Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Hettie stared at her with contempt. She had been a beauty once. Now it was a husk, an illusion. “You are useful to Kiranrao, which is why he bids me seek your help. I need information, Mondargiss.”

  A wicked smile played on the older woman’s lips. “Of course you do, child. What do you seek?”

  “There was an explosion in the Paracelsus Tower recently. The tower of Tyrus Paracelsus. You know of it?”

  Mondargiss slowly closed the gap between them, shuffling forward lamely. Her eyes were dark and cunning. “We felt it explode. It shook the entire city. Windows shattered. Glass on the floor. My little doves were so upset by it. I knew Kiranrao would wish to know of it. I sent my swiftest little one.”

  There was a flapping of wings and then a dove flew in from the window, landing in a dovecote above.

  “Cim!” she shrieked, but the young man was already moving, climbing up a rickety ladder until he reached the dovecote. He fussed with the bird a bit and then brought down a tiny slip, which he handed to Mondargiss.

  The woman craned her neck and studied the small scrawlings. She chuckled gleefully. “An ill wind from the east. An ill wind from the west. An ill wind from the north. My, what a storm that will brew. Yes, my darling, what is it that you need?” She reached forward and flicked some of Hettie’s hair teasingly.

  “Tyrus left something behind, likely in the rubble. It is a sturdy leather bag with three unfinished stones. Not cut gems, but likely polished. It would not have been destroyed.”

  Mondargiss shook her head knowingly. “Little stones, you stay. Little uncut gems. There were weapons found. Spirit-touched blades. Arrowheads survived, but the shafts did not. They are selling for many ducats and being stolen away to Havenrook for bidding. But you know that I cannot go near the Paracelsus Towers, my dear. Not myself.”

  Hettie bridled with impatience, but kept her temper. The woman’s eyes were always cruel. “Surely I did not believe you were scavenging the rubble, Mondargiss.”

  “Not even when I was younger. Any number of boys would have gladly searched the rubble at my command. But they will search for me again. Cim! See to it. If someone has captured the stones, bring them to me, or bring me word of who has them.”

  The young man rose from the dilapidated couch and shrugged. Hettie stopped him before he passed her.

  “How long will it take you?” she asked him softly.

  His eyes gleamed. “Dunno,” he said with a shrug.

  “Thank you, Cim,” she said, flashing him a quicksilver smile. His face remained impassive as he went to the door and unbolted it. He disappeared into the street beyond.

  “You think you are so clever,” Mondargiss said with a sneer. “He is impervious to any woman. I could name him the king of stone. He feels nothing. He cares for nothing. For no one.”

  Hettie felt her eyes tighten, but she managed to keep herself aloof. “What is Kiranrao training him for then? A Kishion?”

  Mondargiss smiled wickedly. “I will not betray his secrets. You know that. I was his favorite once. You are so young. So pretty, but you are Romani. We understand each other, girl. Someday, you will be like me. You will ache at the thought of being useful again.” Her free hand tightened into a fist and crushed against her heart. “I was a singer once. I graced the stage, and I sang for princes and dukes and the wealthiest of Kenatos. My voice could transfix a man. I had many admirers back then. As do you, child, as do you. I did not want flowers. I asked for birds, birds of every kind. Someday, sooner than you wish, you will find that age has left you bereft of usefulness. And then maybe you will tend my menagerie and wait for scraps of paper!”

  She started, head cocked, listening. Her face contorted with rage. “She is sobbing again! I hate it! I loathe the sound of it. I can hear her in the upper floor, next door. I will give you a thousand ducats, child. Go there and kill her. Stop her from weeping. Oh, how it torments me. A thousand ducats to kill her. Cim won’t do it. He says no one lives next door anymore. He is just too lazy. Too lazy. A thousand ducats. Will you do it?”

  Hettie stared at the old woman, revulsion overpowering her. “I will return in three days. Kiranrao will pay for the pouch. He will pay handsomely for it. I must go.”

  “Do not leave me alone, child,” Mondargiss pleaded, grabbing her by the hem of her cloak. “I cannot bear to hear the sobs when I am alone. The birds are too quiet. We must wake them. Then I will not hear her anymore. Help me rouse them.”

  “Three days’ time,” Hettie said, shaking off her grip.

  “Do not leave me!” she shrieked. “I was once the greatest singer in all Kenatos and Silvandom! I was famous once. The world demanded my music, and I demanded my riches. Even the Arch-Rike fancied me. Even he! I sang for him in private audience. I moved him to tears. If you had seen me, you would not scorn me now. Look at me, child! You will be here someday. You will wear this crown of thorns. You will not look so fine forever. Do not leave me! Cim! Cim! Bolt the door! Cim!”

  Hettie shut the door solidly behind her, shivering with disgust and horror. Six rings in her ears. Six rings. The smell of bird droppings nearly made her retch in the street. Her first night in Kenatos, she had come to see Mondargiss. A Finder did not belong in such a muck-filled abode. She would not end up as Mondargiss. She promised herself that she would not.

  But where would she stay for three days? Where could she rest and learn more about the explosion in the Paracelsus Towers?

  She roamed away from the rank alleys and wandered north along the main roads higher within the city. Even though it was after sunset, the streets were crowded and full of trade. It was more active than she had seen in the past, as if a certain giddiness swelled the air. Pausing to eat a meat pie, she watched the ebb and flow of oil-skinned Cruithne moving through the crowd. The sight of Bhikhu robes caused her to start, but she did not recognize the man, nor was he a Vaettir. She did remember, briefly, Paedrin’s little lesson about the Uddhava and how just the presence of a Bhikhu could alter someone’s actions.

  Hettie finished the pie and started through the streets, watching the spectacle of the city float past her. It was too noisy. She needed a respite from the crowds. Passing into a new quarter, she started up a steep climb of steps that brought her up to the next level. The din and noise of the crowds faded behind. There were plenty of lights atop metal poles on each side of the steps.

  As she neared the top, she realized where her legs had taken her. The Bhikhu temple was before her, gates closed. What good would it do to see him again? She fussed and fumed with herself, standing awkwardly in the shadows, wondering what madness had driven her. Perhaps the dung from the birds had deranged her mind.

  It was getting late. Any number of inns or taverns could provide a night’s rest. But for some reason, she had felt particularly safe asleep on a pallet in the temple. It was her uncle’s suggestion.

  Her legs began moving again toward the doors, and she exhaled softly, chiding herself. She reached the gate and pulled the taut cord fastened to the bell. It clanged ominously. There were no lights from the temple. The Bhikhu typically did not linger after their meals but retired to their cells to meditate and think righteous thoughts, no doubt. She hugged herself, waiting patiently. The sound of slapping sandals came from the other side of the large door.

  The crossbar lifted and the door opened inward, revealing Master Shivu. He saw her standing alone in the doorway and his smile suddenly wavered, replaced by a frown.

  “You are alone,” he said softly, barely masking the throb of concern in his voice.

  Hettie nodded. “I came to see how Paedrin was doing. If he was healing…?” She let the words die on her tongue. It was obvious by the expression on Master Shivu’s face that Paedrin was not at the temple.

  “Come inside,” Master Shivu said, holding the door open. “You must tell me what you know. I have not seen Paedrin since he left with you and your brother.”

  A cold lump of fear solidified inside Hettie’s stomach.


  “Will we ever comprehend the Plague? I think not. Some things are not meant to be understood. They must only be endured.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  The tea was uncomfortably hot, making Hettie wince. A single fat candle caused a sparse glow in Master Shivu’s chamber. The temple had the semblance of a crypt. A plate was offered to her with some cold rice, a few dates, and some dried fruit and cheese. She accepted the humble fare and ate it gratefully, though without appetite.

  “When I first saw you, I feared he was dead,” Shivu said, his brow furrowing. “You say he was alive?”

  Hettie nodded. “We were ambushed by a Kishion several days south of here.”

  Master Shivu wrinkled his nose. “What cause would a Kishion have of interfering with your return journey?”

  “My uncle found us. I believe it was tracking him some way. Paedrin was already injured from our journey into the mountains, but he tried to defend us and was thrown down; his arm was broken cruelly. He and the Kishion disappeared through some form of magic, but the Kishion said the word ‘Kenatos’ before he left, so I assumed he was brought back to the city, that I would find him here.”

  Shivu shook his head. “I must speak to the Arch-Rike.”

  A pulse of alarm ran through Hettie at the words. “Tell me what happened to my uncle after we left. I have only just heard word that there was some destruction at the tower. Do you know what happened?”

  Master Shivu folded his fingers above his mouth. “Your uncle was declared a traitor to Kenatos, child. There are accusations that he was plotting with our enemies to overthrow the city.”

  Hettie exhaled deeply. What else would a Bhikhu master believe? She hesitated a moment before replying. The truth was a careful balancing act. “I have no knowledge of such a thing. The treasure he sent us to find was gone. There was evidence all around the entrance that others had been there long before we arrived. I think he was sending us far away to protect us from harm.” She sighed deeply. “If the Arch-Rike wants my uncle, he may want me as well. I should be going.”

  Shivu gave her a wan smile. “I will not send you to the Rikes, child. You are under my protection. Even the Arch-Rike himself has no authority within these walls. He relies on the Bhikhu to keep the peace. May I assume you are here in peace?”

  Hettie nodded. “I only came because I thought Paedrin was here.” She bit her lip. “It would relieve me greatly to know that he was safe.”

  “I am sure that if he was wounded, as you say, the Arch-Rike is tending to his injuries as we speak. I will send word in the morning and see what I can learn. You look tired. Why don’t you rest for the night?”

  “Thank you,” Hettie said, trying to hide her smile. These Bhikhu were so easy to manipulate that it almost wasn’t fair. But still, there was a part of her, deep down, that nagged her. Why wouldn’t the Arch-Rike have sent word that Paedrin was back in the city? She was certain she was imagining the trouble. Borrowing worry where there was none. He would show up, smug and confident and boasting of his duel with the Kishion. That was just his way. She was sure of it.

  A day passed. Then two. Hettie stalked the temple grounds, lingering for word. A runner had been sent to the Arch-Rike and returned with word that the master of Kenatos was dealing with pressing matters of state and had not found the time to reply yet. There was a trade interruption from Havenrook, and shipments of grain and fruit were delayed and spoiling, causing prices in the city to bob on the rising tide. He would inquire about the missing Bhikhu, he promised, and send word in a day or two.

  After two days, Hettie was impatient and started off on her own again, seeking after the ruins of the Paracelsus Tower herself. Approaching it from the west, she saw it was clearly a work of immense power or magic. The tower where she had last met her uncle was gone, with only loose fragments of broken stone showing the remains. She was in awe at the power involved in such a manifestation. The tower had been a massive stone bulwark, suspended high in the air. All that remained was a warped iron stairwell protruding from one of the four corners, a little nub displaying to witness what had been there before.

  “By degrees the castles are built,” Hettie whispered, staring at it as she approached. “How fast they fall.” Bricks littered the street all around. The front windows of shops were being repaired. In some, blankets had been nailed over to cover the void. Broken crockery and pit-marks covered the homes and shops facing the tower proper.

  There were many people milling around, but most were repairing the damage with plaster and cobbled stone. She ventured into the main gate, which was open, and found the interior courtyard full of workmen and wheelbarrows, carting off broken fragments of stone to be reused elsewhere. There were a few taskmasters at hand, but they were primarily ordering low-paid folk doing the work. Hettie studied the ruins of the tower and saw a steady stream of men venturing in and out, carrying bricks in their arms.

  There was a giant dead oak tree in the middle of the courtyard. Amazingly, none of the branches had fallen as a result of the explosion. Nor had fire touched its bark. She stopped, staring at it curiously.

  How peculiar, she thought. She began walking the perimeter of the oak, beneath the veil of branches, and saw not a single brick or stone beneath the boughs. There were bricks littered elsewhere, but none directly beneath it. The branches were bare of leaves, which would not have been the case normally due to the season. But as she scrutinized it, she did see a few scattered branches with foliage, and some with clumps of lush mistletoe. The presence of the mistletoe meant the tree was still alive, if barely.

  She followed around the perimeter of the oak, wondering at its age and how it came to be in the center of the Paracelsus Tower. Had it been tended or had her uncle purchased it and moved it, as the rumors stated had happened. Some workers rested under its paltry shade and shared a flask between them. She walked around to the other side and found no one there; she slowly approached the trunk.

  The bark was rough and craggy, like an ancient woman’s skin. The branches seemed to be sagging, as if they had been defeated long ago. As she approached, she felt something stir inside of her, a warm, buzzing feeling. It was difficult to describe. It was a little like drinking sweet wine, and it made her slightly dizzy. She approached warily, reaching out until she touched the bark with her fingers. It was brittle, making it easy to pry loose a chunk with her fingers.

  She gazed up the length of the trunk until the branches began mushrooming away from the base. The majesty of the oak tree had always impressed her. Oak was great to burn and produced a solid, satisfying flame. Acorns could be made into food. It was interesting that there was no debris beneath the canopy. Not even a desiccated leaf.

  The feeling came over her again. It was a warm feeling, like a lingering kiss. It made her shiver involuntarily. Her breath started up. What was happening to her? Why was the tree making her so dizzy? She started to back away from it nervously, unsure at the flood and surge of emotions conflicting within her. There was something eerily comforting about the tree, and she was not used to that feeling. It was a dangerous feeling. It threatened her with tears.

  She turned and was about to walk away when she heard it whisper her name.

  “Hettie.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Was it her imagination? There was a presence behind her. She knew it. She could feel it.

  Whirling, Hettie turned to face it.

  The spinning motion disoriented her, nearly making her stumble. There was no one there. She blinked with surprise.

  A leather pouch nestled in the earth at the base of the tree. It had not been there before.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Fear snaked inside her skin. Kneeling by the trunk, she reached for the leather pouch. It was thick and slightly heavy, but it felt empty. As she touched it, she felt hard objects encased within the leather. Her lips were suddenly dry. Opening the drawstrings, she peeked inside at the smooth, uncut stones.

  There was a n
agging sensation in her mind, as if she were missing something obvious. Why was the bag sitting at the base of the tree? Had it been there all along? Had she seen it while circling the tree and that was what had brought her closer? She could not remember. Someone had whispered her name and then she had found the bag. How did the tree know it was her?

  She stared at its ancient boughs, feeling overwhelmed and small. Deftly she stuffed the bag into her tunic belt and retreated from the branches. There were two workers, idling with their flask, staring at her. One raised it toward her, inviting her over. Men were always the same, especially when drunk.

  She gave them a cold, disdainful look and then left the Paracelsus Tower, walking briskly away, going as fast as she dared. Her heart raced. There was something so odd and strange about the experience. Something crucial, but she could not remember it. She continued down into the lower realm of the city and ventured back toward the Bhikhu temple. She would hide the stones there for now. It would be safer than if she were caught with them. Anxiety throbbed in her stomach. Something was wrong. Something was missing. She wanted to run, to sprint.

  When she saw the Bhikhu temple, she nearly wept with relief. The door was open, so she entered and hurried inside, walking past the training yard where she had first seen Paedrin practicing with his fellows. The memory was sharp and acrid in her mind. It was painful as well. Where was he? Had the Arch-Rike provided information about his whereabouts yet?

  Hettie went to her chamber and silently knelt on the pallet, removing the small leather bag and testing the drawstrings again. Her fingers were trembling. She did not know why.

  Tilting the bag, she emptied the stones into her palm. They were cold, ice cold. It was uncomfortable. The stones were blue with milky white streaks through each one. They each looked unique; they were not a matching set. She stared at them a moment, feeling the cold burn her palm, and then she dumped them back into the leather bag and rubbed her hand against the side of her leg.