Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  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.

  “Hettie!” Annon called, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her off-balance.

  The forest all around them was blazing with heat and billowing black plumes that arched skyward. The flames would rage and battle the rest of the forest. He could not let that happen.

  “Hettie!” he called again, trying to get her eyes to focus. She blinked rapidly, unable to focus, a half-smile of pleasure on her mouth.

  He smacked her hard. Pain was all it took. She shook her head, as if emerging from a dream, and the flames in her hands sputtered out. Her legs gave out, and she nearly collapsed, but he caught her.

  Annon turned, glancing at Paedrin, and saw a look of shock and utter horror on his face. It was a look that said what are you?

  Then Paedrin glanced over Annon’s shoulder, and he was suddenly in the air, zooming like a raven and coming down on the Preachán who had threatened them, scrabbling down the road to escape the flames and the strangers who had unleashed it.

  “Of all the races to have survived the great Plague, there is one feared more than any other because they, of all people, cannot be harmed by it. The race appears as Aeduan as any Waylander. They are often mistaken for Paracelsus because they can summon fire into their hands and use it to harm others. A Paracelsus can only do this through an implement of magic, such as a ring or a bracelet. Curiously, the majority of this race have red hair. They are hated in Stonehollow. Though there are sparse records, I have learned that in the distant past, they used their immunity from the Plague to enrich themselves and their fellows. In places where the Plague destroyed entire villages, save their own kind, they inherited the wealth abandoned by their dead neighbors. They rose to thrones, principalities, and increased their dominion through deception and flattering words. In addition to calling fire into their hands, they are quick to learn and master skills, especially the skills of persuasion. This invoked jealousy, for men always distrust those wiser than themselves. And when it was eventually discovered that it was their ‘fireblood’ that made them immune to the Plague, the people of Stonehollow rose up against them when the seasons of Plague came. I watched this myself. A rumor of Plague came from the north. A rumor that turned out to be false. But a woman, red-haired and young, was dragged to a pillory in the center of town. They cut her with knives and collected her blood, which they brushed on the lintels of their homes. Many homes, they claimed, had been spared from the Plague in the past by so doing. Thus one death could save an entire village. The folk of Stonehollow do not consider this murder. No one would give me the name of this race. And no one with this blood willingly admits it.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  With flames devouring the woods and smoke billowing wildly, Annon motioned Hettie to join him as Paedrin hauled the trembling Preachán to his feet. The little man had paled as white as milk. He thrashed against Paedrin’s grip for a moment before the Bhikhu gripped his hand, twisted his wrist, and suddenly he was helpless, his arm pinned behind his back.

  Annon fingered the Druidecht talisman mixed with the necklaces around the man’s neck. He gripped it and snapped the chain that held it, his anger still smoldering in his heart.

  “I am worth more to you alive than dead,” the Preachán pleaded. “There are others…wait…what I mean is that there are ducats. Many ducats. Casks of ducats…”

  “I’m not interested in ducats,” Annon said coldly.

  “You may not, but the Romani girl might,” he said with a tremor in his voice. “Eh, lass? Ducats aplenty. I can lead you there. I didn’t notice the earring at first, forgive me. Had I known, I never would have presumed…”

  “Yes, you would have,” Hettie said, her look full of loathing. “Kill him now. He’s of no use to us.”

  Annon saw the glint in Paedrin’s eye, the sour expression of loathing. He remembered that they never willingly shed blood.

  “How far is Havenrook?” Annon asked.

  “A few leagues,” he replied, trying to seem helpful. “I know a place you could stay…”

  “Somehow I doubt we can trust your recommendations,” Paedrin said. “Several leagues, you say?”

  “Several. Maybe six? I forget. You will get there before nightfall if you hurry.” He was panting, his eyes darting back and forth at their faces, trying to read in them any possible way to save his life.

  Paedrin released his arm and shoved him hard, making him stumble and fall. As the Preachán turned and faced them, eyes dancing with worry, Paedrin swiveled his staff in a swishing circle and then jammed the butt into the tip of the man’s toes with crushing force. There came from his mouth a howl of pain as he crumpled to the road in total agony.

  “When we get there does not matter,” Paedrin said, “so long as we get there before you. I suggest hobbling along quickly before the flames catch up with you.” Giving a curt nod to Annon and Hettie, he said, “Let’s go.”

  Crippling the man was a nice touch, Annon thought. Waves of heat from the flames pressed against their backs as they quickly left the scene of the ambush. The plumes of smoke would be seen as far away as Havenrook, in all likelihood. And it would halt traffic on the road until they were quenched. He did not care.

  After they had left the lamed Preachán far behind, Paedrin suddenly whirled on them, his face flushed with anger. His voice was low and controlled, but his eyes were blazing. “What was that, back there?” he said sharply, pointing toward the road. “You started the forest burning! I thought you were a Druidecht, a protector of the woods.”

  Annon stared at him in surprise, and then he understood. To a man raised in a city, fire was a considerable threat and needed safeguards to control it. “Paedrin, you must learn to trust me. I am a Druidecht. I would never do anything to harm a forest.”

  The other opened his mouth in amazement. “You just set fire to it!”

  “Fire is how a forest is reborn. There are certain trees that will only release their seeds during a firestorm. Oaks, for example, need fires to properly grow and to prevent being crowded out by weaker trees. This forest cannot even be properly called one. Green wood does not burn very well, Paedrin.”

  “There was no need to butcher those men, though.”

  Annon met his stare. “They are the butchers, Paedrin. They chose their kill unwisely this time.”

  The Bhikhu squeezed his eyes shut, as if choking off a retort and struggling to master himself. He opened his eyes slowly. “I was sent here to protect you both. Taking life should always be the final resort. The last option. I have been trained all of my life to fight. To maim. To hurt. To choke. To squeeze a man to within an inch of his life. But not to kill him. Not unless there is no other choice. That was not the case today. I was going to intervene. I tried to whisper it to you, but you would not hear it.”

  “I am sorry,” Annon said.

  The Bhikhu stopped, dazed.

  “I should have warned you,” Annon continued, mastering his temper. He understood the Bhikhu’s feelings, while not agreeing with them himself. The sentiments were admirable. “I respect your beliefs. I respect the foundation of your order. But those men have no laws. They would have killed us without hesitation. I did not feel it right to ask you to do the same to them.”

  “The next time…” Paedrin said, his voice rising.

  “Spare us a sermon,” Hettie said, her voice full of disdain.

  He rounded on her. “The next time we face trouble like that…”

  “I will use my knife, or an arrow, or my hands if that will suffice,” she answered hotly. “We are not at the temple anymore. This is the wide world. No one cares how you feel about it.”

  Annon watched Paedrin swallow, his eyes blazing with fury. “I was orphaned in Kenatos.
I have seen every sort of man seek shelter in the temple. The wildest drunk to the sneakiest purse snatcher. I am not a child, and this is not my first experience with the wide world. Pain is a teacher. Pain is a harsh teacher. I have broken my fingers. I have broken my leg twice. My arm has been twisted out of its joint three times.” He took a step closer to her, his face barely a breath from hers. “I am not afraid of hurting or bleeding or even dying. But when we come across trouble in the future, we will spare life. I insist on it. Or I will school you both as I have been schooled.”

  Hettie’s eyes glittered like daggers. “You know nothing of pain,” she said softly.

  Annon put his hand on Paedrin’s shoulder. “Very well, Paedrin. That is only fair. We startled you today. I did not wish to do that. In the future, you will get the first chance to make peace or finish things the Bhikhu way. If it works, well and good. If not, at least you know what we can do.”

  There was a hard line across Paedrin’s mouth as he stared at Hettie. He glanced briefly at Annon, nodded once, and then stepped away from her, still scowling. “How is it that you both can summon fire from your hands? Is it magic your uncle gave you? I have seen rings and bracelets that contain special powers, but never something like what I saw you both do.”

  Annon glanced at Hettie and then looked back at him. “I have asked for your trust, and so I will trust you in return. It is something we were born with,” he replied. “We may look like Aeduan, but there is something in our blood that gives us this power. It is called the fireblood. I have never used it like that before, and I normally would not have chosen to, but I have no Druidecht power in a place like this. In some kingdoms our race is persecuted. I will only use it as a final resort.”

  Paedrin looked at Hettie narrowly and then back at Annon. “It seems your sister went a little too far with it today. You had to strike her to get her to stop. I volunteer next time.” He started back on the road at a brisk walk, never looking back at them.

  Annon glanced at Hettie, trying to understand her. She stared at Paedrin with a look of defiance, her mouth twisted unpleasantly downward. Then she whispered, “Thank you, Annon. I nearly lost myself in the flames. The men hiding in the rubbish were not Preachán. They were Romani.”

  As she said the final word, her eyes burned with hatred.

  “How many times have you used it?” Annon asked her, pulling her after him. “I was worried about you. The look in your eyes frightened me.”

  She nodded, casting her gaze down. “Me as well. I don’t like to use it. It makes you want to use it again and again. There are stories of those who go mad.”

  “I know,” Annon said, gripping her arm so that they could keep pace with each other. “I think you have used it more than I have. If we face danger like that again, let me act alone at first. Resist it, Hettie. Unless I need you.”

  Without arguing, she gazed into his eyes, a haunted expression in hers.

  To call Havenrook a town implied that there were borders and streets and houses. That was a better description of Kenatos. Instead, Havenrook was a stockyard adjacent to a slaughterhouse—all pens and sheds and braying animals, smoke, and reeking fumes. There were wagons loaded with various cargo; wiry Preachán men stood atop, shouting bids for each wagonload there. The words mixed with flashing hands, tapped noses, until a bell tolled signaling the end of the trade. A cart of lettuces was sold. A wagon loaded with apple barrels lumbered by. Pens of pigs and black-and-white cows filled every available space. The crowds were endless. By the cups of beer sloshing in nearly every available hand, Annon realized that the trades were probably turned over three or four times before dawn when the Romani caravans would start off on a new day.

  As Hettie, Annon, and Paedrin entered the fray, looking for anything even remotely resembling an inn, a constant shove and jostle tensed Annon’s patience into a thin wire again. Paedrin was the only Vaettir amidst the crowd of Aeduan and Preachán. Some looked at him in surprise, leered at him, and continued haggling over a cask of salted fish.

  The smell of Havenrook was six degrees of dying. Goods were exchanged. Heavy chests loaded with ducats exchanged hands as well. The jarring noise of the callers, the snapping and whistling and goading of horseflesh had made him physically ill.

  Paedrin slapped his palm down against a man’s hand that was groping at his robes, then he quickly torqued one of his fingers and snapped it, making the man howl in pain. With a shove, he sent him sprawling away.

  Annon looked at him in surprise.

  “He touched me,” Paedrin said with disgust. “Keep going. Any thoughts on where we will find your friend?”

  Annon shook his head, but looked at the largest building that he could find. It was possibly an inn, but it seemed about ready to collapse under the weight of its beams. Miraculously, the crowd thinned around them after Paedrin had broken the man’s finger. Pain was a teacher, indeed.

  Hettie lifted her hood and covered her hair, keeping close to Annon. Her face was impassive, but he thought he could sense fear and loathing in her eyes. There was a steady stream of men and women coming from the doors of the enormous, misshapen building. Most emerged with tankards or mugs. As they drew nearer to the doors, Annon noticed a hulking Cruithne standing outside, soot-skinned and muscles bulging. With the thickening shadows, they had not seen him before.

  “I thought the Cruithne hated the Preachán,” Annon muttered to himself.

  “Everyone has a price,” Hettie answered. “And in Havenrook, everything is for sale.”

  The Cruithne scanned those coming and going, his eyes blue and dark like jewels. He noticed them and scowled.

  Annon approached him directly. “Erasmus?”

  He studied them a moment and then nodded toward the doors, letting them enter.

  Inside was a huge gallery filled almost entirely with tables. Gathered around each one hung crowds of Preachán, most of them gesticulating wildly, shouting at men with small silver tokens who sat at the heads of the tables. At one table, they seemed to be trading a cargo of pears. At another table, they were trading for a girl with one Romani earring. Annon’s stomach lurched when he saw the men bidding for her. At another table, they were betting on whether a caravan would arrive safely at its destination. At another, they were betting on the outcome of dice. The noise was deafening.

  Hettie squeezed Annon’s arm, and he turned to look at her. Her upper lip had a sheen of sweat. “He’s looking at me.”

  Annon followed her gaze. Across the room, there was a cluster of chairs and a crowd of Romani men and women lounging amidst the chaos. In the center of the hive sat a tall man, darkly handsome, with Vaettir-like eyes and long jet-black hair. He was adorned with a bejeweled doublet and a gaudy black ring on his hand. Not just any ring, a ring of a Rike of Kenatos. There was something undeniably lazy about his slouch, but his slanted eyes belied the laziness—they were alert, probing everything happening in the room. He had taken notice of their entrance immediately.

  He raised his hand to a gold hoop in his ear and massaged it.

  Hettie gasped.

  “What is it?” Annon asked.

  “He summons me,” Hettie whispered with dread. “I must obey.”

  Annon tugged at her arm as she started away from them, stopping her. “You do not have to go,” he murmured.

  “You don’t understand, Annon. That is Kiranrao. No one defies him. He has more ducats than the Arch-Rike. He can buy anyone or anything he wants. Believe me, I must go.” She gave him a desperate look. “Find Erasmus. Quickly.”

  “Why is it that the Cruithne dwell in the mountain passes and the Preachán live amidst dying trees? Why do those in Stonehollow dwell amidst massive stones and Waylanders the open plains? Why an island kingdom? People are where they are because that is exactly where they really want to be—whether they will admit that or not.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  The din and howling commotion in that horrible room made Paedrin’s thoug
hts seize up with icy blackness. The unmistakably raw demonstration of greed made his fists clench, his eyes narrow, and his breath seep from his body. As soon as they had entered, he had absorbed the scene in its fullness, every tinkling coin, every grunt of a bid, every gulp of ale or sour wine, and every horrid stinking breath from a hundred stinking Preachán. There in the periphery, like a king in court, sat the king of greed himself—a wretch known as Kiranrao. He had Vaettir blood. The fury congealing in Paedrin’s chest made him forget every person in the room except for two.

  He watched Hettie submit, drops of nervous sweat forming on her brow. Whether she knew him or not, she knew of him. Still wearing her mask of aloofness, she maneuvered through the crowd to him. Paedrin followed like her shadow.

  As they threaded the knot of men and mugs and things for sale, Paedrin studied the Romani more closely. His doublet was fine, no doubt, but the rest of his garb was casual and ordinary. The pants, for example, could have been any tradesman’s. The shirt beneath the doublet, also black, was open at the throat though he wore a silken collar that would have made an excellent handle to choke him with. His boots were nicked and scuffed, not the polished black of the gentry. His hands were brown and large, fingernails immaculately trimmed. The black hair was combed back, part of it tethered in a braid and fashioned with a pin, and his teeth were white, barely visible past a wry smile as he studied Hettie.

  The way he sat in his chair reminded Paedrin of a lounging alley cat. His arm draped around the back of another chair, lazily displaying the huge black beetle of a ring, flaunting for all to see what he had obtained from a Rike of Kenatos. No one could lie to Kiranrao, that much was certain. The ring detected any falsehood.

  Hettie reached the cluster of Preachán and Romani thronging him. She stood at the outer edge, chin high, eyes haughty as she had always proven to be. It was then, when they were close, that Paedrin noticed the sword belted to Kiranrao’s hip. He almost started when he looked directly at it and it wasn’t there. A trick of the light? He looked away and noticed it again, hidden in the shadows of his dusky blue rider’s cloak. It seemed to fade in and out of view, and Paedrin found himself blinking furiously, his mind starting to haze from staring at it too long, as happens to a child when gazing at the sun.