Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (4 page)

“The city of Kenatos was founded centuries ago on an island lake. The location was proposed by an advisor to the Arch-Rike for its proximity to the adjacent kingdoms as well as its defensible position. It took twenty years to build the shipyards on the southeastern shoreline; there, the ships were constructed to ferry the stone and timber and animals required to begin the construction. To this day it remains an icon of cooperation between the races and kingdoms, a monument to the knowledge that wise rulers can band together and work for the good of civilization. I believe that in the end we shall see that those individuals and kingdoms that learned to collaborate and adapt most effectively have prevailed.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

A
nnon had a solid stride and could cover leagues without getting tired. The further north he went, the more sparse the woodlands became. Thinning pockets of boxwood and maple stretched before him, revealing glimpses of the undulating hills, thick with heather and fern. Jays swooped and glided nearby, and he nodded to them in greeting. There were fewer signs of spirits as well, giving the land a dead feel to it that Annon found worrisome.

As he walked, he encountered forsaken farmlands. The fences had rotted and collapsed. Little cottages with gaps in the thatch showed the years since the inhabitants had been decimated by Plague. It was a common sight, even in Wayland. Homes were abandoned, never to be reclaimed. Many had abandoned fortunes hidden beneath hearthstones, but money was of no consequence to Annon. Often the greedier spirits laid claim to treasures and harmed those who wandered too close. They did not need the golden coins—they just fancied pretty things, and the minting of coins was a curiosity to them. A tiny pent had the same value to them as a ducat.

He spent the first night nestled in the grass on a hillock, and he summoned a shain-spirit to guard him while he slept. In return, he promised to feed it with dew-filled berries that he would leave in his wake the next morning. That was the way of Mirrowen. Some favored a song; others wanted riddles. Some could be coaxed with mortal food and others with promises of service. This was beneficial to the spirits, especially when their lairs were disturbed by mortals. A Druidecht would always try to be fair-minded in any case. And by wearing a talisman that had been spirit-blessed, he had proven himself reliable.

As the morning wore on and afternoon passed, Annon wondered if he had missed his destination by traveling too far to the west. He was uncertain whether he should turn east or not. Fortunately, he discovered a gull loping high in the air and soon after that, he could smell the odors of the waters. It was an unhealthy smell. Kenatos.

He walked with a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and dread. Since spirits did not typically dwell in cities, he would be particularly vulnerable. His reputation might shield him, but it was enough to cause some alarm and nerves. The anticipation of what his uncle wanted teased his imagination.

Annon encountered a paved road and joined it, taking it west. There were multiple docks along the coast serviced by ferryboats. He was tired from the hard pace he had kept and was not surprised to see the first set of docks empty. Sitting down, he rested himself and ate the last of the bread that Dame Nestra had provided. He remembered her face for a moment as he chewed, wondering how long it would be before he returned that way. Dame Nestra and her husband were good people. He would miss them. By the time Annon’s simple meal was over, the water began lapping against the dock posts, announcing the arrival of the ferryman.

He was a middle-aged man with the signs of pain in his back. He nodded to Annon as he berthed the ferry and stepped off, groaning in pain and stretching his arms. His face was full of whiskers that were as peppered as his hair; he shook his head mournfully at the thought of ferrying again.

“A Druidecht, is it?” he said, a little sharply. “What business have you in Kenatos? There are not many of your kind in the city.”

“What is your fare?”

“I will not even take a pent from a Druidecht, you may be assured of that. Some ferryman think it right to charge everyone, regardless of rank or station, but that is foolhardy in my reckoning. It is the Druidechts and Rikes that save us from the Plague. You ought to have deference.”

“That is kind of you. Please rest before you take me.”

“I may, but tell me your business.”

“What concern is it of yours?”

“I earn an extra pent from the Arch-Rike’s coffers if I bring an answer.” He leaned over and picked up the pole.

“So you take coin for my travel regardless.” Annon was riled. “I come at the bidding of my master. He is a Druidecht.”

The ferryman shrugged, grateful to earn the extra pent and not caring about the quality of the answer—only the lack of it. He motioned for Annon to board.

“Hold!” shouted someone coming up the road, a younger man than the ferryman, clutching a small chest in his hands. He was older than Annon but still quite young.

He arrived panting. “Thank you! I need to reach the city before nightfall.”

“Five pents,” the ferryman said, and the coins were dropped in his hand. “What is your business?”

“No business of yours.”

The ferryman shook his head. “Come on, lad. We aren’t going until you tell me.”

He looked askance at the ferryman. “I am seeking work as a scribe.” He patted the box. “My quills and ink. Do you need to see them too?”

“No, lad. Why the rush?”

“I didn’t want to sleep on the plains again. No offense, Master Druidecht, but there are noises at night.” He shook his head and shuddered. Annon smiled and shrugged.

They embarked and soon the skiff was maneuvering across the lake. Because of all the fires burning in chimneys and shops, there was a constant ring of haze around the island city. Swarms of gulls floated above, sending eerie shrieks ghosting through the mist.

“You loathe sleeping in the woods,” Annon said to the younger man. “But I dread sleeping in the city.”

“This is your first time to Kenatos?” the ferryman asked between grunts.

“Yes,” Annon answered. “Wayland is my country.”

“Mine as well,” said the young man. “My father was a gravedigger in Wayland. Busy work with the Plague, you know. But I learned to read and write, and I hear you earn more in Kenatos if you can. Always records to transcribe.”

The ferryman chuckled. “Gravedigger boy then. You must be good with a spade. Want to take a turn at the oars?”

“Want to give me my five pents back?” he asked archly, nodding to Annon at the man’s rudeness and offering a look of disgust.

“This is my third trip today, stripling. I can keep going all night too. My calluses are like rocks. Don’t be tart, or I’ll box your ears.”

The younger man rolled his eyes. “Friends call me Graves,” he told Annon. “When we reach the dock, watch out for the
Preachán. They’ll try and sell you moldy bread or bruised apples. I used to come here once a year with my father. Watch your purse.”

“Watch your tongue, lad,” said the ferryman between groans.

“Pardon,” he said. “Where are you staying? Is there a Druidecht place in Kenatos? I didn’t think so.”

Annon shook his head. “I won’t be staying long. Are you a good scribe?”

He winced. “It helps if you know more languages than just one. I know Aeduan and a little bit of Preachán. Knowing Vaettir pays the most, but how can you learn that?”

The lake was vast and the waves rippled against the skiff. It was the island-city’s greatest defense. Kenatos possessed a fleet of sturdy warships that brought the food and grains from the mainland. Annon wrinkled his nose as they drew nearer to the smell of the city; he hunched down, pulling his cloak more tightly.

The ferryman paused to rest a moment. “Since you are new to Kenatos, remember that for every Preachán who will steal your purse, there is a Bhikhu who will chase him down and box his ears for it.”

“A Bhikhu?” Annon asked.

“You’ll recognize them when you get to the city. They dress in gray tunics and sandals. The men shear their hair down to the nubs. You’ll see them on the street. If you get lost or have any troubles, seek one out. They won’t take a pent from you. Good advice for a newcomer, and it cost you nothing.” The docks of Kenatos were hulking and swollen with people arriving into different slips and disgorging their cargoes. Annon thanked the ferryman and Graves and gritted his teeth at the commotion as he advanced down the docks into the throngs filling up at the mouth of the outer gates. He felt practically naked being so far from the woods. Not even a mutter from a spirit creature. He had not expected to hear any, though.

Within the portcullis, there were a dozen black-robed Rikes of Seithrall speaking to everyone who entered and exited. They had rings on their fingers with dull black stones, which purportedly allowed them to divine falsehoods uttered in their ears. Annon wondered if the powers of the rings were just legends to frighten the people into being honest. The crowds jostled him. He waited sullenly in line until it was his turn to speak to one of the Rikes, anxious to get past the throng.

“A Druidecht, excellent. Seithrall’s blessing be upon you.” This was said with a wry and discourteous smile. There was no love between the Rikes and the Druidechts. “Have you ever been to Kenatos, Druidecht?”

“No.”

“What is the purpose of your visit then?”

“I am here to see my uncle.”

“What is his profession?”

Annon smiled blandly. “I believe you may know him. He is called Tyrus of Kenatos.”

The Rike started, his eyes widening with shock. He blinked several times, as if he was not sure he had heard Annon correctly. “Indeed,” came a curt reply. “Your uncle may be found in the Paracelsus Towers. Do you see it there, to the west of the temple? There?”

Annon did. The city was built on a hill in the middle of the lake, as so it rose before him in a crisscross of streets and buildings. Despite the plumes of sooty smoke, the air was clear enough to see an enormous keep with four ornate spires rising from each corner, the capstones forked. It stood prominently by itself, rising up from the island like a torch. It certainly lacked the massive bulk of the temple, which was the dominating presence of the skyline at the crest. But it was only barely inferior in intricacy and design. The temple was made of glistening white granite,
full of sculpted walls, towers, interconnecting bridges, and iron-capped parapets. How many from Stonehollow had been hired to build it, he wondered. How many centuries had they labored?

Annon nodded and was bid to enter the city.

Kenatos teemed with life, a mix of all the races together. Most were young, his age, born after the last Plague. There were Cruithne and Preachán, easily seen. The Cruithne were big and sturdy, each weighing nearly as much as a horse, so they never rode. They were not overly tall, nor were they short. Their skin glistened grayish-black. While their skin was all the same color, their hair varied from pale blond to coarse brown. Never red and never black. They were an inventive people, creating machines powered by fire or water that milled grain. They were slow and ponderous in their walking, but incredibly strong. Their footfalls rattled the ground.

The Preachán were a contrast, with fair skin and ruddy hair. They were not a tall race, nor were they heavy like the Cruithne. They were lithe and quick, slipping through the crowds like quicksilver, hawking goods and huddled in clusters, casting dice with each other. They were incessantly talking, trading, bargaining, and most often, deceiving, as Reeder put it.

Not far after crossing the gates, one Preachán had tried to sell Annon a new pair of boots since his looked so worn out. Moments after shooing him away, another had come offering to buy his talisman for five hundred pents, then quickly doubled and then tripled the price. He was accosted third by a Preachán who offered to guide him to his destination since he was new. Graves was right about them. Annon was a newcomer, but he was no fool. He ignored them and used the distinctive spires of the towers as his guide.

There were also Vaettir in Kenatos, though they were few in number; most of them were Bhikhu. They wore the traditional
gray garb of their order, and they patrolled the streets of Kenatos, looking for wrongdoing and offering assistance to those in need. The Vaettir were a tall race, dark-skinned and black-haired, but they did not have the same ashy complexion as the Cruithne. Those who were not Bhikhu wore their hair long and straight, their eyes slightly pointed, always dark. Some had high cheekbones. Others had flat noses. There were varieties that Annon could not understand because he was not from Silvandom. Only the Vaettir could live there permanently.