Fireblood

by Jeff Wheeler

It was the Preachán’s turn to give him a shrewd smile. “I assure you, master Druidecht, that is not true. Many wars are hazarded on the arithmetic that a life is worth less than thirty ducats. Maybe twenty-five.”

  Annon sighed and started down the slope.

  Erasmus followed, mumbling softly to himself. “Considering the vastness of those woods, the likelihood of finding your friend Reeder will be considerably narrow. At a rate of two furlongs a day…”

  “Do not strain your mind, Erasmus,” Annon said, slightly annoyed at his constant predictions. “I will find him or he will find me much faster than you think.”

  “And how will that be achieved?”

  “The same way I knew where the ford was in the river we crossed two days ago. The same way I have provided us with sufficient food. It is Druidecht lore. And while my uncle may think that a spirit only has value when it is trapped in a gem…” He trailed off, giving Erasmus a hard stare. “I do not.”

  Before long, they had crossed the long grass. Annon let his palms glide over the feathery tips of grass and downy weeds. He inhaled the sweet scent in the air, watching the towering trees sway gently ahead. It was a vision of beauty and grace. Overhead a hawk swooped. Annon watched its seamless plunge.

  As they approached the huge shroud of trees, Annon felt the spirits immediately. Their tiny voices chittered to him, recognizing his talisman and position, and came to him in a swarm. For a moment he was confused at the rush and chatter, coming from tiny butterflies and gnats that rushed and whirled around him. They were solicitous, anxious to seek his will and assist him. He was treated with high honor.

  Welcome, Druidecht. May we serve you?

  I saw him first. Be silent. I will guide and lead you, kind sir.

  What good would you be to him? I am the fastest. Shall I carry a message for you?

  Never had he encountered such a swarm of spirits in Wayland or the mountains of Alkire. They were friendly, eager, and nearly jostled each other to get this attention.

  Be silent, foolish ones. He is weary from his journey.

  At the rebuke, the tittering vanished away, cowed into respect by a being of greater power. Annon felt the presence immediately and a sense of thrill at being singled out. It approached him in the form of a mountain cat, lithe and sleek and sinuous. Its tail lashed lazily.

  Erasmus clutched his arm. “Annon,” he hissed. “Do you see it?”

  The creature approached on padded steps, a soft, purring growl in her throat. You travel far, Druidecht.

  Annon inclined his head as it approached. He saw Erasmus trembling. What may I call you, wise spirit? Annon entreated in his mind.

  I am Nizeera. I am a guardian of Canton Vaud.

  Annon smiled in pleasure. Canton Vaud was the seat of the Druidecht hierarchy. It was much like a king’s court and traveled from land to land, settling disputes and arbitrating between the spirits of Mirrowen and those in the mortal world.

  I was unaware that Canton Vaud was in Silvandom. Is the matter truly as grave as that?

  The huge cat purred and nuzzled against his arm. It slowly slinked around behind them, pausing to sniff disinterestedly at Erasmus, who stiffened and began twitching uncontrollably.

  He is frightened. I like that. The matter is severe. Do you seek to aid in the matter?

  Annon reached out to Nizeera in his mind. I seek Reeder.

  The coarse fur bristled slightly then fell flat. It finished circling Erasmus, emitting a low growl intended to frighten him more. The long whiskers stroked against the Preachán’s wrist, and he issued a shiver of breath.

  “Druidecht?” Erasmus whispered hoarsely.

  Nizeera turned back to Annon, fixing him with her gleaming eyes. He stinks of the city, of ale and wine and coin. I do not trust him, but I trust you, Druidecht. You are of the fireblood. I smell it in your hands. I am bound to obey you. The great cat lowered its head respectfully, shocking Annon.

  No one serves me, Annon thought. You are not bound to me.

  Do not mock my oath, Nizeera said with a growl. It was not given lightly.

  He felt its offense rising hard and fast, its eyes glittering, the air chilling suddenly. He nodded in acquiescence, and that seemed to satisfy her.

  Lead on, Nizeera.

  The great cat turned on its haunches and padded away into the woods of Silvandom, its tail lashing playfully.

  Erasmus’s voice was just a faint whisper. “I thought…it was going to eat us.”

  Annon looked at him and smiled. “It wasn’t tempted by you, Erasmus. You stink. She is our guide in Silvandom.”

  Erasmus gave him a blank look. “You mean it wants us to follow it?”

  Annon ignored the question and started off after Nizeera.

  Canton Vaud.

  Annon had been told about it, but he had never expected to visit it before he was twice his current age. It was comprised of Druidechts from every land and every race. They were the wisest of men and women, those who had earned their talismans and other gifts from the spirits, and they roamed the lands seeking to arbitrate troubles.

  As Annon and Erasmus approached Canton Vaud, the young Druidecht stared in awe at the large tents, some elaborate in size and fashion. There were large brackets full of smoking incense attached to wooden poles, giving the air a sweet and musty scent. Spirits enjoyed smells and tastes as well as music, and there could be heard across the pavilions the airs of song and instruments. Zigzagging lights streamed through the air, the physical presence of spirits communing with the Druidecht of Canton Vaud. There was an urgent, anxious feeling in the air. The spirits were whispering about dangers in the forests. Of threats and ax blades and the smoking torches that harmed their kind. The snippets of thought and fear surprised Annon.

  “This is a sight,” Erasmus muttered, staring at the colorful pavilions, the taut ropes, the scurrying of animals and birds and other enchanted beings like Nizeera. The big cat padded through the throng, never once looking back at them.

  “This is the seat of the Druidecht,” Annon explained in a low voice, growing more anxious himself as he heard the thought whispers. “They never stay in one kingdom for long.”

  “Who are the leaders?”

  Annon rubbed his mouth. “Only the wisest are chosen. There are thirteen. I have never met any.”

  A flicker of light suddenly appeared in front of them, buzzing at it approached and hovered in front of Erasmus. Annon could hear its chittering voice as it studied him, commenting on his smell and his queer eye.

  Erasmus froze, staring in confusion. “Is this really a huge bumblebee? What does it want?”

  “It appears that way to you. It is merely curious. Walk on.”

  “How can I walk on when it is likely to sting me?”

  “It is a sylph. It will not hurt you. It is just curious.”

  Annon continued the walk and Erasmus tried to shoo the spirit away before following. Nizeera finally padded up to a small pavilion and turned, eyes gleaming. Her tail lashed.

  Quickly Annon advanced, for he recognized the voice coming from within the pavilion. It was Reeder.

  The sound of his friend’s voice brought a rush of emotion to Annon’s heart. He could not contain a fierce smile as he ducked at the entryway of the pavilion. There was Reeder on a small stuffed bench, a large flagon in one hand and his finger pointed at a gray-haired man across from him.

  “But what reason do they have? Why the insistence? It is not common for the Boeotians to behave in such a way.”

  The older Druidecht had a thick mane of gray hair and was large of frame, with a crooked smile and a deep voice. “There is no way of telling except…” He paused, seeing Annon in the doorway.

  “Forgive me,” Annon apologized. “I was looking for my friend.”

  Reeder started when he heard Annon’s voice and sloshed some wine on his wrist. “There he stands! Look at you, lad!” His expression was amazed, thunderstruck. Hastily setting down the flagon, he rose and grabbed Annon by the
shoulders, his face full of worry and concern. “Yet here you stand. When I heard about the damage in the Paracelsus Tower, I was filled with dread because of you.”

  Annon looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

  He stepped back, giving him an appraising look. “By the spirits, though you do look older. Much trouble you have had these many weeks. But you are not a boy, you are a man grown. Sunburned too, if only a little. I feared that when you met your uncle, there was anger between the two of you. I should not have worried. Was I right? Did he try and persuade you to enter the Scourgelands?”

  Annon was not sure what to say, especially with the shrewd eyes of the gray-haired Druidecht on him.

  “I am lapse in my manners,” Reeder said. He turned to the other man. “This is Palmanter, one of the Thirteen.”

  Annon stared at him, his voice vanishing.

  “You are Annon of Wayland,” the man said with a shrewd smile. “I know of you.” He extended a meaty hand that Annon shook. There was a ring on his finger made of silver or white gold.

  The startled feeling and expression on the older Druidecht’s face made Annon feel like blushing. “I am honored you know of me.”

  “Reeder says you are full of promise, and I trust his judgment. Have you come to aid us? Who is your friend?”

  Annon turned and saw Erasmus hesitating at the threshold. Several spirits hovered around, tormenting him. He tried to flick them away gently. Nizeera purred.

  “Erasmus of Havenrook,” Annon replied. “A companion.”

  “Havenrook?” Reeder said distastefully.

  “There is much to tell and much to explain,” Annon said. “I came seeking your advice, Reeder.”

  Palmanter gave them both a quizzical look. “I will leave you then.” To Reeder he said, “You will depart in the morning then?”

  “Yes. A fair night of sleep will help these old bones. Not that I object to sleeping in the woods, but I am not as young as I used to be. I will depart on the morrow.”

  Palmanter nodded. “Well enough. Seek me out before you leave. The Thirteen take counsel tonight.”

  Reeder perked up. “Regarding the Boeotian matter?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He gave Annon a probing look. “Regarding Tyrus Paracelsus. He arrived days ago seeking asylum at Canton Vaud.”

  Annon swallowed, unable to control the sudden urge of emotion that rose in him after hearing his uncle’s name.

  Reeder knew Annon well, especially his expressions. His face softened, and he patted Annon on the shoulder. “You need some wine. And bread. The soup is not as tasty as Dame Nestra’s, but it will give you a moment to silence your seething.” He motioned Annon to the rug and then beckoned for Erasmus to enter. “Come in. You have the look of a Preachán, if ever I saw one. A little tall. You could almost pass for Aeduan except for the nose and the queer eye.”

  Erasmus entered the tent and Reeder offered him the chair where Palmanter had sat. In short order, food was arranged, and they set about eating as the sun sank beyond the towering trees and blanketed the woods in darkness. An oil lamp was lit by Reeder before he took again his cushioned seat and started back in on his dinner.

  “My uncle is here?” Annon asked softly, thinking himself the world’s greatest fool. Tyrus had told them to seek him in Silvandom, but he had misled them deliberately regarding his destination. Annon was angry with himself for not seeing it sooner. The counsel to seek his friend Reeder for advice had allowed him to play right into his uncle’s hands. It was the Uddhava all over again, and he was sick with fury because of it.

  Reeder shrugged complacently. “The Thirteen do not typically discuss their business with me directly. I think your presence startled Palmanter, and so he let it drop to see what impact it had on you. I am as certain as wheat that you will shortly become a topic of conversation among them. That can be good or bad, depending on how feelings go.”

  Annon took a bite from a slice of bread. He chewed it absently, not even tasting it. Erasmus dipped his into the bowl of soup and ravenously ate. He glanced around for more and Reeder motioned toward the bread plate.

  The older Druidecht looked at Annon thoughtfully as he ate. “So you came here seeking me and wound up finding your uncle as well. You did go to Kenatos?”

  Annon nodded, wondering how much he should say. Should he tell Reeder about the blade Iddawc? About the Arch-Rike? About the Kishion who had come? Should he say anything about Drosta and his warning? How much did Reeder already know? Be wise, he warned himself. Do not reveal too much, even to your friend.

  “You are pensive,” Reeder said softly.

  “Much has happened since I left Wayland,” Annon replied. “Tell me of your troubles, though. What is happening in Silvandom that you came to help? Troubles with the Boeotians?”

  Reeder nodded. “You could say that. And I do. They began encroaching on the woods of Silvandom. They are killing trees.”

  Annon frowned. “For profit?”

  “No, they do not seek to trade the wood, or to build with it. They seek to burn it.”

  “For fuel then?”

  Reeder shook his head. “What do you know of the Boeotians, Annon?”

  “Very little. The other kingdoms consider them barbarians. They have no seat of power. No cities. They roam the north just below the fringes of the Scourgelands. They rarely settle but for hunting. They share an enmity with Kenatos and routinely wage war with her. I did not know they liked to burn wood. But are there not many trees in their country?”

  Reeder nodded pensively. “You are mostly right. The Boeotians have a leader who they call the Empress. She does not treat with anyone and they guard and protect her. But the various tribes are fractious, and they do enjoy warring amongst themselves when they are not warring against Kenatos. But let us go to the crux of the matter.” He glanced over at Erasmus, who was nodding off with sleepiness. “There are blankets over there. Sleep, friend.”

  Erasmus yawned uncontrollably and set down his cup. He went over to the pile of blankets and lay down. Reeder stared at him. A spirit full of gossamer threads flittered into the tent and delicately kissed Erasmus’s eyes. His breath came in and out heavily. He was asleep.

  Annon looked at Reeder in confusion.

  “What I have to tell you is Druidecht lore,” Reeder said. His eyes were deadly serious. “It should not be spoken of, even to your uncle. Do you swear it?”

  “I swear it,” Annon replied promptly. He took Erasmus’s chair and pulled it closer to Reeder’s stool. “Tell me.”

  Reeder glanced at the tent door as Nizeera slowly padded inside, eyes wide and glassy. She stroked against Annon’s leg before settling down on the blankets near him, tail flicking this way and that.

  “How well do you know your forest lore?” Reeder asked. “You know of sylphlings. You know of hamadrods and cepints. You know all the spirit life in Wayland. It varies depending on the location. Depending on the menace, you might say. As you can see, there is much spirit life in Silvandom. This is their last bastion of safety.

  “In the mountains of Alkire, they are caught and trapped and bound into service. In the forests of Wayland, where you and I are from, they struggle against the local woodcutters and hunters who do not bother to understand their ways. It leads the poor folk to some harm at times. Of all the spirit life you have learned about, have you ever heard of the spirits that guard the trees? Tell me what you know of the Dryads.”

  Annon stared at him in confusion. “I know nothing. I do not even know that name.”

  Reeder nodded, smiling as if he had not expected Annon to know the secret. “Good. It is not usually part of the Druidecht lore we teach at your age. For good reason, for which you must trust me, young as you are. As I said, they are spirits. They are very rare, Annon. Hidden. Even for spirits, they are quite vulnerable. Dryads are only female. They live inside the trees that they protect, but not in a way that you would understand. Their trees hold the knowledge of the portals to Mirrowen.
r />   “There is very little that is known about the Dryads, the guardians of the Ways. There is a reason for that. You see, it is their defense. They protect the knowledge stored in their trees in a special way. When someone approaches, they appear before the intruder suddenly. They are said to be very beautiful. But no one can remember what they look like, for they steal your memories. Look at them once, and you forget what it is you came to do. There is no magic that can prevent this from happening. That is why it is only said that they are beautiful. They do not allow those who have seen them to remember, so they can protect their trees from harm. A Dryad can preserve a tree and live for a thousand years. There are a lot of memories in their trees, many secrets.”

  Reeder licked his lips, keeping his voice low, “Now for the Boeotians’ purpose. The Boeotians are not coming into Silvandom to harvest firewood. They hunt the Dryads and destroy their trees. How do they know of them? How do they know which trees to cut down?” He gave a big shrug. “This is Druidecht lore, and we do not share it. But they have a way to know which tree belongs to a Dryad. And they come to hew it down with axes and then burn it.”

  A chill went down Annon’s spine. As Reeder spoke, a memory stirred to life in his mind. A twisted, aging oak in the courtyard within the Paracelsus Towers. An old, desiccated tree. Unusually placed in such a vast throng of humanity.

  Annon swallowed, his stomach fluttering with the memory and its implications. “Is there a certain kind of tree the Dryads choose, Reeder?” He felt he already knew the answer. But it was confirmed from Reeder’s lips.

  “The oak, my boy. The mighty oak is their home.”

  The hour was late, and Erasmus continued to quietly snore on the stack of blankets in the corner of the pavilion. Annon waved away another offer to fill his cup with wine. His head throbbed dully and his stomach was queasy with information and the lateness of the hour. Reeder finished off his cup with a mighty swallow and wiped his mouth with his arm.

  “Thank you for trusting me with all that has happened to you,” Reeder said, for Annon had changed his mind about revealing all to his mentor. He shook his head in disbelief. “You are caught in a snare, to be sure. The more you wriggle, the tighter the noose.”