bolt. “I am your brother, and I’ve come to help you.”

  She stared at him, completely shocked by his sudden appearance. What in all due glory was this? She could not speak. She stared, looking at his features.

  He smiled kindly at her and held up his hands. She could see the calluses on his palms. “Our uncle said that you might not be convinced and suggested coming back to the tower; he will fetch a Rike to persuade you. But one look at you, and I know it is true. We look alike. Don’t we? We are twins.”

  She realized her mouth was open. “Where…where are you from?” she asked, almost unable to string her thoughts together. Tyrus was a manipulative and secretive man, but this went beyond anything her imagination could have summoned.

  “I was raised in Wayland,” he answered. “My mentor was a man named Reeder. I did not learn that I had a sister until a short while ago. Tyrus summoned me to Kenatos two days ago. He told me of your situation and offered a way to free you.” He took a step toward her. “I will help you. If you believe what I say.”

  Master Shivu had a strange smile on his face. He retreated slowly. “You will leave in the morning. I think it may be best if the two of you spoke a little while. I have known Tyrus Paracelsus for many years. There are always reasons for what he does.”

  Hettie did not doubt that for a single moment.

  “Please,” she offered, inviting him to enter. He did, glancing at the sparse accommodations with a look of simple pleasure. As a Druidecht he was probably used to sleeping on the forest floor.