Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (50 page)

He pointed a finger at Hettie. “I know why you came to Kenatos, Hettie. I know that Kiranrao sent you to deceive me.”

Paedrin’s breath came in sharply. The steely look on his face showed his anger.

Tyrus looked fiercely at Kiranrao, who was as tense as a bowstring. “I allowed her to bring you here. To get you here. Yes, Kiranrao. I need you. And you need me. The Arch-Rike plots to exterminate the Romani. He is using your people for his own ends, and they will be the next people to fall. He has his eye on Havenrook. It will collapse when the next Plague comes. He has a treaty with the King of Wayland to take over the shipping routes. Your people will be destroyed by the Plague he unleashes. I know this. I have seen the documents and know the signatures on the treaties. I know his plans. Your ring affirms that I speak the truth, so I will not waste more words trying to convince you.”

He turned back to Hettie imploringly. “Child, you must know the truth. I am not your uncle. You were stolen from me as a babe, and I sorely regret it. But you are not my blood. You and Annon were twins. You were stolen by a Romani midwife as a baby. I could not save you then, but I
can
save you now. This is the moment you can earn your freedom. Whether or not I fail in my quest, the Romani will be hunted and destroyed with Plague. Because of your blood, it will not affect you. Your people will stop wearing the earrings voluntarily. This is the chance to earn your freedom. Help me in this quest. When this is over, you may reside in Silvandom, where Romani are forbidden. This is the freedom I promised you.”

He turned to Erasmus, whose shoulders were scrunched, his mouth agape at the news so far. “This is why I summoned you
away from Havenrook, my friend. I am certain you already realize that you will never be able to return to your wealth. You are smart, Erasmus. You understand connections. Think what will happen if we can end the Plague. Think of the prosperity it will unleash. The world will be reborn. Even you cannot calculate that.”

Tyrus turned back to Annon. “Your mother saved my life. I would not have survived the Scourgelands without her. I seek to do her memory justice. To finish what we started. I need a Druidecht. I need you, Annon. We cannot succeed without you.”

Annon felt a flush of pride. He nodded firmly.

Tyrus turned to the other Vaettirs in the room. “Khiara. We learned quickly in the Scourgelands that we should have brought a Shaliah with us. We were all wounded. Many were killed. With your skills, more would have survived. We need a healer. We need someone who can raise our spirits when we are depressed. Your family comes from ancient stock. You are strong in the
keramat.
You are also needed most desperately in this journey. There is much you can accomplish if your heart is true.” Khiara nodded bravely but said nothing.

Annon looked at the stern-faced prince. His expression was hard, his look almost defiant.

“My friend,” Tyrus said. “You were a lad when we last faced the horrors of the Scourgelands. You wish you had died with us. Instead, you have trained to be able to face the dangers this time. Your courage is without peer…”

“Say no more,” the prince said, holding up his hand to forestall him. “I go.”

Tyrus smiled, relieved. He turned at last to Paedrin, who had stood strangely quiet. Annon always remembered him as being jaunty and opinionated. He was staring at Tyrus with a look so intense it bordered on hatred. The look was confusing. It was not
what Annon expected. Why? What had he expected? He felt a little growl inside of Nizeera.

“And you, Paedrin. Your master swore he would accompany me on the next journey, or train one to fulfill his vow. The Bhikhu Aboujaoude was from your temple and he perished on the journey. He died so that Annon and Hettie would live. I need you as well. Your master told me of a sword stolen by a pupil. A pupil known as Cruw Reon. I need you to find that sword and use it in the Scourgelands to defend us. With it, you can restore the Shatalin temple from the dishonor of Cruw Reon.”

Tyrus breathed heavily, as if each word was a burden. “You are all already tangled in this web. The spider comes. Either we work together or we all die separately. The Arch-Rike will unleash all of his terrible power to stop us. Kiranrao—you must alert the Romani of the Arch-Rike’s treachery. You will find evidence of the treaty in Wayland to prove my words. Then do what you must to disrupt the Arch-Rike’s minions outside of the city. Annon—you, Erasmus, and Khiara must seek the oracle of Basilides as I told you to do. Gain the information I asked and return here. Hettie—help Paedrin claim the sword. You are a Romani. You have been trained to steal. The blade was stolen by Cruw Reon but it cursed him. He will no longer even touch it. You must steal it from the Shatalin temple.”

He turned to the prince. “Our task lies south, in Stonehollow. Do you have the stones?”

“I do,” the prince replied firmly. “We must depart at once.”

“And what
is
your task?” Kiranrao asked, pushing away from the wall. “Tell me all, or I will have no part of this scheme. You have left a few pieces of the puzzle off the table.”

Tyrus smiled grimly. “I did. It is not for you to know all the pieces.”

“You seek another to join then? Or another magic to aid the quest?”

“It is the same. There is one with an ancient magic I seek. One more to join this quest.”

“Who?”

“I cannot tell you.”

Kiranrao scowled. His eyes were livid with rage. “Then take your schemes and perish in the wilderness. I serve no man. Either I am a full partner or I am none.”

“I know your price, Kiranrao,” Tyrus replied. “And it is not information.” He reached into the folks of his cloak and withdrew a silver blade. It was the blade Iddawc. The moment it emerged, Annon heard its whispers fill the chamber, making him go cold. “If you join us, I will give you this. Even the Arch-Rike fears it.”

Annon recoiled at the notion. The look that filled Kiranrao’s eyes bordered on madness. He was mesmerized by the blade, his eyes suddenly feral.

Multiple emotions flickered across his face. “You tricked me,” Kiranrao uttered with emotion. “You tricked me when I stole that blade for you. You never paid me what it was worth.”

“True,” Tyrus replied. “It is no good in my hand. It requires a special master. One who can tame it.”

The feeling of blackness that washed over Annon made his stomach twist and his insides roil. The blade no longer spoke to him, begging him to take it. All of its efforts were being directed at one man. Giving the blade to Kiranrao was an awful mistake. Whoever held it would certainly go mad. He stared at Kiranrao in disgust and horror, saw the subtle transformation in his face. He wanted that blade. He had wanted it for years. It was just within his grasp if he accepted.

“I will join you,” Kiranrao said in a hushed voice. Not defeated. He was satisfied with the bargain.

A popping noise filled the chamber. The sound was familiar. When Annon last heard it, they had been confronted by the Quiet Kishion seeking to kill Tyrus. This time, it preceded an avalanche of men. Everywhere he looked, there were those of the Paracelsus order, with gleaming necklaces and dark cassocks. Rikes of Seithrall as well. Soldiers wearing hauberks and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with the crest of Kenatos. There was no way to count so many quickly, but there were probably a dozen Paracelsus, holding cylinders, each bringing six or eight with them.

At the far door stood the Kishion, shrouded in an ash-colored cloak, and next to him stood another man, another Rike but taller and with short white hair. He wore the same black cassock as the rest, but his demeanor, the proud look on his face, marked him as a fierce man. It was the Arch-Rike himself.

“Kill them all,” he ordered.

Annon raised his fingers and muttered the words to summon fire.

Paedrin lunged at Tyrus, quick as an arrow.

“There is no possible source of evil except good. It does not occur on its own. Good men become evil.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

P
aedrin reached Tyrus in an instant. Annon brought up his hands, ready to incinerate him with fire. His heart groaned with pain at the thought of destroying his friend. With the Dryad’s kiss, he remembered every comment, every precept from the Bhikhu about injuring and not killing. How could he kill his friend? He knew that unleashing the fireblood would not harm Tyrus, but Paedrin’s skin would burn. How could he do it?

The hesitation unnerved him. The flames quivered on his fingertips, nearly guttering out.

Paedrin grabbed Tyrus’s wrist, the hand that held the blade Iddawc, and quickly twisted it to force the weapon free. Tyrus’s other hand chopped down and caught Paedrin on the neck, a stunning, forceful blow. He bunched his muscles together and then shoved Paedrin back with a maneuver hauntingly like the Bhikhu. Paedrin went back, but he was not down. He came at Tyrus again and Annon raised his hands to unleash the fire.

Suddenly Hettie was there, knives in hand, blocking the way to Tyrus. “Don’t kill him, Annon. It’s the Arch-Rike’s ring!”

All it took was Hettie’s word and the small ring caught Annon’s attention.

The soldiers of Kenatos let out a battle shout and charged into their midst from every side. There was no time to think, let alone plan. Swords and shields converged around them. Shafts of light from the Paracelsus wove interlocking ribbons of color around the room and into the air, causing a net of energy to trap them inside the room. They were outnumbered and Paedrin was one of them. It was madness.

Kill him, Druidecht. I know he is your friend, but he has betrayed you. That blade will destroy us all. You must kill him!
Nizeera shrieked in fury and launched at the nearest soldiers, terrifying them with her scream and slashing claws. Some butted her with shields, trying to protect against the ravaging fury she unleashed.

Kiranrao plunged into the midst of men, vanishing like a vapor of smoke only to reappear elsewhere a moment later, blade plunging into a soldier’s side. The prince stood like a tree rooted in place and deflected attack after attack with his bare hands, crippling elbows and crushing knees. Even the girl Khiara fought back with a long tapered staff made of white oak, whipping it around and clearing the ground around her.