Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (48 page)

They were met by a Vaettir woman who was perhaps a little older than she or Paedrin. She was pretty, in a very subdued way. She had long jet-black hair that was perfectly straight. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, but did appear to be in some form of ceremonial dress.

“Welcome to Silvandom,” she said perfectly in their language. “My cousin, Prince Aran, will join you shortly. He asked me to offer hospitality. My name is Khiara Shaliah.”

The word seemed to interest Kiranrao. “A healer?”

She nodded meekly. The estate was not what Hettie expected. In Wayland or Stonehollow, the rich had opulent palaces, but that was not the fashion in Silvandom. It was an open-air estate and made of stone. The buildings were interconnected by bridges and garden paths. The setting was private and secluded, not as bustling as the deeper center of the city proper had been.

With the light fading outside, Hettie found the interior lit with a few candles and oil lamps, giving it a natural darkness. Incense burned in the air, flavoring each breath.

Khiara led them to a chamber with a low table and cushions. There were no chairs. She motioned for the table. “There are bowls, spoons, and eating sticks. Many years ago, this house sacrificed much to save the citizens of Silvandom. In return, the home is blessed with food. Think of what you would eat and it will appear inside the bowl. You may eat your fill. There are no servants here. The prince delights to serve his guests personally, but he has asked me to on his behalf as he is currently busy. He will join you shortly.”

Hettie approached one of the cushions and seated herself gratefully. Her legs and back were exhausted. She watched Paedrin seat himself and stare at the bowl in front of him. It filled with steaming rice with small seeds and he looked surprised. Taking two long sticks from the table, he lifted the bowl and began shoveling the hot rice in his mouth. Kiranrao knelt on the cushion, formally, and his bowl filled with a dark, steaming soup.

She thought of stew she had made with Evritt. He had taught her how to cook it just the way he liked it. Her bowl filled instantly. Raising it to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance. The smell made her mouth water. Taking the cropped spoon from the table, she ladled some into her mouth and was amazed that it tasted so delicious. It was like eating a memory. She could see his
wizened eyes. She could almost hear his words. Evritt’s life was in her hands. If she betrayed Kiranrao, she knew he would be poisoned too. The feeling made the soup taste bitter.

Khiara watched them begin their meal. She let them eat for several moments and then sat on a nearby cushion herself. “You walked a great distance today. There is shelter here to sleep and rest. Tyrus said we could expect two of you.” Her eyes went to Kiranrao. “I did not know we would receive a third.”

“Luck comes in threes,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

“That is so. Tyrus passed through here recently. He went to Canton Vaud, the seat of the Druidecht hierarchy. They are here in Silvandom now.”

Hettie squirmed in her pillow. “Is it far?”

“He will come here,” she answered. “Many years ago, he came here as a child to wait out the Plague. His sister’s blood is on the lintel of the great house. No one who was here died of the Plague that year. None have died since. He is greatly esteemed in this house. My cousin esteems him the most.” Her eyes brightened for a moment as she seemed to look over their shoulders at someone else.

“I do,” said a stern voice. Hettie turned and saw the man enter. He was Vaettir-born, but had not shorn his hair to nubs like a Bhikhu. What struck her immediately were his clothes. He wore a dark black tunic with a high collar, marking him as a Rike of Seithrall.

She flinched, her hand straying to the knife at her belt.

“The Vaettir escaped a terrible Plague by crossing the great waters in mighty ships. They were granted land in the west by the seashore. They were given the land that was once occupied by a race previously destroyed. Just as the Cruithne crossed great deserts and inhabited the mountains of Alkire, the Vaettir claimed the forests known as Silvandom. There is very little need for shipbuilding now, as the great races continue to converge in the hopes of surviving the future devastations to come.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

“M
y name is Aransetis,” the man said, his voice deep and slightly hushed. He was stern but not unfriendly. “You are my humble guests.”

He entered the room and inclined his head to each of them. “Forgive my appearance if I have startled you. You have traveled long and are weary. In your eyes, I represent those who have hunted you. But I do not serve the Arch-Rike or his minions. This jerkin helps to remind me of our cause. One only knows his enemy when he has worn his shirt, as they say. Welcome to Silvandom. Welcome to the mastermind.”

Paedrin stood and bowed in respect. Hettie had not released her grip on the knife hilt. Her instincts were at war. Kiranrao looked unimpressed, and he gazed at their host with an air of indifference.

Hettie glanced back at the girl, Khiara. Her eyes were aglow, her expression softening as she stared at Prince Aran. It was as obvious as the moon at night that she had feelings for him. Hettie scorned her blatant adoration.

“Please, you must have questions,” the prince said. He walked to the head of the table and seated himself in a graceful move. “Let me answer what I can.”

“Where did you get your outfit?” Kiranrao asked, his voice slightly smug.

“I had it made. And you are?”

“Kiranrao. Do you know of me?”

The prince’s expression was stern. “Your reputation extends to these woods. You will find no Romani here except for the two of you.” He extended his hand, palm up. “I believe you have my stones.”

Kiranrao’s eyebrow twitched. He said nothing.

“They will not serve you, Kiranrao. They are powerless in your hands.”

Hettie felt the tension increase between the two men. Paedrin leaned forward—just slightly. His gaze shifted between them.

“What do they do?” Kiranrao asked at last, his voice disinterested.

“They will find someone who is lost. It is easy to lose one’s way in the Scourgelands. The trees there are ancient.”

“Trees?” Kiranrao asked with a half-chuckle.

“Ancient ones. As old as the world. The stones, please.” His palm did not waver.

Kiranrao stared at him silently. He did not move.

Hettie felt uneasy. She knew Kiranrao was sizing him up. He was examining him for weaknesses. She was not sure what she had expected. A pampered Vaettir lord who was soft and simple? This one surprised her in every possible way. He had none of Paedrin’s bravado. His eyes were deadly earnest. He had the look of a Bhikhu who had killed.

“You are a guest in this house,” Khiara said, her voice serious. “It is the only thing that shelters you in this land. Though
you are Vaettir-born, you are not familiar with our ways. The prince has been lenient thus far. Do not try his patience.”

“Do not try
my
patience,” Kiranrao warned softly.

“The stones,” the prince repeated firmly.

Hettie’s hands began to tremble. There would be violence here. There would be blood spilled. She sent a pleading look at Paedrin, but his eyes were fastened to the prince’s. The air in the room was oppressive and heavy. Even the incense smelled too strong.

Kiranrao flung a small leather bag onto the outstretched palm. It was tossed too hard and would have bounced, but the prince’s fingers closed like talons, seizing it.

He opened the drawstrings and emptied the stones into his palm.

The feeling in the room began to shift. The tension ebbed.

Each stone was a mottled blue color, unpolished, uncut. They could have been river pebbles, except for the streaks of green and white that marked them. The prince stared down at the three, his gaze firm and hard. The stones began to glow. Satisfied, he stuffed them back into the pouch.

“You didn’t trust me?” Kiranrao said with a smirk.

“It’s for her own good that the cat purrs.”

Hettie was startled, for that was a Romani saying. It was not a commonly known one. She nodded to him in deference. Kiranrao did not, but she saw his countenance darken.

“You said welcome to the mastermind,” Paedrin said, speaking at last. “Where did you get that word?”

The prince did not smile, but his expression softened slightly. “The Arch-Rike taught it to Tyrus. Tyrus taught it to me. We are a mastermind. All of us. Some who use the word consider a single person. A force behind a single idea.” He shook his head gravely. “They sadly misunderstand. The formation of Kenatos
was a mastermind. The congregation of thieves in Havenrook is a mastermind. When individuals choose to align themselves for a common goal—that is a mastermind. Before you were born, Bhikhu, Tyrus led a mastermind into the Scourgelands to defeat the Plague. We are preparing now to go back and finish what was started. We…”

Kiranrao looked perplexed. “I have no part of this…”

The prince gave him a withering look for interrupting him.

“You are warned,” Khiara said softly.

Kiranrao’s face flushed with emotion. He said nothing, but Hettie could see the fury roiling in his eyes.

“You have all been summoned to join this great mastermind,” Prince Aran continued. “Those in Kenatos would call it a conspiracy. But I say to you that it is a rebellion against death. When Tyrus came to me, he was bleeding and nearly dead—defeated from his last attempt. I swore on the honor of my house that I would be ready to join him the second time. I was too young back then. I have been training since that day to join the cause and usher in an era where the Plague cannot kiss another child with death. You are here for this purpose. Tyrus chose you. All of you. Yes, even you, Kiranrao. You are all needed in this task. We may fail. We may die. But he is coming to tell us his plan. He is coming to explain his purpose. Come back to this place at dawn. Then, your questions will all be answered.”

Prince Aransetis rose. Khiara rose as well, her eyes still adoring. He nodded to them again, each in turn, and left the spacious room. Khiara followed, speaking softly to him, and then returned. “Rooms are in the hall outside, one for each of you. There are mats to sleep on in the corner. Rest yourselves, for you are weary. There is a chamber for bathing beyond. We will join you in the morning.”

She left, sliding the door shut behind her.

Kiranrao stood slowly, exhaling. “I nearly killed him.”

Paedrin snorted, earning a withering stare himself. “Not likely. I have never been in the presence of a Chin-Na master before. Until tonight.”

“I am not afraid of a Bhikhu,” Kiranrao said contemptuously.

“He is not a Bhikhu,” Paedrin replied. “Chin-Na is different. A Vaettir floats and flies. One who practices Chin-Na is heavy. They become part of the earth and its energy. Hitting one is like hitting a boulder. They are fast and strong. One punch can stop a man from breathing. They can kill by robbing one’s breath.”

Hettie gazed at him intently. “I thought the Vaettir do not kill.”

“I think this one does,” Paedrin replied ominously.