Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  They abandoned the smoking chamber through a corridor to a door leading outside. The vivid richness of the garden flowers contrasted in Paedrin’s mind to the spilled blood left behind. He was going to be sick himself. He clenched his jaw tight, willing the bile down. He searched every direction at once, wary of new enemies. His senses were as taut as a bowstring. He listened to each person’s ragged breath. It was not clear to him why some strange mountain cat trailed next to Annon, nuzzling his hand, or why he had spoken to it like a person. Maybe it liked licking the scent of smoke from his fingers. Who could tell?

  The gardens were a massive sprawl, extending beyond the reaches of the manor house, with hedgerows and sculpted trees and an intricate mosaic pathway that extended in a winding pattern, hidden away. The hedges loomed like a maze and the prince guided them inside, walking briskly to increase the distance. He said nothing, but occasionally glanced behind at the plumes of smoke coming from the wreckage inside.

  The maze was vast and Paedrin found himself completely lost in its depths. He did not worry, because a Vaettir could always float to the top and bound from the tips of the hedges. But it would be useful in confusing any pursuers. Perhaps it was designed for that purpose.

  At the end of a twisting path, they encountered an iron gate. The prince waved his hand over the jewel ensconced midway up the bars. The gate swung open silently and shut behind them. Paedrin was curious at the powers involved, but said nothing. There was a destination in mind. He saw Hettie walking near him but off behind him. She had been watching him. His stomach churned and he refused to look at her, feeling that sickening sense of betrayal again. She had been Kiranrao’s puppet all along. That was her great secret. The curiosity he had felt for her earlier, his effort to convince her that she was truly free, made him sick inside. She had played him for a fool. Her look was chagrined, haunted even. Kiranrao had finally gotten Drosta’s treasure. It was enough to make him ill.

  She deserved to suffer.

  The pathway suddenly opened to the interior of the hedge maze. Annon gasped in shock as a majestic oak tree loomed in front of them. The trunk was so vast it could not have been encircled if all of them had joined hands around it.

  Paedrin stared at it, at the peculiarity and singularity of it. There were no lower branches and few higher ones, but each was wide and thicker than a human, all twisted and forked. The most striking thing about the tree was the enormous black maw, as if the tree had a mouth frozen in a wide scream of pain. The gap of the maw was taller than he was and it would take a Vaettir to float up and reach it. Moss covered the exposed tendrils of roots, which looked like serpents. Hardly any leaves existed on its barren branches, but higher up, amidst thick tufts of mistletoe, some sprays of green could be seen.

  “That is the ugliest tree I have ever seen,” Paedrin said aloud, unmindful of his host.

  The prince and Khiara stared at him, offended, their eyes blazing.

  “But it must be as old as the earth,” he continued, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Hold your tongue,” Annon said, a smile crinkling on his face. “She can hear you.”

  Paedrin looked at him and the absurdity struck him. “The tree can hear me?”

  “No, sheep-brains,” Erasmus said. “The Dryad can.”

  Paedrin stared at the open maw on the tree, fascinated by it. It seemed to beckon him. He shook his head, feeling suddenly dizzy. “I have no idea what you just said, but pretend for a moment that I did and go on.”

  Annon turned to face him. “Remember when we were leaving the mountains of Alkire. Remember the Fear Liath when it hunted us?”

  Paedrin nodded.

  “We escaped through a tree. It was a portal to Mirrowen. That is the realm where the spirits come from. That portal took us to a grove of trees far away. Trees are the portals, you see. And those portals have guardians. The guardians are the Dryads.” Annon stared back at the enormous tree, obviously not disgusted by its misshapen, hunchback look.

  Annon turned to the prince. “She is ancient but beautiful.”

  Prince Aransetis nodded sternly, his face a mask devoid of emotion. “My family has been her protectors for centuries. The rest of the city of Silvandom does not know she is here. The maze is protected by spirit magic.”

  “My staff,” Khiara said, clutching the tapered white-oak weapon, “was made from one of her boughs. It gives me knowledge as well as power.”

  Paedrin stared at it hungrily. It was much longer than the kind of staff he was used to, but he had been trained in the long staff since he was a boy.

  Annon had a look on his face, almost a flush and a smile. He nodded softly, lost in his thoughts. Then he gazed at them. “She is amazing,” he said, dumbfounded. He turned to the others, straightening his shoulders. “Tyrus shared some information with me that he has not shared with any of you. It is important that this information remain a secret for now. He gave each of us a task to complete that will aid in the journey into the Scourgelands. Do you accept your charge? Will you aid in this quest?”

  He looked first to the prince, who nodded and said, “I go to Stonehollow.”

  Annon then looked at Khiara and Erasmus. “Will you both go with me to the oracle of Basilides? I could use your help. It is a temple the Arch-Rike has built away from Kenatos, in case the city should ever fall. It is still under construction, hidden in the mountains. But first we must find where it is.”

  Khiara cast a furtive glance at the prince, seeking a look from him, but he kept his gaze elsewhere. She nodded, saying nothing.

  Erasmus scrunched his face and pondered it a bit. “I have lost every ducat I amassed in my bets. I am likely a wanted man in Havenrook, Kenatos, and probably Alkire if I were being honest. Knowing about the treaty of Wayland, I will probably be wanted there as well.” He pursed his lips, muttering to himself. “The last group that ventured into the Scourgelands all died. I suppose the odds are great that most of us will as well.” He shrugged. “But I could also argue that Tyrus has set the odds in our favor. I’m sure Basilides will give us some useful information about our chances for survival. It is a long gamble. Long odds. I like it.” He smiled. “I’ll go.”

  Annon turned next to Paedrin and Hettie.

  He knew somehow that they would be last. He had been dreading it.

  Before Hettie could speak, Paedrin took a step forward. “The Arch-Rike is my enemy and I will do all within my power to break his influence over the minds of the people. What I have not told you is that when I was locked away in his dungeon, he brought my master to me to disavow me. What my master said to me should have broken my heart, but I could see it in his eyes that he was trying to communicate with me without words. He told me the story of Cruw Reon. He was giving me information which would aid in the journey and hopefully lead to the restoration of the Shatalin temple.” He sighed, nodding with enthusiasm, and said sternly, “I gladly accept the charge, but I will go alone.”

  He did not even bother to look at Hettie’s face. He did not want to.

  Annon looked at him curiously, but he did not object. He glanced from his sister back to him again, studying the two of them. Paedrin’s ears felt suddenly hot and he prayed he would not start blushing. That would humiliate him.

  Annon looked at Hettie once more. “Are you sure?” he asked her.

  That caught Paedrin by surprise. He turned and found Hettie standing there defiantly, a look of revenge and malice in her eye. That same haughty look he had seen in the temple when he had tried to impress her.

  “Paedrin can go anywhere he wants. I could care less. But Tyrus charged me to steal the blade. I accept.”

  He turned and looked at her, his rage beginning to blister the inside of his mind. “Haven’t you stolen enough, Hettie?” he asked her mockingly.

  She gave him a look of contempt. “I’m a Romani,” she replied with a gracious bow. “How nice of you to have finally noticed.”

  “I am not going with her,” Paedrin said adamantly.
“I will do this alone.”

  “Alone?” she said. “As alone as you were in the Arch-Rike’s prison? As alone as you were with the Arch-Rike’s ring on your finger? Be thankful Annon got it off of you before I did it my way.”

  He was furious. His anger was ready to explode. But he would not let her see it. He would never let her have the satisfaction of unmanning him in front of her again.

  “Go wherever you wish,” he said coldly. “Better you go in secret. A secret is a weapon and a friend, after all.” He thought the Romani saying was a nice dig.

  Her gaze matched his. They stared at each other coldly.

  Annon sighed deeply. Paedrin did not care.

  “When we accomplish our tasks, let us meet again. I would suggest here at the manor, but the Arch-Rike knows where it is. So perhaps we meet in Canton Vaud. It is the seat of the Druidecht hierarchy and it is in Silvandom right now.”

  Paedrin shook his head. “The Arch-Rike has spies there. He knew you left this morning. We need another place.”

  Annon nodded. He looked at Khiara. “The other Dryad tree. The one that I saved. You know where it is. Can you explain the location to the prince?”

  The prince nodded. “She told me its location already. It is being guarded. I agree with your choice.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Paedrin and Hettie. “It is in the forest west of Silvandom. The Bhikhu are guarding it. I will have spirits watching for you, and Nizeera can guide you to it. Agreed? Hopefully we will be ready to challenge the Scourgelands then. There is safety in numbers,” he added. “Be watchful. I have a feeling the Arch-Rike will not be friendly to us after his defeat today.”

  “Do you think Tyrus is dead?” Hettie asked her brother. Her voice had lost its edge. She sounded as if she actually cared.

  Annon sighed again, shaking his head. “I…I do not know. He’s a clever man, but that Kishion could not be stopped. I do not know how he could have survived.”

  “What of Kiranrao?” Paedrin asked with a deliberate accusing tone. “He has the blade Iddawc now. He is a danger to our plans.”

  Annon looked thoughtful. “I think Tyrus always intended him to have it. I think he meant him to kill the Arch-Rike with it. If he does not go mad first.”

  Paedrin shook his head, amazed. “Then we part company here. You said this tree is a portal. Can it go anywhere?”

  “Anywhere another portal exists. Why? Where do you want to go?”

  “There is one place I must go,” Paedrin replied. “My search for the Shatalin temple begins in Kenatos.”

  He enjoyed seeing the surprised looks on their faces. “My friends,” he said with a grin. “Life is the Uddhava. The Arch-Rike’s minions will be looking for a Bhikhu roaming the kingdoms. I will blend in with the city itself and can walk freely inside there. I must see my master. He can tell me where to start looking. The question, though, is if there is a portal inside or near Kenatos?”

  Hettie surprised him.

  “I know where it is,” she answered.

  “Some have accused the Arch-Rike of manipulation, intrigue, greed, and occasionally even murder. The weak always look to blame the success of the strong. The Arch-Rike is a powerful man. He is a wise man. He is also, to an extent, rather ruthless. But when you consider all the good he has done for the city and the surrounding kingdoms, we should thank him for his leadership and for being stronger than normal men. On a private occasion between himself and me, I have heard him say that his success was not to be attributed to what he has known or done himself, but to the faculty of knowing and choosing others who did know better than himself. Wise indeed.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Annon didn’t know if he should act surprised when Paedrin finally decided to join Hettie on his assignment. He could not understand their relationship. Only after verbally sparring did they finally agree to journey together to Kenatos. Once there, they would part ways. That was understood by both of them. Annon rather doubted it would happen. They were both uncommonly stubborn.

  “The way through the portal is through that gap in the tree,” Annon explained. “Think of where you would go, and you will emerge there.”

  “Will we sleep?” Hettie asked cautiously. “As we did when Drosta found us?”

  Annon shook his head. “I do not know. I don’t understand how this spirit magic works. Be careful, Hettie.”

  She smiled wryly. “I’m always careful. Be safe, brother.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. He was not sure what she meant by the gesture, but it warmed him. She was about to pull her hand away, but he kept hold of it. He dropped his voice lower. “I trust you. I want you to know that. I also forgive you. You were being coerced as much as Paedrin was. I see that. This is your chance for freedom. I may be lingering in Silvandom myself when this is through. I would like us to always be friends. What happened is in the past.”

  Her look softened and she clung to him fiercely for a moment, pressing a little kiss against his cheek. “You have changed, brother. I am sorry, if that matters at all.”

  Annon smiled and touched her cheek, then fingered the earring. “It does. Be safe. I’ll miss you.”

  When they turned, Paedrin was floating up to the gap in the tree trunk. Hettie sighed with impatience and then worked her way swiftly up the craggy surface. She was quite adept at scaling the tree.

  Paedrin waited for her, his expression disdainful, and he looked down at the others and nodded.

  “Be careful,” Annon warned him. “But I pity the Arch-Rike your wrath.”

  “He does not deserve any pity,” Paedrin replied. He nodded again. When Hettie reached him, they locked arms and entered the gap together.

  Annon felt the shiver of magic rush through him and felt their absence immediately. It saddened him. Since the last time they had parted, so much had happened. Would he see them again? He hoped that he would, that Tyrus was right about them. He felt inadequate and wished the other two could have stayed with him as well.

  Prince Aransetis approached the tree next. “I know my destination,” he said. He paused, studying Annon slowly, as if memorizing his features. As if measuring him. The look on his face seemed to say that he found the young man lacking. He nodded once. “Be wise, young Druidecht. Tyrus has put much faith in you.”

  “So it seems,” Annon answered. He bowed formally. “I wish I knew you better. I am sorry for the blood spilled in your home today. I know the Vaettir regard life.”

  The prince’s expression softened. “You are indeed wise. Farewell.”

  Khiara was standing near, her eyes searching the prince’s almost pleadingly. He looked at her, not acknowledging the unspoken request. He bowed stiffly to her and departed through the portal to Stonehollow.

  That left Annon, Khiara, Erasmus, and Nizeera.

  Annon sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the burden on his shoulders increase with each breath. His uncle had all but charged him with the burden of stopping the Plague. The enormity of the responsibility nearly choked him with despair.

  “We seek Basilides,” Erasmus said, shuffling his feet. He thought a moment, wriggling his fingers as he counted something in his mind. “It is the domain of the Arch-Rike. We will not find a passage to it unless we know generally where it is. What would be helpful is if we could speak to someone who did know its location. A Rike of Seithrall, for example. As it happens, there were several killed not long ago in the prince’s manor.” He looked at Khiara pointedly. “Do you know the keramat of raising the dead?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You are a Preachán from Havenrook. How do you know of the keramat?”

  “Everything is bought and sold in Havenrook. Everything.”

  Annon turned to her in surprise. “I did not know it was even possible. What sort of magic is it?”

  “We do not use it very often,” she answered softly. “That keramat comes at a great sacrifice to the user. One exchanges a portion of his life force for another. Many who h
ave this keramat do not reveal it except to close family, for they are the only ones that they would give up a portion of their own life for.”

  Annon stared at her in surprise, and Erasmus waved his hand patiently. “You get what you pay for, Annon. A life for a life. There are those who sell a portion of themselves—a week or a month at a time. If they are desperate for money.”

  “A Vaettir would never sell this,” she said with a touch of anger.

  Erasmus pursed his lips. “I’ve seen it traded, my lady. Everything has a price in Havenrook. What I suggest here is not a severe sacrifice. Grant the life back to a Rike of Seithrall. Ask him what he knows about Basilides. We would not give him much of his life back. A fortnight, maybe. Do you know this keramat?”

  “I do not. But the Shaliah who trained me does. He may be unwilling for one of the Arch-Rike’s minions.”

  Annon was incredulous, but the idea had merit. “Regardless of whether we do this, it would make sense if we took their clothes at any rate. It would be easier to gain access to the place if we looked like we belonged. It seems that the prince shared that sentiment anyway.”

  Khiara nodded softly. “I will ask.”

  Annon looked at Erasmus. “You search the bodies. See if you can choose one who may be the most likely to know where we can find Basilides. Do you remember how many…?”

  “There were eight,” he answered curtly. “Three with brown hair, four with black, and one with fair hair. I think the fair-headed one may be our best man. He looked to be the oldest, the most experienced. He also seemed the most ruthless. I would imagine he was unhappy to die this morning.” He turned to Khiara. “How long after death can this keramat be performed?”

  “Up to three days,” Khiara replied. “I will seek my mentor.”

  Annon nodded. “I will stay by the tree for a while. There is something I must do here. It is Druidecht magic, so I must do it alone.”

  Khiara nodded in deference to his desire. “Join us by the gate when you are finished.”