by Jeff Wheeler
Her eyes narrowed slowly, but she did not stop her attack. “Isn’t there some sort of prayer you Vaettir say over dead things?”
“I would be happy to teach you our prayers. Some piety would benefit you.”
Paedrin saw Annon stifling a chuckle. Wisely, he kept poking the fire with a stick.
“I did make sure it was dead before I brought it,” she said, lifting the rabbit slightly. “I wrung its neck, of course. I did not want you to have to see that.”
“It does not shock me at all that you would do that with those hands.”
She turned toward the fire, but the pelt brushed against his cheek. Again, he nearly jumped away and swatted it, but he knew she was looking for that reaction. He kept himself perfectly still. And he watched, moment to moment, as she gutted the beast, impaled it on a spit, and then cooked it over the fire. She glanced at him several times, looking for a reaction. He smiled at her and ate some day-old rice with his fingers.
Later that night, as Annon and Hettie slept, Paedrin lay awake, staring at the flickering coals of the fire. He was restless, anxious for the dawn to come. He was sick to his stomach at what he had seen Hettie do to the rabbit. It violated every ethic of the Bhikhu order. Part of him wanted to scream at her, but he would never give in to her taunts.
He stared at her form, the crumpled blanket covering her shoulder. Dark hair fanned over the cloak, which she had stuffed beneath her head as a pillow. Her back was to him, deliberately, and he watched the rise and fall of her breathing. Annon faced him, his eyes closed, his expression pained by his dreams. Paedrin stared at him for a moment, realizing how young they all were. A Druidecht, a Romani, and a Bhikhu on a journey to Havenrook to seek Erasmus. Something was impossibly wrong. There were details that Annon had offered which concerned him. There was much that concerned him.
He would not forget the sly look in Hettie’s eyes as she mutilated the rabbit in front of him—and that he did not flinch while she did it. It was a look that said she was impressed by him. He was not sure if he even cared anymore.
“When the kingdoms banded together to create Kenatos, they minted new coins and forged common laws that all could agree to abide. While Kenatos has not authority over any other kingdom, its laws are inviolate within the city itself and the Bhikhu mete out the Arch-Rike’s justice. For, you see, in the absence of justice, what is sovereignty but organized robbery?”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Waken, Druidecht! The Fear Liath comes!
It was just before midnight, and Annon awoke to whispers in his mind, his heart surging with terror. He blinked awake rapidly, sitting up, and listened to the chittering voices in his mind. A spirit of great power and danger stalked the woods, sending panic rippling through the denizens of Mirrowen. The tiny spirits whispered its name—the Fear Liath. It typically hunted high in the mountain passes of Alkire, but it had sensed intruders in its lair and was hunting them.
Sweat gathered on Annon’s brow as he waited, fearfully, for the warning to flee. The spirits could not describe it, but their kind were all helpless against its magic.
Paedrin was awake, staring at the embers of the fire. “Bad dream?” Paedrin asked, looking at his expression.
“We are in danger,” Annon said, tossing aside his blanket. He rushed to Hettie to shake her shoulder, but his voice had already roused her. As she rolled to her feet, he saw the dagger in her hand.
“What danger?” Paedrin asked, looking around. “An elk passed near the camp not long ago, but other than that…”
“Hush!” Annon warned, trying to understand the spirits swarming around him. Mist began roiling through the trees. The spirits warned that the Fear Liath traveled in the mist.
Hettie glanced around the camp. She sheathed the dagger and drew her bow, fitting an arrow to the string. Paedrin looked at them both, perplexed.
It draws nearer!
Annon swallowed. He had never heard of a Fear Liath before, but its presence certainly terrified the lesser spirits in the mountains. He looked at Hettie and raised his hands, nodding to her. She saw the gesture, understood the meaning, and set down the bow.
Paedrin rose from the log and stood silently, eyes shut.
From the fog in the mountains came the silver silhouette of a wolf. It was a spirit creature, and Annon thought that he was the only one who would be able to see it.
Are you the Fear Liath? he challenged in his mind.
No—I am come to shield you, Druidecht. I am a Wolviren. My sisters surround your camp. It will not be able to smell your blood if you stay amidst us. These mountains are its lair. Be cautious.
Thank you, Annon said, bowing his head in relief.
He sat at the edge of the stone circle where their fire had burned out. “We are being protected now.”
“What was it?” Hettie whispered, crouching near him.
“A bad dream,” Paedrin drawled, sitting across from him. “There was nothing out there.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Annon said. “I was raised in the woods, Paedrin. You’ll just have to trust me.” He patted Hettie’s arm. “I’m sorry I woke you. Try and get some sleep. We have guardians surrounding us.”
Paedrin raised an eyebrow. His Bhikhu robes were dirty and seemed too colorful for drab woodlands. A flower out of place. Annon had heard the Bhikhu were reverential, respectful, and rather naive—seeing all things as black or white, right or wrong, good or evil. They were unlike the Druidecht, who saw all the shades in between both extremes. However, Paedrin fit none of his assumptions about the Bhikhu or the Vaettir. He was proud, wary, and exceptionally funny. It was the humor that was completely unexpected.
Annon stared at him a moment. “Do you miss the city yet?” he asked.
Paedrin circled his legs and rocked back slightly. “Not at all. Ever since I was young, I wanted to roam the lands outside of Kenatos. I have heard the forests of Silvandom are legendary. Unfortunately for me, this trip to Havenrook is bound to be too short.”
“I doubt the treasure we seek will be found in Havenrook,” Hettie said, pulling up her knees and resting her chin on her arms. “We’ll have to persuade Erasmus to help us.”
“Do you think it will be enough?” Annon asked her softly. “To secure your freedom?”
Paedrin snorted and chuckled. “She is already free.”
Hettie shot him a murderous look. “You know nothing about the Romani.”
Annon intervened, touching her elbow. “Will it be enough?”
She sighed. “I hope so.” She stared into the night, silent but seething.
Hettie was nothing like the Romani that Annon had known. She was intensely private and guarded, even with him, but they had spent the previous night getting to know each other and cobbling together insights from the scraps Tyrus had fed them. Neither had known about the other. Tyrus had visited Annon when he was nearly eight years old and taught him to control his anger and, by extension, his ability to summon fire with his hands. The Romani had taught Hettie. They had both been warned not to share the ability with others, for those who had the fireblood were hunted and killed. Tyrus himself had managed to conceal his from the world, despite his fame as a Paracelsus.
Hettie did not trust easily.
“What will you do with your freedom?” Annon asked her, wishing that Paedrin was asleep. He did not think she would be as open with him listening. He was watching them both surreptitiously.
“I’m not just a Romani,” she said in a soft voice. “I was trained as a Finder. I could earn my own way.” He sensed that behind her aloofness there was much more to her than that. He wanted to draw her out more. For her to confide in him.
The night before, as their conversation had gone on, Hettie began to open up more—just a little. If he had not been a good listener, he would have missed one comment of genuine warmth about the man who had purchased her from the Romani at age eight and taught her to be a Finder.
“Where is Evritt now?�
� he probed.
She shot him a look that was full of warning. She would not be as open in front of the Bhikhu. “Judging by the stars, the night is still young. Whose turn for the watch?”
He was disappointed she would not reveal more of herself that night. He resented Tyrus for keeping them both ignorant of each other, but his other feelings about his uncle were starting to change. How to describe them? Where he was accustomed to feeling hardness and bitterness when thinking about Tyrus, his feelings concerning Hettie were soft and mercurial. He wanted to protect her, to be certain that no man ever owned her again. The anger toward Tyrus began to shift, like a barrel jogged in a wagon, toward the Romani who had stolen her as a babe. He wondered why they had stolen her and not him.
“You both can sleep. I will keep watch.” Paedrin’s voice was slightly condescending. “I need very little sleep, actually.”
Annon returned to his blanket and rolled over the other way, staring into the quiet woods, listening to the hum and chatter of spirits gradually calming from the near disaster. He felt the presence of the Wolviren around them, blanketing their camp with their magic. If only Paedrin realized that his errant thoughts could be heard by the spirits in the woods. You could never deceive a spirit because they could hear the whispers from your mind as easily as someone eavesdropping on a conversation. Annon was able to hear them in return because of the token he wore around his neck, and he was looking forward to meeting new varieties of spirits in his travels. Maybe Reeder was right. It was time for him to move on from forests of Wayland.
Closing his eyes, he drifted into sleep, thinking of his mentor and wondering at the trouble that was taking his friend to Silvandom.
Following the edge of the woods along the mountains, they finally reached a man-made road gouged into the forest that led to Havenrook. Before the road even came into view, Annon could tell they were approaching it. First, there were plenty of carrion birds. Second, fewer and fewer whispers from the spirits, which tended to avoid places where nature had been savaged deliberately.
The mountains of Alkire were impressive, thick with cedar and pine at the lower reaches and then snow-capped and silvered above the fringe of the woods. It would take several days to hike to the foothills of those mountains and probably weeks to cross them. They formed a boundary to the valley, and the continual snowpack created the rivers that fed the lake where Kenatos lay to the northwest. The mountains were stark and unyielding, wreathed in patches of man-made fog caused by forge-fires of the Cruithne. Ore was mined from the mountains and brought down to Kenatos by wagon and riverboat. It was rumored that the Cruithne’s soot-colored skin was a result of generations of ore mining.
“There is the road,” Hettie said, surprising everyone because she had rarely spoken during the journey. “We should reach Havenrook by nightfall if we hurry.”
“Have we not been hurrying enough for you?” Paedrin quipped, giving her an impatient look.
She did not rise to the bait, and Annon saw a frown of disappointment flash on Paedrin’s face.
The road was wide enough for three or four carts to go by at a time, which made sense because goods came to and from the city each day. The ruts were worn to dust and nothing grew in them at all; not even weeds could withstand the constant tromping of hooves, the crushing weight of wagon wheels, or the trod of people.
The three of them entered the lane and started toward the city at a strong walk, having finished a meal at midday a little earlier. There were signs nailed to trees, offers of cargo or passage. Trunks had been gouged for firewood or hacked at by bored mercenaries for no reason. There was not even a whisper of thought in the air from the spirits. The cruelty shown to the forest was an abomination to them. No wonder they had all fled. The desecration of the woods outraged Annon.
Garbage littered the fringe of the path—broken crates, frayed ropes, a few smashed barrels. All were abandoned, including several wagons, all of which were missing wheels. It was disgusting and brought out Annon’s loathing. He felt unprotected, for there would be no spirits to draw upon for help. The woods of Havenrook felt like the city of Kenatos—devoid of sentient life. His fingers tingled with heat after passing another rotting carcass of a wagon.
Glancing at Hettie, he noticed her scowling and wondered if she too were offended.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice, drawing near her. He wondered if there were any Druidecht at all in the kingdom.
Seeing she had been observed, she gave a cynical smile. “Romani wagons,” she answered, nodding toward a dilapidated set. “I am expecting we will cross paths with a caravan or two on our way.”
That explained her reaction. “We can hide in the mess if we hear a wagon train coming.”
She shrugged, eyes squinting as they continued to walk.
Annon’s observation about the clutter being a place to hide turned out to be prophetic, as he realized shortly after. The road was not chisel-straight, but meandered around blind turns and hooks, as if the woodcutters had all been drunk while working. Or perhaps deliberately creating blind spots to waylay travelers.
As they rounded one corner, Annon noticed the Preachán immediately, sitting atop a broken-down wagon on the edge of the road. His boot dangled off the edge and started tapping against the plank. With a wicked-looking dagger, he fussed with something under his fingernail.
Annon, Hettie, and Paedrin stopped as soon as he came into view. He was a handsome fellow, with reddish-brown hair that was untamed. Though slight of build, he seemed bigger wearing a coat made of black leather with buckles and straps around the arms and shoulders. It was cured leather, not fancy leather. Leather meant to protect him. He wore black pants as well, with green and gold stitching along the leg, and a wide belt with an enormous buckle. There was another knife in his boot cuff. A small blade at his hip, as well as three more stuck in the wagon frame, within easy reach. A ruff of white at his throat displayed several jeweled necklaces, including a Druidecht talisman.
The Preachán glanced up at them and smiled. “Ho, there.”
Paedrin swiveled his neck, as if loosening his muscles, and held still, gripping his walking staff in front of him. “Several in the woods on each side,” he muttered to Annon. “Let me deal with them if you want to chat with the dagger collection ahead.”
“Not yet,” Annon said softly. He looked at the Preachán disinterestedly. “Ho, there.”
The Preachán admired his long, sharp dagger deliberately, looking up and down its blade. “I can see that you are travelers bound for Havenrook.” He had a quaint accent, one that Annon was unfamiliar with. “You are not from these parts. I take it as my duty to offer you my protection as you travel this road. There are dangerous sorts about, and I would not want you to come to any harm.” He scraped his whiskers with the edge of his knife. “Three ducats would do as there are three of you.”
Annon took offense at the tone and the trap. “There are three of us. And one of you.”
The Preachán smiled appreciatively. “Yes. I noticed that. I am only the collector of the tithes, as the Rikes like to say in Kenatos. Three ducats is not an unreasonable value for the life of a person. I mean no disrespect. Perhaps I should demand more? But I was feeling generous this afternoon.”
Annon saw Hettie glance at the woods, where he began to see the subtle shift of shadows hidden amidst the debris on each side. There was a gentle creak of wood.
“At least twenty,” Paedrin muttered again, voice low. “Better to strike first than talk. I will…”
Annon used a hand gesture to quiet him, as if calming a horse. He looked back at the Preachán firmly, his voice rising with emotion. “Just to be clear, sir. Even if we had three ducats, you would not limit yourself to only those. You want us to show you where we keep our purses to save you the time searching our bodies. We appear as simple travelers and easy prey, and you know there are no caravans either coming or going to interfere with the murder. You do this every day.”
The Pr
eachán’s eyebrows rose, as if pleasantly surprised. “Well, you can put it that way if you wish. In the end…”
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon raised his hands and flames gushed from his body as he twisted and sent them rushing to the deadwood debris to the right. There was heat, light, and the crackling snap of raw flames exploding into wood. The debris of wagons and barrels and crates created a skyward blaze. Crowding trees were blasted by the heat and the flames began running up the trunks and catching the deadened branches afire.
Behind Annon, there was a twin explosion of flames, this one caused by Hettie as she followed his lead and turned the other piles into tinder. Screams filled the air along with the roar and groan of the fires. The Preachán sitting on the wagon rim fell backward in his shock and surprise, leaving the daggers stuck in the wood.
The feeling of loosing the flames was visceral and innately pleasurable. Annon could feel his blood singing with it. More! Loose more! They wanted to be freed, like some caged mountain cat bursting with savagery. He delighted in the power, in the taming of the fire, and he yearned in the deepest part of his soul to let it flow from him, engulfing the trees and rotting caravan ruins until nothing was left but cinders. Rebirth. That was what flames brought. A chance to be reborn.
Yet he knew the feelings were not telling the full truth. The longer he let the flames dance across his hands, the more they would begin to control him. The incomprehensible yearning of the fireblood was an illusion. It would fade in time and be replaced with self-loathing and guilt. He knew it, even though he did not feel it. Clenching his teeth, he tamed the fire within him and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. It did not obey him at first. Slowly, so slowly, the impulse to unleash it began to ebb. Slowly, his mind forced it to obey. Flickering tongues of flame danced across his fingers and then guttered out.
Annon turned and saw Hettie, her eyes wide with frenzy, her hands still held open, flooding the woods with flames, sending it lancing out at the fleeing Preachán, streamers of liquid hate that hit them from behind and burst their clothes into flame. They were screaming and running.
