Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

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.