Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (42 page)

The inlet was small but it could fit both of them, sitting close together. He joined her next to the fire, savoring the light as much as the heat. She twisted a clump of hair and quickly began drying it. He watched her, fascinated.

“Quit staring,” she said, not looking at him. “Would you fetch my blanket?”

Behind them, he found her pack and opened the buckles. He withdrew the blanket and spread it over her shoulders.

“Not yet, fool,” she said sharply. “I want to warm it by the fire first while my clothes dry, otherwise I’ll be sleeping in a wet blanket tonight.” She sighed deeply. “I am hungry but too tired to hunt. It was a hard swim.”

“You did well,” he offered.

“I wasn’t looking for praise.”

“Can I say anything and
not
offend you? I have often wondered that.”

“Your silence least offends me,” she said. “I am in no mood to banter tonight. I am exhausted and cold.”

“You have always been cold,” he pointed out. “But I understand the exhaustion part.” He was curious about something and decided to venture further. “I notice that you and Kiranrao trade Romani sayings. They are clever. Like the one you used about fording the stream. You have more, I presume? Teach me.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

He wanted to understand Kiranrao better. He wanted to understand her better. Little sayings and catchphrases were common in every culture. But he wanted to understand his enemy better. To understand the way his mind worked. What better way than to study from his traditions? It would also help him understand Hettie as well.

“I really am tired,” Hettie said sullenly.

“Only a few then. I won’t keep you up long.”

She sighed, which he took as surrender.

“There are so many,” she said. “Hundreds, probably. It is a point of Romani pride to be able to speak a saying that the other person does not already know. If that happens, you nod your head in deference. Since I have spent the last ten years training as a Finder, I do not know all the latest sayings. But some have been handed down for generations.”

“Like?”

“Patience cures many an old complaint. Patience is a plaster for all sores. I think every kingdom has its own version of that one.”

“Indeed. Pain is a teacher. But the best teacher is wisdom. Wisdom is learning from the pain of others.”

She looked at him in surprise and then gave him a slight nod. “Well said.”

“Thank you.”

“There are others that can sound strange to a foreigner. Do not mistake a goat’s beard for a fine stallion’s tail. Do not build the sty until the litter comes.”

“Or count chickens before they hatch.”

“Exactly. As honest as a cat when the meat is out of reach. A little dog can start a hare, but it takes a big one to catch it. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey.”

Paedrin smiled and leaned backward. “So many are about animals. One would think the Romani are farmers.”

“We were all farmers long ago,” she replied.

“Are there any that talk about enemies?” Paedrin asked, and she nodded emphatically.

“The Romani forgive their great men when they are safely buried. Speak well of your friend, of your enemy say nothing.”

“Ahh,” Paedrin said, smiling, savoring the wisdom in the words. “Yes. That is true.”

Hettie rubbed her arms, more slowly this time. He could see little trailers of steam rising from the cloth.

“Can I fetch you anything to eat?” he asked her. “Mushrooms? Slugs? Bark?”

“Sharing your meals again?” she replied with a wicked smile. It was the smile that tore into him the most. So rarely bestowed, so much the more valuable. “Thank you, but no. I am tired, as I said before. If you would take the first watch…”

“I will,” he answered. “One more question. Are there any sayings about…secrets?”

The question startled her. He suspected it might. There was something in her eyes in that moment, something that warned him. Exhaustion had a way of producing true sentiments.

She was quiet a moment and then stared into the fire. Her voice was distant, almost a whisper. “It is no secret that is known to three. Never tell your secret even to a fence.” Her voice fell even lower. “A secret is a weapon and a friend.”

That was it. That was the one she valued the most. He could hear it in her voice. He had used the Uddhava against her and managed to get her to reveal part of herself to him. She stared at the fire, her eyes focusing on the flames, as if she dared not look at him. He could almost feel the emotions roiling inside of her. She was struggling with her feelings. Without knowing her as he
did, it would not have been noticeable. But there was a little bulge in the corner of her jaw. A clench of muscle. Her gaze was so intense at the flames. She was mastering herself. She was almost failing.

Good.

“Thank you, Hettie. Get some sleep. Do you think we will reach Silvandom tomorrow?”

She nodded absently. Then taking her warm blanket, she nestled near the fire. Her cheeks were flushed. She stared at the flames, as if drawing in their heat through her eyes.

Tell me what is troubling you,
he nearly whispered.
Trust me, Hettie. You can trust me.

She said nothing. Soon her eyelids were growing heavy. A few moments more, and she was asleep. He studied her face. He longed to stroke her hair. He swallowed the pang, mustering his will to save him from his feelings.

How many times had Master Shivu taught him? To be prepared for his life’s journey as a Bhikhu, he needed to purify his thoughts and feelings.
You have the power to decide, deliberately and intentionally, what thoughts you allow in your mind and what emotions you feel in your heart.
By patient and persistent practice, he knew he could gradually gain control over his harmful emotions. The discipline and effort involved would be worthwhile, for it would bring greater harmony internally—in his own mind—and externally, in his relations with others.

He sighed deeply. In the temple, in the confines of the training yard, the lessons were so easily accepted. But since leaving Kenatos, he had experienced stronger emotions than he had ever imagined existed inside him. Hatred of Kiranrao. Jealousy of Annon. Even desire for Hettie. He recognized these as base emotions. They needed to be controlled.

Staring at her sleeping would not help him gain control of his emotions. Instead, he stared at the ring on his finger. The markings on it were intricate. It was a work of great craftsmanship. It was a prison. He despised it. He was willing to lose his finger if Tyrus could not find a way to remove it.

You realize that removing the ring will kill you. I am certain you are clever enough to consider that, but just to be sure.

The whisper in his mind was so real. He could hear the Arch-Rike’s voice as fresh as it had been in that horrible, stench-filled cell.

Of course you can hear me, Paedrin.

His eyes widened. Was he going mad?

Not mad. Naive. Believe me, boy, a little salve cannot save you from my influence. I let you go. You are my servant. I let you escape. You will become a Kishion, and you will serve me. No, do not try to stand up. Stay where you are. You will say nothing. You will speak nothing of this discovery to anyone. I bind your tongue. Here are your instructions. When you reach Silvandom, you must take the dagger from Tyrus. You must kill him with it. And then you must hand it to me. Is that perfectly clear to you? Those are my orders. I will prevent the blade from destroying your mind.

Paedrin felt the terrible compulsion overwhelm him. It thundered in his mind and screamed at him in a long, desperate howl.

You are my pawn. You are my creation. Tyrus must be stopped. It is better that one man should perish than a kingdom. He will unleash the Plague on us all. More virulent. More devastating. He must be stopped, Paedrin. You will stop him. Your first killing will bind the ring to you forever. It cannot be undone.

He felt as if his mind would melt with heat.

Kill Tyrus.

“Unfortunately in our world, ignorance more frequently begets confidence than knowledge does. You see, it is those who know little, and not those who know much, who assert that certain problems will never be solved by reason, study, and practice. Patience is the companion of wisdom.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
here was so much pain that Annon welcomed death. He sank into its folds, embracing the weightless submission. His senses became acute. He stared down at his own body, collapsed against the base of the damaged oak tree, and saw blood trickling down his fingers. It was an odd feeling, staring at himself. And then he saw the spirits swarm.

He almost resisted, afraid of the agony awaiting him, but as he felt himself thrust back into his body, his eyes blinked wide, and he felt air fill inside his chest. Tingles of pleasure shuddered through the core of his being. He stared at the craggy bark of the oak, blinking furiously, unable to speak.

“He’s still alive!” one of the Bhikhu said in surprise. “Khiara! This one lives! Hurry!”

Annon tried to push himself up, but his legs and arms were void of energy. He wobbled and nearly collapsed when a Vaettir woman caught hold of him.

She had long black hair, a sharp contrast to the short black stubble of the men nearby. Her eyes were angled and her skin dark. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, though. Her shirt and
pants were the color of saffron with wide sleeves and colorful embroidery on the hem and edges. She wore a charm around her neck that first made him think of a talisman, except it was made of bone or shell. She touched the side of his face to steady him and gazed deeply into his eyes. Then she closed her eyes, and he felt a surge of power come from her body and infuse him with strength and vitality. The weakness melted away.

Annon trembled. His emotions became giddy with excitement and energy. He felt as if he could run for leagues without tiring. Her touch summoned a gush of warmth that suffused throughout him.

Her eyes opened. Her expression turned sad, her mouth drooping. “I am sorry I could not save your companion. Sooner, I may have. But his spirit form has passed beyond to the other world. He would not be called back.”

A stab of anguish struck Annon like a blade. “I know. He was already dead.”

As the girl nodded, Annon felt the sobs finally break loose. He knelt as he wept, ashamed to be seen like this, but unable to withstand the painful emotions engulfing him. Memories of Reeder flooded his mind. Sharing a moment with Dame Nestra and her stew. The warning about visiting Tyrus. He clutched his head and tried to control the choking feeling in his throat.

The girl remained with him in his grief. Her hand touched his shoulder and she squeezed it. “We pass through sorrow. We remember the good. He is not gone forever, just from our sight. In another world, they greet him and bid him welcome as we bid him good-bye. This is death.”

She removed her hand from his face and stood. The Boeotians were retreating, fleeing through the smoke. Many writhed in pain on the forest floor, their bones broken by the efficient brutality of the Bhikhu who had come to help.