Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Hettie could not sleep. The mat was terribly uncomfortable and the lingering smell of the incense was alien and unfamiliar. Everything about the room and structure was different than what she was used to. It was a different culture. It was a different lifestyle. It was the closest thing to feeling safe she had ever experienced in her life.

  In the wilds beyond Silvandom, the Romani were everywhere. But here, in this kingdom, they were unwelcome. That meant she did not have to worry that someone would slip monkshood into her food and murder her. For the first time in her life, she began to experience the possibility that she might actually free herself from her Romani bondage. Not through paying an outlandish bribe. But by living in a place where the Romani were not welcome. If she aided her uncle in his quest, if she truly joined the mastermind, would she gain the privilege of living in Silvandom?

  She was awestruck by the beauty of the land, the forested hills, and the amazing cleanliness of the city. The air did not reek as it did in Havenrook. The people were civil and respectful, if a bit odd too. But she would gladly accept their traditions and customs if it gave her a chance to live her life and choose her own future. She wondered if Paedrin would want to stay as well. Going back to Kenatos would not be possible for him.

  Unable to sleep and restless with anticipation for Tyrus’s arrival, she rose from the mat and padded softly to Paedrin’s room. She needed to talk to someone. Her feelings were nearly bursting inside her. She slid open the door to his chamber and found it empty. The mat looked undisturbed.

  Hettie retraced the path back to the main room where they had eaten the night before. The sky in the windows was beginning to brighten with the dawn. Outside, she began to hear the chirping of birds. She gazed in the room and almost withdrew, but she saw something flash in the corner of her eye and turned, gazing into the corner. There was Paedrin, hunched over, rocking slowly. He looked as if he were in great pain.

  Rushing to his side, Hettie found him wet with sweat. He was huddled on the floor, arms clasped around his middle.

  “Paedrin!” she gasped. He stiffened and looked at her, his eyes wild with panic. She touched his shoulder.

  Calmness began to settle over him, as if her touch were magic somehow. The quivering muscles began to ease. His breathing slowed. She watched, transfixed by the metamorphosis. The strange look in his eyes began to soften.

  “Are you sick?” she whispered at last, watching the final tremors fade away.

  “I felt a fit coming on,” he replied, his voice strained. “I get them, from time to time. They pass quickly. I did not want to wake anyone.”

  “I was worried when I did not find you in your room.”

  His eyebrows arched. “You were looking for me in my room?”

  She realized how it sounded, and flushed. “I needed to talk to someone. It is almost dawn. Tyrus is coming. What do you think of all this? What Prince Aransetis told us? You always have strong opinions.”

  Paedrin breathed out heavily, pausing as he considered her. “How do we know we can trust him?”

  “The prince?”

  “No. Tyrus. Hasn’t he misled us from the start?”

  She was surprised to hear that coming from him. He was never one to wrestle with self-doubt. “I used to think that. But the more I have thought about this, the more I believe he was trying to protect us.”

  Paedrin lay still, his eyes far away.

  “Are you all right, Paedrin?”

  He flinched. “I am now. I wish you had not seen me like that.”

  She sighed and laid her hand on his arm. “No one expects you to be invincible.” She sighed. The urge to tell him the truth gnawed at her. He deserved the truth, especially since he had disclosed his own weakness. It burned on her tongue. A secret is a weapon and a friend. It would give him power to hurt her. Sharing it might strengthen their friendship. She hesitated.

  “I just wish I could fully trust Tyrus,” Paedrin muttered softly. “If you look at it a certain way, he abandoned us to that Kishion. Those who stay with him have a peculiar habit of ending up dead.”

  Hettie felt a stab of concern at the way Paedrin was speaking. “He is my uncle.”

  “Are you sure he is?” Paedrin asked, staring at her. “Do you really know anything about him? Were you told by the Romani you were his niece? Are they trustworthy either?”

  Hettie shifted away from him. “This isn’t like you,” she said with concern.

  Paedrin frowned and shook his head, as if reproaching himself. “I’m sorry. All my doubts tend to come out at night. I will be…more myself…in the morning.”

  A chorus of trilling began just outside the window. The musical sound startled them and made them both start laughing. But on Hettie’s part, it was nervous laughter. Something was different about Paedrin. Something wasn’t right, but she could not decide what it was.

  You have said enough. You planted doubts in her mind. You have done well, Paedrin. I applaud your efforts. Now be watchful. Look for the moment when you can seize the blade. We will appear suddenly, with enough force to distract Tyrus. My spies in the Druidecht camp say that he has it and that he disappeared this morning at dawn. He will meet you soon. You have led us to the end of the hunt. Soon you will be one of my Kishion. You will be very powerful in the realm. You will do great things.

  The Arch-Rike’s voice shriveled from Paedrin’s mind, like a snake shedding skin. It was a horrible, violating feeling. It made him want to vomit. He stared at the ring on his finger. He knew he was betraying his friends. He knew he was betraying his race. He knew he was betraying the Bhikhu. If he could kill himself by removing the ring, he would have. All his life he had wanted to visit Silvandom. This act of treachery would never be forgiven. It would be better to die.

  When he tried to will himself to remove it, his hands began shaking and would not obey.

  “Be cautious whose philosophy you choose to follow. It is not the punishment but the cause that makes the martyr.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Tyrus produced the strange cylinder again. It was studded with gemstones and intricate carvings—either designs or a language beyond Annon’s knowledge. It was an object tuned to the ways of spirit magic.

  “What is this creation?” Annon asked, looking at his uncle curiously. “What do you call it?”

  Tyrus pursed his lips. “All magic is spirit magic. The beings inhabiting the gems are not trapped but are bound in service. They do so willingly and can leave if the user desires something improper. One cannot bind these types of spirits by force. These are the Tay al-Ard. With this, I can travel anywhere instantaneously. They are powerful.”

  Annon stared at him in surprise. “Anywhere?”

  “Anywhere I have been, specifically. Anywhere that I can imagine in my mind. I think of the place and the Tay al-Ard take me there. Anyone touching it or me will go with me. We go to the prince’s estate. Hold it.”

  Erasmus stretched out his hand and grasped the cylinder. Annon hesitated. “Why can’t I hear the spirit voices? Through my talisman, I should be able to.”

  “One of the properties of gemcraft, Annon, is to amplify power…to increase the effectiveness of their magic. It also results in silencing them. Some spirits, like the lights in the city of Kenatos, are bound by force and wish to be freed. Some serve us because of obligations they have made to our race.” He glanced at Nizeera. “Her, for example. A talisman helps you begin to hear their voices. You must learn to hear them without it. That is when you will truly understand what they are saying.”

  Annon shook his head. “That made no sense to me, but I trust that it will someday.”

  Tyrus nodded and extended the cylinder. Annon clasped it.

  The feeling was a jolt, a searing spasm of movement. There was an instant of nausea and dizziness. Annon found himself standing with Nizeera, Tyrus, and Erasmus in a strange room with a low table and cushions. The air was pungent with the smell of incense. He glanced around quickly
, noticing the others in the room as well. There were Hettie and Paedrin. His heart leapt when he saw them and then sank when he saw Kiranrao brooding nearby, watching them. He remembered his insight from earlier—recognizing fully that Kiranrao was the one directing Hettie’s actions. He knew the girl Khiara, who had healed him by Neodesha’s tree. There was another Vaettir as well—Prince Aran—who looked like a Rike of Kenatos. The images blurred in his mind for a moment as he struggled with his thoughts and feelings. He needed to warn his uncle.

  “Tyrus, wait,” Annon said, but his uncle put away the Tay al-Ard cylinder and brushed him off.

  “We do not have much time,” Tyrus began. “The Arch-Rike will realize that I have moved again. He will try and locate me, but I must share what I know. It is critical.”

  “Uncle,” Annon insisted, feeling his stomach bloom with panic. He saw Hettie’s expression. She looked desperate. Paedrin looked ill. His mouth was twitching, as if he were trying to control his expression. Kiranrao said nothing, but his gaze was penetrating.

  Tyrus looked at him, his expression hardening. “Trust me, Annon. Let me say what I need to say.”

  He stared at his uncle’s eyes, his armpits stinging with sweat. The prince stood slowly, his expression turning into a scowl of distrust. The room filled with tension as everyone began looking warily at one another.

  “My friends,” Tyrus said, holding up his hands. “We are very different. We each have different goals. We have different motives.” His eyes flickered to Kiranrao. “We even pray to different gods. But there is one cause which unites us, which binds us together.” He strode forward into the room, his voice throbbing with emotion.

  Nizeera stood proud by Annon’s side, so near he could feel her fur brushing against his leg. She too was wary.

  “Years ago, I took a band into the Scourgelands to defeat the Plague. We were killed. Destroyed. Murdered almost to the last one. I did not understand it then, but I do now. I know why we failed. We failed because we were betrayed by one man. There is a Romani saying. It is no secret that is known to three. Sadly, one of the three that I trusted with the full truth was the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. He has minions within the Scourgelands. He set them on us to defeat us. I think he was rather surprised that I survived. For years I have deceived him, hiding my knowledge of his betrayal. I was his prisoner in Kenatos, but now I am free. Now I am free to complete what I began.”

  He pointed a finger at Hettie. “I know why you came to Kenatos, Hettie. I know that Kiranrao sent you to deceive me.”

  Paedrin’s breath came in sharply. The steely look on his face showed his anger.

  Tyrus looked fiercely at Kiranrao, who was as tense as a bowstring. “I allowed her to bring you here. To get you here. Yes, Kiranrao. I need you. And you need me. The Arch-Rike plots to exterminate the Romani. He is using your people for his own ends, and they will be the next people to fall. He has his eye on Havenrook. It will collapse when the next Plague comes. He has a treaty with the King of Wayland to take over the shipping routes. Your people will be destroyed by the Plague he unleashes. I know this. I have seen the documents and know the signatures on the treaties. I know his plans. Your ring affirms that I speak the truth, so I will not waste more words trying to convince you.”

  He turned back to Hettie imploringly. “Child, you must know the truth. I am not your uncle. You were stolen from me as a babe, and I sorely regret it. But you are not my blood. You and Annon were twins. You were stolen by a Romani midwife as a baby. I could not save you then, but I can save you now. This is the moment you can earn your freedom. Whether or not I fail in my quest, the Romani will be hunted and destroyed with Plague. Because of your blood, it will not affect you. Your people will stop wearing the earrings voluntarily. This is the chance to earn your freedom. Help me in this quest. When this is over, you may reside in Silvandom, where Romani are forbidden. This is the freedom I promised you.”

  He turned to Erasmus, whose shoulders were scrunched, his mouth agape at the news so far. “This is why I summoned you away from Havenrook, my friend. I am certain you already realize that you will never be able to return to your wealth. You are smart, Erasmus. You understand connections. Think what will happen if we can end the Plague. Think of the prosperity it will unleash. The world will be reborn. Even you cannot calculate that.”

  Tyrus turned back to Annon. “Your mother saved my life. I would not have survived the Scourgelands without her. I seek to do her memory justice. To finish what we started. I need a Druidecht. I need you, Annon. We cannot succeed without you.”

  Annon felt a flush of pride. He nodded firmly.

  Tyrus turned to the other Vaettirs in the room. “Khiara. We learned quickly in the Scourgelands that we should have brought a Shaliah with us. We were all wounded. Many were killed. With your skills, more would have survived. We need a healer. We need someone who can raise our spirits when we are depressed. Your family comes from ancient stock. You are strong in the keramat. You are also needed most desperately in this journey. There is much you can accomplish if your heart is true.” Khiara nodded bravely but said nothing.

  Annon looked at the stern-faced prince. His expression was hard, his look almost defiant.

  “My friend,” Tyrus said. “You were a lad when we last faced the horrors of the Scourgelands. You wish you had died with us. Instead, you have trained to be able to face the dangers this time. Your courage is without peer…”

  “Say no more,” the prince said, holding up his hand to forestall him. “I go.”

  Tyrus smiled, relieved. He turned at last to Paedrin, who had stood strangely quiet. Annon always remembered him as being jaunty and opinionated. He was staring at Tyrus with a look so intense it bordered on hatred. The look was confusing. It was not what Annon expected. Why? What had he expected? He felt a little growl inside of Nizeera.

  “And you, Paedrin. Your master swore he would accompany me on the next journey, or train one to fulfill his vow. The Bhikhu Aboujaoude was from your temple and he perished on the journey. He died so that Annon and Hettie would live. I need you as well. Your master told me of a sword stolen by a pupil. A pupil known as Cruw Reon. I need you to find that sword and use it in the Scourgelands to defend us. With it, you can restore the Shatalin temple from the dishonor of Cruw Reon.”

  Tyrus breathed heavily, as if each word was a burden. “You are all already tangled in this web. The spider comes. Either we work together or we all die separately. The Arch-Rike will unleash all of his terrible power to stop us. Kiranrao—you must alert the Romani of the Arch-Rike’s treachery. You will find evidence of the treaty in Wayland to prove my words. Then do what you must to disrupt the Arch-Rike’s minions outside of the city. Annon—you, Erasmus, and Khiara must seek the oracle of Basilides as I told you to do. Gain the information I asked and return here. Hettie—help Paedrin claim the sword. You are a Romani. You have been trained to steal. The blade was stolen by Cruw Reon but it cursed him. He will no longer even touch it. You must steal it from the Shatalin temple.”

  He turned to the prince. “Our task lies south, in Stonehollow. Do you have the stones?”

  “I do,” the prince replied firmly. “We must depart at once.”

  “And what is your task?” Kiranrao asked, pushing away from the wall. “Tell me all, or I will have no part of this scheme. You have left a few pieces of the puzzle off the table.”

  Tyrus smiled grimly. “I did. It is not for you to know all the pieces.”

  “You seek another to join then? Or another magic to aid the quest?”

  “It is the same. There is one with an ancient magic I seek. One more to join this quest.”

  “Who?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  Kiranrao scowled. His eyes were livid with rage. “Then take your schemes and perish in the wilderness. I serve no man. Either I am a full partner or I am none.”

  “I know your price, Kiranrao,” Tyrus replied. “And it is not information.” He reached into the folks of
his cloak and withdrew a silver blade. It was the blade Iddawc. The moment it emerged, Annon heard its whispers fill the chamber, making him go cold. “If you join us, I will give you this. Even the Arch-Rike fears it.”

  Annon recoiled at the notion. The look that filled Kiranrao’s eyes bordered on madness. He was mesmerized by the blade, his eyes suddenly feral.

  Multiple emotions flickered across his face. “You tricked me,” Kiranrao uttered with emotion. “You tricked me when I stole that blade for you. You never paid me what it was worth.”

  “True,” Tyrus replied. “It is no good in my hand. It requires a special master. One who can tame it.”

  The feeling of blackness that washed over Annon made his stomach twist and his insides roil. The blade no longer spoke to him, begging him to take it. All of its efforts were being directed at one man. Giving the blade to Kiranrao was an awful mistake. Whoever held it would certainly go mad. He stared at Kiranrao in disgust and horror, saw the subtle transformation in his face. He wanted that blade. He had wanted it for years. It was just within his grasp if he accepted.

  “I will join you,” Kiranrao said in a hushed voice. Not defeated. He was satisfied with the bargain.

  A popping noise filled the chamber. The sound was familiar. When Annon last heard it, they had been confronted by the Quiet Kishion seeking to kill Tyrus. This time, it preceded an avalanche of men. Everywhere he looked, there were those of the Paracelsus order, with gleaming necklaces and dark cassocks. Rikes of Seithrall as well. Soldiers wearing hauberks and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with the crest of Kenatos. There was no way to count so many quickly, but there were probably a dozen Paracelsus, holding cylinders, each bringing six or eight with them.

  At the far door stood the Kishion, shrouded in an ash-colored cloak, and next to him stood another man, another Rike but taller and with short white hair. He wore the same black cassock as the rest, but his demeanor, the proud look on his face, marked him as a fierce man. It was the Arch-Rike himself.