Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (17 page)

“Annon, what do you make of this?” Paedrin said to him, tossing the dagger he had claimed in Havenrook.

He caught it easily enough, then realized it was surprisingly heavy. “This is odd,” Annon said. Immediately the stone in the hilt started to glow. That surprised him as well, and he brought it closer to the fire, where Hettie and Paedrin were.

“It did that in his hand,” the Bhikhu said. “Right before he cut me.”

Annon nodded, staring at the stone. He brought it closer to his face and thought he saw something inside, a little pulse of light. It was so tiny, yet it seemed to zigzag inside. It reminded him of Tyrus’s tower in Kenatos, all those orbs with the light that Tyrus seemed to sooth.

The light grew brighter and the zigzagging more intense.

Does it understand my thoughts?
Annon wondered.
Is it responding to my memories?

The stone dimmed and then flashed again, even more violently. It was as if something were struggling inside the stone trying to speak to him.

He glanced at Hettie and saw her looking at it also, her eyes curious. Then she removed her travel pack and started rummaging in it for supplies to stitch Paedrin’s wound.

“Not yet,” Annon said, halting her. “Hold a moment.”

He stared at the stone and saw that it was not a stone. It was a round orb of glass, no larger than a child’s toy. It was connected to the blade through an intricate mesh of metal weaving.

“There is something curious about this,” Annon said. It was a strange feeling, a familiar feeling.

“Why does it glow?” Paedrin asked.

“Because it is worth five thousand ducats,” Erasmus said, glancing over at them. “It has some power within it. Power that makes it more useful than just a blade alone. It is the craft of the Paracelsus to make such things.”

Annon turned the weapon over in his hand. The stone grew bright again, almost frantic. There was something about the
weave of the metal in the hilt and how it formed an ornamental fashion around the stone.

“Five thousands ducats, you say?” Annon murmured. That was a lot of money in Kenatos or anywhere in the world. The light flashed almost pleadingly.

Erasmus stamped his boot on a spot of ground, probably after having inspected it a dozen times, and then slowly settled into the earth, wrapping the cloak about him protectively. “Five thousand. Maybe more, depending on the power.”

Annon held the handle in the flat of his hand and stared at it hard.

Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

He fed the flame with his anger, letting it bubble up within him. He focused it on the weave of metal, letting the flames dance over the swirls. He gripped it tightly in his hands until the metal became warmer and warmer, but it did not burn him. Still he fed the flames, letting it burn into the metal, softening it.

“Annon,” Hettie warned, looking at his face.

He was in control of the power, but he noticed he had a smile on his face. It was a pleasurable feeling. He gritted his teeth and focused it more, focusing it on the band around the place where the stone was embedded. The metal began to hiss with smoke.

The hilt sizzled and the stone plopped to the ground, free from the metal encasing it. As soon as it touched the ground, it cracked with a loud snapping sound, and there was a blast of white-hot light.

The stone sang with joy.

Annon closed his eyes, flinching from the sudden explosion, but he heard it now as clearly as a song. A spirit voice.

Thank you! Many blessings on you, kind Master! Three centuries have I been trapped, but now I am free! Bless you, kind Master!

Annon opened his eyes, and he saw the spirit hovering in the air before him. It was as small as a butterfly, but instead of gossamer, its wings were crooked and spiny with thorns. Its tiny body was thick with thorns, like a desiccated rose branch. The creature bowed in homage to him, singing again in a tone so clear and beautiful it made his heart ache fiercely.

You set me free, kind Master. I am of the Briarlings. One of your companions is wounded by my hand. I shall heal him for you.

The spirit zipped over to Paedrin, who flinched and batted at it as it disappeared into the gash; he stiffened with surprise.

The cut was mended before their eyes.

Many tender thanks, kind Master! I go to Mirrowen at last. Farewell!

The light streaked through the woods and vanished.

“The cut is gone!” Hettie said, shocked.

Paedrin looked down and then at Annon. “Did you do that?”

Erasmus chuckled from beneath his cloak. “You have never seen Druidecht before, Bhikhu? I’m surprised.”

Paedrin explored his skin, pinching the flesh and examining it closely. He moved his arms around in circles, testing them for movement. “Amazing.”

“Even more amazing that he wasted five thousand ducats to heal you,” Erasmus said dryly. “Whoever owned that blade will want you dead.”

“He already does,” Paedrin quipped.

Annon stared at the warped, mangled metal in his hand. “I did not heal you,” he said softly, looking at the shattered object for what it was. A prison. A gloriously fancy one too. “There was a spirit trapped in the stone. I set it free. It chose to heal you because its power had wounded you.”

Paedrin’s eyebrows lowered. “A spirit? You mean the light?”

“You all saw it as light,” Annon answered, fingering his talisman. “Only I could see it for what it was. It was trying to speak to me from inside the stone, but I could not hear it. The nature of its imprisonment prevented it. But it could sense my thoughts and tried its best to communicate with me.”

In his mind, he thought about his uncle’s desk and the dozens of orbs there. It filled his mind with unspeakable anger to think about what beings might be trapped there. More than Briarlings. There were many species of spirits. Trapped. Imprisoned. Unable to speak. It angered him.

“Annon,” Hettie said warningly again, gripping his arm. His fingers were glowing.

“Thank you,” he muttered, trying to master himself. “I was remembering my visit to my uncle a few days ago. Things are not as they seem.”

Erasmus snorted.

Paedrin shot an annoyed look his way and then stood and pulled back on his robe, still stiff with blood. He wrapped his belt around it and adjusted it. “It would be wise, before we go any further, if we spoke more truthfully to each other about what is going on.”

Annon looked up at him. “There has been no attempt to deceive you, Paedrin.”

The Bhikhu waved his hand impatiently. “Not on your part. But it is clear to me, and I am no fool, that there is much your uncle should have told you and did not.”

“Such as?” Hettie challenged.

Paedrin turned to her. “Let’s start with your story. You are a Romani girl near the age to earn a second earring. That is a pretty significant custom among your people, as I understand things. I cannot say I know many Romani, but that is nothing to complain about. You were told of a location where a great treasure is
buried that you might use to free yourself without implicating your uncle. Clearly…and I hope you are not as dense as Erasmus is…your uncle knew full well that Kiranrao has been looking for Drosta’s lair. Maybe it is not the treasure we need but something that Kiranrao can provide.”

Annon frowned and shook his head. “What are you saying, Paedrin?”

“It was no coincidence that we ended up in that place. We just disrupted trade on an enormous scale and made several thousand enemies, one of which is a man who can outbid Tyrus to determine your future.” He looked pointedly at Hettie. “Maybe your uncle was intending you to buy your freedom with Kiranrao’s coin?”

Hettie flushed darkly. “I do not want that man’s help,” she said venomously. “I am even regretting my uncle’s interference in my problem. He told us nothing about what we would face. He sent us into the middle of Havenrook with very little information.”

“Exactly my point!” Paedrin said, rounding. “What is truly going on here?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Hettie shot back. “I went asking for help, to find a way to
earn
my freedom. Part of me just wishes to march back to Kenatos, spit in my uncle’s face, and have done with all this.”

“Not a wise course of action,” Erasmus offered with a smirk. “You have no idea how many ill things are caused by spittle.”

“You are not in the least curious about what Drosta’s treasure is and why Kiranrao wants it?”

“No, not really,” Hettie answered petulantly. “I do not like being used.”

“I do not fancy it either, but quitting now seems hardly the right approach.”

Annon chewed on his thoughts, struggling with the dangling pieces. “Hold a moment,” he said, raising his hand. He tapped his
chin, struggling to remember. It was only a few nights ago, but so much had changed that he had nearly forgotten it.

Hettie’s arms were folded defiantly, and Paedrin looked as if he were ready to continue arguing until dawn. Annon looked from one to the other.

“Please, sit down. I need your help to think this through.”

Hettie came down next to him. “What is it? Do you remember something?”

Paedrin cocked his head curiously.

“My mentor came and saw me recently. He is a Druidecht, of course, and he gave me a warning. He warned me about visiting my uncle. He said that my uncle might try and persuade me to go north. Into the Scourgelands.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence and the snap and hiss of the fire.

Annon stared into the darkened woods. “He warned me about trusting my uncle. That he has no care or feeling for anyone, even his own kin.”

Paedrin stared at him hard. “That would have been helpful to know before leaving Kenatos.”

Annon bit his lip, shaking his head slowly. “I was so startled to learn that I had a sister that I forgot all about the warning. Reeder told me that years ago Tyrus led a group into the Scourgelands. None of them survived. He was the only one who did.” Annon tapped his palm. “I think that perhaps he did not tell us everything about his intentions for us.”

Erasmus’s voice floated toward them. “Tyrus Paracelsus takes counsel from no man or woman. He keeps his own counsel. As do I. From what you have said tonight, I think he is like a spider, catching many flies in the same web.”

Hettie grabbed a stick and jammed it into the fire. “I hate this.”

“Hate what? That we are being manipulated?” Annon asked, half smiling.

“But to what purpose?” Paedrin said. “What is there to fear in the Scourgelands?”

Erasmus sat up, the firelight playing off the grooves in his face. “That is just the thing, sheep-brains. The only man known to have ever survived that place is the one who has brought us all here by this fire tonight.”

“It is not recorded when the Plague began. Every kingdom was ravaged and their populations decimated. Some races have ceased to exist. The remaining few banded together, united in a single cause—to preserve knowledge. Thus was the formation of Kenatos. It was created as the last bastion of knowledge. No one kingdom would rule it. All contributed to its survival by donating books and provisions and wealth. We do have records dating back to the founding of Kenatos. None describes when the Plague began. If we have learned anything, we have learned this: it is not the strongest of the races that survives, or the most intelligent. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change. Thus only the Aeduan race will survive the Plague. All others races will succumb to it.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos