Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (52 page)

Kiranrao appeared in a smoke-stain of magic next to Tyrus. “Give me the dagger, and I will face the Kishion next.”

Annon stared at the Vaettir, full of distrust. “No,” he warned Tyrus. “Do not trust him.”

Kiranrao gave Annon a scathing look. “I can defeat him. Give it to me!”

Prince Aran glanced at both men and then confronted the Kishion as Tyrus hesitated. Prince Aran blocked the way, standing still as the Kishion advanced. If he defeated the Kishion then Kiranrao would not need the dagger. The two faced off silently, their visages grim. Annon had seen the Kishion up close once before, and the look of determination and murder in his eyes terrified him. He felt the last of the spirits abandon the room, one by one, their power fading as the stench of the smoke filled the air.

“Kill the others!” the Arch-Rike ordered. “They cannot harm you now. Go!”

The Kishion came forward and struck the prince in the stomach. It was a solid blow, enough to drop anyone, but the prince did not flinch. He struck back. Then the two traded rock-hard blows, meant to maim each other. The prince grimaced at the speed of the other man and deflected the next two. He struck the Kishion in the neck. He struck him again, to no effect. It was like striking rock. The Kishion was unstoppable. Several more blows were exchanged. A strike to the Kishion’s abdomen. A blow to his collarbone. He did not even try to defend himself. He let the other hit him, to show him that he could not be harmed.

The prince’s look filled with shock. “You are Chin-Na!” he breathed in awe and despair. The Kishion gazed at him coldly and struck him down in a single blow to the temple, delivered so quickly it could hardly be seen.

“Give it to me!” Kiranrao raged.

Tyrus’s face went hard with frustration. Would nothing stop the Kishion? What protected him? Annon’s heart raced with fear.
He watched as his uncle, the man he had always believed to be his uncle, handed the Iddawc to Kiranrao.

The look on the Romani’s face. The look of surprise and pleasure. “Arch-Rike! You are mine!” he threatened, rushing across the room, leaving the Kishion unchallenged. Was he trying to draw away the Kishion to protect his master?

The Arch-Rike’s expression shifted from fury to terror. He withdrew his cylinder and vanished. Kiranrao laughed in triumph. He looked back at them facing the Kishion, nodded in farewell, and vanished in a puff of inky smoke.

Nizeera!
Annon pleaded.
To us! We must flee!

I cannot
, she replied, struggling to crawl to him.
Go, Druidecht!

Annon’s heart was ready to break. There was Hettie, Khiara, Tyrus, and Erasmus left. Their fighters had all been brought down. He searched his memory. Something to help them. Something that would save them. The quest could not end now, not when it had just begun. Dead before even entering the Scourgelands. His stomach shriveled in fear as the last of the spirits darted away. The fireblood could destroy the soldiers, but not the Kishion. He knew that if they left through Tyrus’s device, then Paedrin, Aransetis, and Nizeera would be killed. They were all needed to survive the Scourgelands. It was an impossible choice to make. Annon did not know what to do. He turned to Tyrus in despair.

Tyrus pushed past Annon and lunged for the Kishion. He looked back once, giving Annon a desperate glance. “She’s in Stonehollow,” he said, reminding him. Pleading with him.

Tyrus’s daughter—the missing linchpin.

He was handing the charge of the quest to Annon, and he was filled with despair.

When Tyrus struck the Kishion, they both vanished.

Annon turned to Hettie, raising his hands and facing the remaining Kenatos soldiers and Rikes. Hers turned blue as well.

“I have heard it repeated as an oft-favored quote of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. One that was spoken a generation ago. He said it thus, ‘Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan on erecting a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.’”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

P
aedrin awoke, his spirits revived and his body healed by the touch from the beautiful Vaettir girl Khiara. He did not know by what power she healed him, only that her hand brought the most deliciously warm feeling. He remembered her scent, the smell of jasmine, as he opened his eyes. She stood, holding the long tapered staff to rest herself.

The carnage in the room was horrific.

He stared up at Khiara, dipped his head to her in thanks, and found his feet. He scanned the room, looking at the bodies. Some writhed in pain. Others moaned. The dead, of course, were silent.

“Paedrin,” Hettie breathed, rushing up to him anxiously. He stared at her warily, shocked at the rush of emotions—at the feeling of betrayal that poisoned the air between them. He jerked a curt warning to her with his head, a nod to forestall her words. He was unable to trust himself to speak to her yet.

“We cannot remain,” Prince Aran said stiffly. “If the Arch-Rike could send men here once, he can do so again. We must flee.”

Annon looked pale, as if he was about to be sick. “Agreed. To the woods then. Nizeera.” The she-cat creature padded up to his side, obviously healed as well.

Paedrin gathered himself up and nodded in agreement. He approached Annon and gripped his shoulder. “Thank you. I owe you a debt.” The freedom in his mind was absolute. It was like breathing air again when he had been used to breathing water. He could no longer feel even the shadow of the Arch-Rike’s taint in his mind.

They abandoned the smoking chamber through a corridor to a door leading outside. The vivid richness of the garden flowers contrasted in Paedrin’s mind to the spilled blood left behind. He was going to be sick himself. He clenched his jaw tight, willing the bile down. He searched every direction at once, wary of new enemies. His senses were as taut as a bowstring. He listened to each person’s ragged breath. It was not clear to him why some strange mountain cat trailed next to Annon, nuzzling his hand, or why he had spoken to it like a person. Maybe it liked licking the scent of smoke from his fingers. Who could tell?

The gardens were a massive sprawl, extending beyond the reaches of the manor house, with hedgerows and sculpted trees and an intricate mosaic pathway that extended in a winding pattern, hidden away. The hedges loomed like a maze and the prince guided them inside, walking briskly to increase the distance. He said nothing, but occasionally glanced behind at the plumes of smoke coming from the wreckage inside.

The maze was vast and Paedrin found himself completely lost in its depths. He did not worry, because a Vaettir could always float to the top and bound from the tips of the hedges. But it would be useful in confusing any pursuers. Perhaps it was designed for that purpose.

At the end of a twisting path, they encountered an iron gate. The prince waved his hand over the jewel ensconced midway up the bars. The gate swung open silently and shut behind them. Paedrin was curious at the powers involved, but said nothing. There was a destination in mind. He saw Hettie walking near him but off behind him. She had been watching him. His stomach churned and he refused to look at her, feeling that sickening sense of betrayal again. She had been Kiranrao’s puppet all along. That was her great secret. The curiosity he had felt for her earlier, his effort to convince her that she was truly free, made him sick inside. She had played him for a fool. Her look was chagrined, haunted even. Kiranrao had finally gotten Drosta’s treasure. It was enough to make him ill.

She deserved to suffer.

The pathway suddenly opened to the interior of the hedge maze. Annon gasped in shock as a majestic oak tree loomed in front of them. The trunk was so vast it could not have been encircled if all of them had joined hands around it.

Paedrin stared at it, at the peculiarity and singularity of it. There were no lower branches and few higher ones, but each was wide and thicker than a human, all twisted and forked. The most striking thing about the tree was the enormous black maw, as if the tree had a mouth frozen in a wide scream of pain. The gap of the maw was taller than he was and it would take a Vaettir to float up and reach it. Moss covered the exposed tendrils of roots, which looked like serpents. Hardly any leaves existed on its barren branches, but higher up, amidst thick tufts of mistletoe, some sprays of green could be seen.

“That is the ugliest tree I have ever seen,” Paedrin said aloud, unmindful of his host.

The prince and Khiara stared at him, offended, their eyes blazing.

“But it must be as old as the earth,” he continued, shaking his head in amazement.

“Hold your tongue,” Annon said, a smile crinkling on his face. “She can hear you.”

Paedrin looked at him and the absurdity struck him. “The tree can hear me?”

“No, sheep-brains,” Erasmus said. “The Dryad can.”

Paedrin stared at the open maw on the tree, fascinated by it. It seemed to beckon him. He shook his head, feeling suddenly dizzy. “I have no idea what you just said, but pretend for a moment that I did and go on.”

Annon turned to face him. “Remember when we were leaving the mountains of Alkire. Remember the Fear Liath when it hunted us?”

Paedrin nodded.

“We escaped through a tree. It was a portal to Mirrowen. That is the realm where the spirits come from. That portal took us to a grove of trees far away. Trees are the portals, you see. And those portals have guardians. The guardians are the Dryads.” Annon stared back at the enormous tree, obviously not disgusted by its misshapen, hunchback look.

Annon turned to the prince. “She is ancient but beautiful.”

Prince Aransetis nodded sternly, his face a mask devoid of emotion. “My family has been her protectors for centuries. The rest of the city of Silvandom does not know she is here. The maze is protected by spirit magic.”

“My staff,” Khiara said, clutching the tapered white-oak weapon, “was made from one of her boughs. It gives me knowledge as well as power.”

Paedrin stared at it hungrily. It was much longer than the kind of staff he was used to, but he had been trained in the long staff since he was a boy.

Annon had a look on his face, almost a flush and a smile. He nodded softly, lost in his thoughts. Then he gazed at them. “She is amazing,” he said, dumbfounded. He turned to the others, straightening his shoulders. “Tyrus shared some information with me that he has not shared with any of you. It is important that this information remain a secret for now. He gave each of us a task to complete that will aid in the journey into the Scourgelands. Do you accept your charge? Will you aid in this quest?”

He looked first to the prince, who nodded and said, “I go to Stonehollow.”

Annon then looked at Khiara and Erasmus. “Will you both go with me to the oracle of Basilides? I could use your help. It is a temple the Arch-Rike has built away from Kenatos, in case the city should ever fall. It is still under construction, hidden in the mountains. But first we must find where it is.”

Khiara cast a furtive glance at the prince, seeking a look from him, but he kept his gaze elsewhere. She nodded, saying nothing.

Erasmus scrunched his face and pondered it a bit. “I have lost every ducat I amassed in my bets. I am likely a wanted man in Havenrook, Kenatos, and probably Alkire if I were being honest. Knowing about the treaty of Wayland, I will probably be wanted there as well.” He pursed his lips, muttering to himself. “The last group that ventured into the Scourgelands all died. I suppose the odds are great that most of us will as well.” He shrugged. “But I could also argue that Tyrus has set the odds in our favor. I’m sure Basilides will give us some useful information about our chances for survival. It is a long gamble. Long odds. I like it.” He smiled. “I’ll go.”