Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (5 page)

With the advent of nightfall, Annon was surprised when light appeared suddenly from atop tall posts with domes of glass. The light was bright, and all of the posts illuminated together at the same moment. There was no smoke. Annon was amazed. All throughout the city, the lights had illuminated at once, turning the hazy dusk into a new dawn. More interestingly, the domes of glass did not give off any smoke or steam. Annon approached one, staring up at the light, trying to determine the source. But it was too tall to see. The light did not shimmer or waver, like a flame would. It was cold and beautiful, like spirit magic.

He observed some Preachán watching him, and he quickly went on his way before they found something else to try and sell him. He was curious about the lights that glowed all around him. The whole of Kenatos was an impossible jumble of lopsided houses, some built of stone and some of rotting timber and pitch. Chimneys jutted into the sky, spewing smoke. Reeking garbage cluttered the cobbled streets. Carts clacked and rumbled, accompanied by shrieks and warnings, jangling harnesses, and the distant peal of bells. The light from the domes cast away the thickening shadows. Kenatos never slept, it seemed.

Annon wandered the city slowly, realizing that he was not making good time to the Paracelsus Tower. When he finally reached it, the doors were locked and no one answered after
he pounded with his fist. The tower had a portcullis for a gate; Annon could see a shriveled oak tree in the courtyard beyond. It was dead, the heavy limbs barren of leaves, the bulky branches spiky and thick with clumps of mistletoe. It was a sullen-looking tree, and Annon pitied it. It was strange to find such a mature oak in the middle of the city.

Leaving the tower behind, Annon sought a nearby inn off of the main road and was not as fortunate as he was with the ferryman. He did not have to pay for the lodging as long as he slept in the common room, but he was required to pay for his meal. He did, without complaint, and had an ill night’s sleep on the floor.

During the night, a Preachán ventured too near him, testing to see if he was asleep. Annon heard the other approach and opened his eyes, staring at him coldly. The fellow studied him, wondering if it was worth the bother to rob a Druidecht, and then decided to move on, slipping from person to person for something to steal. Annon’s hands tingled with heat, but he kept a tight rein on his disgust and waited for the passion to subside. In the woods, a spirit would have protected him and frightened the intruder away. He could not wait to leave.

In the morning, Annon vacated the inn and returned to the Paracelsus Tower. The portcullis was open and he passed beneath it warily, staring up at the sharp spikes as he passed. He paused at the oak, running his palm across the husk-like bark. It looked decayed and withered, a sad replica of a once-mighty tree. To the Druidechts, the oak was a sacred tree. Why was it there? How had it come to be in the courtyard? Or had the tower been built around it? There were four simple walls surrounding it, rising up with huge towers in each corner. Which one belonged to his uncle?

“Hold there, friend. State your business.”

A Cruithne guard had been waiting on the inner side of the portcullis, his skin and armor so dark he blended in with the shadows until he spoke. It startled Annon that the tree had distracted him so much.

“I have no business, only matters to discuss with Tyrus. He is expecting me.”

The Cruithne was no taller than Annon, but at least twice as wide. His upper body cast a shadow across Annon. “Your name?”

“Tell him his nephew is here. Thank you.”

Annon tried to calm his nervousness. It had been ten years since they had met. What would Tyrus look like? How would he act around his nephew? What possible reason could he have for sending Reeder to find Annon? There were more questions than answers. Had Tyrus tried to contact him earlier and failed?

The Cruithne lifted a jeweled ring to his mouth and spoke to it in low tones.

“Greetings, Druidecht. Are you lost?” said a voice from behind him.

Annon turned sharply, angry that another person surprised him. It was an older man with well-silvered hair and an elaborately embroidered black tunic. A chained amulet hung from his neck with a green gem fastened to the front that shimmered like glass. He was tall and rose-cheeked. He was an Aeduan, like Annon was. That was how one referred to his race, which was a mix of all the others and lacked the innate magic of the Vaettir, Cruithne, and Preachán.

“No, I am here to see my uncle. Tyrus Paracelsus.”

The older man looked startled. He glanced at the Cruithne guard, who nodded in the affirmative. “Your uncle, you say? Strange indeed. He is in the northeast tower. That one.”

Annon nodded his gratitude and walked toward the stone entryway at the base of the tower. He was greeted by an assistant there who used a mallet to sound a single tone on a metal gong at the base of the stairwell. The sound echoed up the shaft. After a moment, a bell chimed from the blackness above, and the assistant motioned for Annon to ascend the steps.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he mounted the steps, going higher and higher into the vast tower. There were no windows, but the way was illuminated by little vials of light inserted into the walls. It was the only way to describe them. The vials were glass and were stoppered with little copper footings, sculpted by artisans. Each one illuminated the way to the next and then extinguished after Annon passed, leaving him in a small cone of light as he went. Annon stopped and studied a vial, sensing spirit magic as he had in the city the night before.

When he reached the top of the steps, he confronted a heavy door, gouged with knicks and scratches. In several places, it seemed it had been hacked at with an ax and then sanded down and varnished again. Annon fingered one of the gouges, but as soon as he touched the door, it swung open from within.

And there was Tyrus, seated at a work desk that was crowded with globes of glass of every size and shape, river stones, and glittering gems. There were vials propped within iron stays. Some orbs of glass seemed to contain trapped smoke that writhed and seethed. The room was lit by smokeless orbs and one ornate window, which was open to allow in natural light. There was a cushioned window seat, full of stacks of worn leather books that prevented anyone from sitting there.

“Hello, Uncle,” Annon said as nonchalantly as he could, hoping fervently that his uncle would not notice his trembling hands.

“Don’t you believe that there is in some men a deep so profound as to be hidden even to them in whom it is? I believe this for I know those who are called by their order—Paracelsus. Even they cannot fully explain how they understand the arcane lore that they have recovered. Only that they know it in their bones. The very first known of their order was a deep and brilliant man called Celsus, a Cruithne man from the deserts beyond the mountains of Alkire. The record he wrote is still contained in the Archives of Kenatos.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
yrus looked up from the globes on his worktable, meeting his nephew’s eye. Annon thought he saw a glint of satisfaction—like one a fisherman would display after discovering a fish had swallowed the bait.

“Annon,” Tyrus said, dipping his head slightly while fingering a vial and setting it back on the ironwork. He looked almost exactly as Annon remembered him from the last time they had met, the same amber-brown hair and beard flecked with gray. He was a rawboned man, a giant of a man, his very presence intimidating. His hands looked strong enough to crush Annon’s, yet they handled the glass with a deftness that belied his size. His eyes were piercing and greenish-gray, a mix of dawn and grass that probed Annon instantly, measured him, and found him lacking. “Get the door, will you?” he commanded, returning to some work on his desk, sorting a tray of gemstones by size.

Annon’s temper began to simmer at the contemptuous greeting. But he was eighteen, not eight. A man now. He pushed at the nicked door and it slid shut with a firm thud.

The floor was made of stone tiles, arranged in a complicated succession of angles, but Annon noticed obvious scorch marks throughout. It was swept and showed no dust. He expected the air to smell musty, but instead it contained a strange mix of fragrances—like cooking spices and flowers he could not name, as well as the hint of wood wax. The books on the window seat were of various sizes, but all bound in leather with ornate gold fluting at the corners. Some were quite hideworn and others relatively new. Annon could not discern a speck of dust except for on the windowsill.

Annon approached a bronzework brazier, admiring the craftsmanship. “Your accomodations are lavish. You’ve actually managed to seclude yourself from the city, which is not an easy feat. I don’t think I can even smell it up here.”

Tyrus smiled at the remark, intent on a glass globe containing a wraithlike substance, and then he rose from the table. He was taller than Annon, but only barely. There was no sign of pain in his expression, no stoop to his back. He looked hale and strong for a man past his prime.

The curtains by the window were velvet with threaded tassels that secured them to tall iron rings. The room would be quite dark if they were closed. Other than the brazier, there was no fireplace, but narrow vents in the ceiling above the room. A section of wall was pocked, as if something heavy had smashed into it, and ribbons of cracks ran through it. Annon had no idea what sort of work his uncle really did. Another door in the wall behind the desk probably led to his sleeping chamber. There were no gouge marks in it.

“You already know that I’m a terrible uncle,” Tyrus said matter-of-factly. “I faced those limitations a very long time ago. You look well. Did you have any trouble along the way here? The taverns are ripe with tales from the kingdoms beyond. The dangers that walk the land…”

“There was more danger within the city than without,” Annon said. He waited for Tyrus to explain. He did not want to appear overly anxious to hear Tyrus’s news or too eager.

“What news in Wayland? Any new treaties signed?”

Annon shrugged. “I would not know.”

“You do not keep abreast of politics in the King of Wayland’s court then?”