Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (7 page)

P
aedrin saw the girl from the corner of his eye, smothered in shadows against the blazing noonday sun. She moved beneath the covered walk while he was in the middle of the training yard. He noticed the bounce of her hair and her tightly folded arms, and then he saw the gouged staff swinging at his eyes. Had he blinked at that moment, it would have broken his nose. Arching his spine, bending his knees, Paedrin leaned back as the staff whistled just over the tip of his nose. With so much backward momentum, he had no choice but follow it up with a flip, kicking out with his legs before landing on his feet in a low squat.

Another staff went over his head, and Paedrin lunged forward, striking with his fists, three times in rapid motion. The other Bhikhu crumpled and dropped the staff, which Paedrin snatched and spun around from one end. It clacked with another staff and soon the two were sweeping, striking, and parrying until Paedrin caught his opponent’s fingers with an especially well-placed blow, making him yelp and drop his weapon. There she was again, walking down the aisle, arms folded, face intent
on the ground, never once looking at the training yard. Her stride was quick and impatient.

Three more charged him the next moment, staves whirling dangerously in circles. It looked impressive to an outsider, but it was easy to disrupt as he jammed his staff into the wheeling wooden spokes. One strike to the chest and the fellow grimaced with pain. Another on his toe with a crunch that probably meant his toenail was cracked and would fall off in a few days. With the staff held before him, Paedrin disarmed the second and third attackers, a series of dizzying blows that were too fast to follow, let alone defend. Crack—crack—clatter. Another staff down.

Paedrin spun on his heel, bringing his weapon over his shoulder and dropping a silently approaching fourth opponent. The fifth and final Bhikhu charged him, face twisted with vengeance. Paedrin planted the end of his staff, took in his breath, and lifted himself up on the pole, swinging his body around it once, his foot clipping the last fighter in the temple, dropping him; Paedrin proceeded to swivel around the staff, coiling around the upper end like a lizard, balancing on it like a pennant of flesh. He made a perfect stance, shoulders back, legs locked, arm extended for balance, fingers raised up. He clung to the top of the staff, held his breath to keep his body floating, enjoying the feel of the sun on his neck and the sweat trickling down his back.

And not once—even once—did the girl bother to look his way and notice his triumph. Still concealed in the shadows, she hastily disappeared into the causeway of the temple and vanished.

He let out his breath and slid gracefully down the length of the staff.

“Did she look at you that time?” grumbled a voice as one eye peeped open from one of the fallen Bhikhu.

“Not even a glance,” Paedrin said.

“I think you broke my toe,” came another voice, outraged. “And she didn’t even look?”

“Not once,” Paedrin said, hoisting his arms on each side of the staff, like he was about to tote water barrels on each end. “Even if we were all wearing nothing but our smallclothes, she wouldn’t have looked. She’s
determined
not to.”

Another of his brothers rose to a sitting position, shaking the dust from his dark hair. “I almost had you, Paedrin. What if I had broken your nose and knocked you flat?”

Paedrin smirked. “The day you can hit me, Sanchein, is the day I
will
drop my smallclothes and then walk into the girl training yard with nothing on. You are slow and heavy-footed.”

“It is not our fault we were not born Vaettir.” It was another of his friends, the tone sulky.

Paedrin grinned. “Well, we cannot
all
be wise, fast, and sleek as serpents. If you work really hard for the next year, I may let you sand the calluses off my heels.”

“Where is your humility?” Sanchein said with a sniff.

“You just saw her go through those doors,” Paedrin said, pointing the way with one end of the staff. “She is my humility. My bane. My mystery. Can you believe that she has been here for two days and I still do not know her name? No one does, except Master Shivu, and it would be the height of rudeness to ask him only out of pure curiosity.” Paedrin spun the staff around, whipping it as fast as a scythe in circles on each side. He slammed the butt down on the flagstones and scowled. “There is something undeniably unfair about being tortured by a girl.”

“Is she from Kenatos, do you think?” asked Beshop.

“No,” said Sanchein.

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“But how do you know?”

Paedrin hissed a low whistle to shut him up. It would go on for hours that way. He spun around again, slowly this time, full of restless energy. The staff was part of him, a tether, a kite string that kept him from floating away when he gathered and held his breath. He started rising again, slowly, gracefully, until he balanced on the end of the staff, his feet pointed toward the sky. He loved that feeling—the almost-flying feeling of being a Vaettir. He was the only one in the temple who was orphaned as a boy, unclaimed by any Vaettir family in the city. Peculiar, for certain, but Paedrin did not care. The temple was his home and his family. His lungs burned and he slowly exhaled, his body coming back down to earth.

He gripped the staff and stared at the door she had gone through. “That is enough,” he said simply.

“What is enough?” Beshop asked, coming around.

“It is already turning black. Paedrin, you broke my toe,” muttered Jaendro, still sitting on the flagstones. “Give me your hand, you sod! I need help standing!”

“What is enough?” Beshop pressed, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking at what Paedrin was looking at.

He gave Beshop the staff and started after the girl.

Who she was, Paedrin had no idea. She had appeared at the temple orphanage, wearing woodcutter’s garb and keeping mostly to herself. How old was she? Paedrin guessed she was his age, or maybe slightly older. Twenty, perhaps. The curl and sneer of her lip made her seem older. As did the disdain with which she treated everyone and everything within the temple. She had dark hair cut past her shoulders, thick and heavy and slightly curled. She was Aeduan, he thought with a snort, nothing to be
so proud of. Yet she walked with all the confidence of a Vaettir, as if she belonged to the orphanage as its overseer and not as a guest who could not afford lodging in the city beyond the walls.
That
was the only reason someone
chose
to sleep on the floor, on an uncomfortable mat, on hard flagstones, day after day.

Paedrin pulled open the doors and went into the momentary blindness of the deeply shadowed interior. The temple was a hodgepodge of structures, mostly one level tall with vaulted roofs, interconnecting to each other like the sluices they used to control water in the city.

From the roof, one could see a great deal of the city below—its serpentine maze of streets, squares, water fountains, and courtyards. From the roof, where Paedrin often went to be alone, he could see the vast lake in the distance and dream of the kingdoms and haunted wilderness beyond. The thought of Plague did not terrify him. He feared nothing except remaining trapped in the city his entire life, disciplining pickpockets and protecting the city from enemies of Kenatos. In his heart, he would rather be with his own people in Silvandom. But he owed the orphanage and the city his duty.

The dusty tiles met his sandals soundlessly as he maneuvered past columns and enormous urns. He listened and heard her voice, then changed his direction. He had heard her speak occasionally, and she spoke with a strong accent, a wild accent, as if she were from some unmannered country. Yet if that were so, why did she comport herself with the disdain of someone very wealthy? Was she in disguise, perhaps? That kindled Paedrin’s curiosity even more. Out of favor with a wealthy father, a duke in Wayland? He could not help but let his imagination run wild.

He heard Master Shivu’s voice next, a comforting but firm tone in it. He was resisting her request. He was patient about it, as he always was, but he was telling her no.

“I can pay,” he heard her say. “When the job is done.”

“We have little need for treasure, little one. It is contrary to our order to accept payment of any kind.” He was excruciatingly patient. Paedrin did not understand this, considering how difficult little orphaned boys could be. “It is our duty to serve the races.”

“But I am in need of a service for hire,” the girl insisted. “It will not be a long journey. A fortnight or two. I need a protector.”

Master Shivu came into view, his head bent thoughtfully, his wrinkled eyes warm with sympathy. His hair was a patchwork of silver and white stubble. “What protection do you need that these walls cannot provide?” He held his hand out, gesturing toward the structure around them. “If you are hunted, you are safe here. The Bhikhu will defend you. You are an orphan, as you said. There is work for you to do right here among us. There is no need to venture into the woods.”

“But I do not
belong
here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger. “Nor am I safe here from my enemies. You do not understand. I turn eighteen soon.”

Paedrin licked his lips, intrigued beyond calculation. If he lingered much longer, he would learn more about this girl. But it was rude to delay his approach. Even though he walked on cat’s feet, she still heard him. Her expression shifted at once from sincere desperation to annoyance.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Master,” the girl said and started to go the other way, abandoning Master Shivu with a quick toss of her head.

It was in the moment Paedrin saw the subtle gleam in her right ear—the gold earring. Only one.

The pieces began to assemble in his mind.

“A word before you go, child,” Shivu said, stalling her.

“Yes?”

“I would like you to meet your protector.” Master Shivu opened his palm and gestured. “This is Paedrin.”

“He’s Vaettir,” she said, sizing him up with cool eyes. The tone in her voice was insulting to him.

“I am,” he answered, closing the gap between them. “And you are Romani, though you try to hide it. What is my assignment, Master Shivu? Protecting a special caravan?”

Her eyebrows arched. “I meant that you were Vaettir-born and that our people have a history. I do not see why he chose you.”

“I chose Paedrin,” Master Shivu said, “because he is the best our temple has to offer your uncle. He has been trained in all martial weapons as well as the subtle ways of hand and foot. He is nearly done with all of his philosophical training and will soon be introduced to the city as a defender. There is no one else I would trust more with your safety.”

“Has he traveled beyond the city before?” she asked, her voice slightly mocking.

“I am right here,” Paedrin said, not sure which emotion he wanted to subdue more—his excitement to be chosen or his animosity toward this girl. “No, I have not…”

“I guess this is the best I can expect then,” she said, interrupting him. She nodded to him and then to Master Shivu and turned to leave.

Master Shivu waited until she disappeared through the archway leading to the female quarters.