by Jeff Wheeler
“A Druidecht, is it?” he said, a little sharply. “What business have you in Kenatos? There are not many of your kind in the city.”
“What is your fare?”
“I will not even take a pent from a Druidecht, you may be assured of that. Some ferryman think it right to charge everyone, regardless of rank or station, but that is foolhardy in my reckoning. It is the Druidechts and Rikes that save us from the Plague. You ought to have deference.”
“That is kind of you. Please rest before you take me.”
“I may, but tell me your business.”
“What concern is it of yours?”
“I earn an extra pent from the Arch-Rike’s coffers if I bring an answer.” He leaned over and picked up the pole.
“So you take coin for my travel regardless.” Annon was riled. “I come at the bidding of my master. He is a Druidecht.”
The ferryman shrugged, grateful to earn the extra pent and not caring about the quality of the answer—only the lack of it. He motioned for Annon to board.
“Hold!” shouted someone coming up the road, a younger man than the ferryman, clutching a small chest in his hands. He was older than Annon but still quite young.
He arrived panting. “Thank you! I need to reach the city before nightfall.”
“Five pents,” the ferryman said, and the coins were dropped in his hand. “What is your business?”
“No business of yours.”
The ferryman shook his head. “Come on, lad. We aren’t going until you tell me.”
He looked askance at the ferryman. “I am seeking work as a scribe.” He patted the box. “My quills and ink. Do you need to see them too?”
“No, lad. Why the rush?”
“I didn’t want to sleep on the plains again. No offense, Master Druidecht, but there are noises at night.” He shook his head and shuddered. Annon smiled and shrugged.
They embarked and soon the skiff was maneuvering across the lake. Because of all the fires burning in chimneys and shops, there was a constant ring of haze around the island city. Swarms of gulls floated above, sending eerie shrieks ghosting through the mist.
“You loathe sleeping in the woods,” Annon said to the younger man. “But I dread sleeping in the city.”
“This is your first time to Kenatos?” the ferryman asked between grunts.
“Yes,” Annon answered. “Wayland is my country.”
“Mine as well,” said the young man. “My father was a gravedigger in Wayland. Busy work with the Plague, you know. But I learned to read and write, and I hear you earn more in Kenatos if you can. Always records to transcribe.”
The ferryman chuckled. “Gravedigger boy then. You must be good with a spade. Want to take a turn at the oars?”
“Want to give me my five pents back?” he asked archly, nodding to Annon at the man’s rudeness and offering a look of disgust.
“This is my third trip today, stripling. I can keep going all night too. My calluses are like rocks. Don’t be tart, or I’ll box your ears.”
The younger man rolled his eyes. “Friends call me Graves,” he told Annon. “When we reach the dock, watch out for the Preachán. They’ll try and sell you moldy bread or bruised apples. I used to come here once a year with my father. Watch your purse.”
“Watch your tongue, lad,” said the ferryman between groans.
“Pardon,” he said. “Where are you staying? Is there a Druidecht place in Kenatos? I didn’t think so.”
Annon shook his head. “I won’t be staying long. Are you a good scribe?”
He winced. “It helps if you know more languages than just one. I know Aeduan and a little bit of Preachán. Knowing Vaettir pays the most, but how can you learn that?”
The lake was vast and the waves rippled against the skiff. It was the island-city’s greatest defense. Kenatos possessed a fleet of sturdy warships that brought the food and grains from the mainland. Annon wrinkled his nose as they drew nearer to the smell of the city; he hunched down, pulling his cloak more tightly.
The ferryman paused to rest a moment. “Since you are new to Kenatos, remember that for every Preachán who will steal your purse, there is a Bhikhu who will chase him down and box his ears for it.”
“A Bhikhu?” Annon asked.
“You’ll recognize them when you get to the city. They dress in gray tunics and sandals. The men shear their hair down to the nubs. You’ll see them on the street. If you get lost or have any troubles, seek one out. They won’t take a pent from you. Good advice for a newcomer, and it cost you nothing.” The docks of Kenatos were hulking and swollen with people arriving into different slips and disgorging their cargoes. Annon thanked the ferryman and Graves and gritted his teeth at the commotion as he advanced down the docks into the throngs filling up at the mouth of the outer gates. He felt practically naked being so far from the woods. Not even a mutter from a spirit creature. He had not expected to hear any, though.
Within the portcullis, there were a dozen black-robed Rikes of Seithrall speaking to everyone who entered and exited. They had rings on their fingers with dull black stones, which purportedly allowed them to divine falsehoods uttered in their ears. Annon wondered if the powers of the rings were just legends to frighten the people into being honest. The crowds jostled him. He waited sullenly in line until it was his turn to speak to one of the Rikes, anxious to get past the throng.
“A Druidecht, excellent. Seithrall’s blessing be upon you.” This was said with a wry and discourteous smile. There was no love between the Rikes and the Druidechts. “Have you ever been to Kenatos, Druidecht?”
“No.”
“What is the purpose of your visit then?”
“I am here to see my uncle.”
“What is his profession?”
Annon smiled blandly. “I believe you may know him. He is called Tyrus of Kenatos.”
The Rike started, his eyes widening with shock. He blinked several times, as if he was not sure he had heard Annon correctly. “Indeed,” came a curt reply. “Your uncle may be found in the Paracelsus Towers. Do you see it there, to the west of the temple? There?”
Annon did. The city was built on a hill in the middle of the lake, as so it rose before him in a crisscross of streets and buildings. Despite the plumes of sooty smoke, the air was clear enough to see an enormous keep with four ornate spires rising from each corner, the capstones forked. It stood prominently by itself, rising up from the island like a torch. It certainly lacked the massive bulk of the temple, which was the dominating presence of the skyline at the crest. But it was only barely inferior in intricacy and design. The temple was made of glistening white granite, full of sculpted walls, towers, interconnecting bridges, and iron-capped parapets. How many from Stonehollow had been hired to build it, he wondered. How many centuries had they labored?
Annon nodded and was bid to enter the city.
Kenatos teemed with life, a mix of all the races together. Most were young, his age, born after the last Plague. There were Cruithne and Preachán, easily seen. The Cruithne were big and sturdy, each weighing nearly as much as a horse, so they never rode. They were not overly tall, nor were they short. Their skin glistened grayish-black. While their skin was all the same color, their hair varied from pale blond to coarse brown. Never red and never black. They were an inventive people, creating machines powered by fire or water that milled grain. They were slow and ponderous in their walking, but incredibly strong. Their footfalls rattled the ground.
The Preachán were a contrast, with fair skin and ruddy hair. They were not a tall race, nor were they heavy like the Cruithne. They were lithe and quick, slipping through the crowds like quicksilver, hawking goods and huddled in clusters, casting dice with each other. They were incessantly talking, trading, bargaining, and most often, deceiving, as Reeder put it.
Not far after crossing the gates, one Preachán had tried to sell Annon a new pair of boots since his looked so worn out. Moments after shooing him away, another had come offerin
g to buy his talisman for five hundred pents, then quickly doubled and then tripled the price. He was accosted third by a Preachán who offered to guide him to his destination since he was new. Graves was right about them. Annon was a newcomer, but he was no fool. He ignored them and used the distinctive spires of the towers as his guide.
There were also Vaettir in Kenatos, though they were few in number; most of them were Bhikhu. They wore the traditional gray garb of their order, and they patrolled the streets of Kenatos, looking for wrongdoing and offering assistance to those in need. The Vaettir were a tall race, dark-skinned and black-haired, but they did not have the same ashy complexion as the Cruithne. Those who were not Bhikhu wore their hair long and straight, their eyes slightly pointed, always dark. Some had high cheekbones. Others had flat noses. There were varieties that Annon could not understand because he was not from Silvandom. Only the Vaettir could live there permanently.
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
Tyrus 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.
“Ann
on,” 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.
