Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

There was a horse. Tyrus mounted it, clutching the baby in his arm. Smothered in the wet smell of wool, Annon struggled and whimpered until he cried himself to sleep.

When Annon awoke, he found his head in Neodesha’s lap, her fingers gently stroking his hair. She blotted his tear stains on her embroidered sleeve. Her look was tender.

He looked up at her, his emotions nearly too fragile to speak.

“We are bound together, you and I,” she said. “I experienced your memories as you relived them.” She smiled sadly, continuing to stroke his hair. “I do not think Tyrus of Kenatos means you harm. He felt and feels a certain degree of responsibility for you. The past makes that abundantly clear. Your mother had the fireblood. She was mad. Do not judge him harshly, Annon.” Her fingertip traced the edge of his lip. “Wisdom helps us understand that we are not alone in this great world. The sufferings of others cause us to suffer too. We are all bound. More so than we realize.” She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe it is time you faced the man you’ve known as your uncle. I do not think it coincidence that he is in Canton Vaud right now. Waiting for you.”

Nizeera began to purr. She is right. It is no accident. We face him together, you and I.

“I read this in a volume written a thousand years ago, ‘Tears at times have the weight of speech.’ They do indeed.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Annon would never forget her face.

The Dryad’s kiss had altered him permanently. It was unsettling to realize that his memories were so sharp he could cut himself on them. Insignificant details from his past flitted through his mind as he walked back to Canton Vaud. Nizeera padded silently next to him, subdued by the experience that nearly cost them their lives.

You have powerful allies, Druidecht. And powerful enemies. Be cautious.

It was dawn again when he reached the camp, the night having passed in sullen silence. He was fatigued, weary from the march, but he first sought Reeder’s tent to see if Erasmus was still there. He was not.

He asked for directions to the Thirteen and was pointed toward a series of grand pavilions. Thin trailers of mist crept amidst the awakening Druidecht. Small dashes of light displayed the presence of the morning spirits, some carrying gossip. He was approached by several, some bowing in respect before flitting on. Nizeera’s tail began to swish again. He thought he heard the faint murmur of her purring.

As Annon approached the grand pavilions, he caught sight of Palmanter emerging from the folds. Several spirits attended him, and he nodded his head to them and offered a few words in response. Gazing around the camp, his eyes fell on Annon. He seemed surprised.

“It happened that quickly?” he asked in a low voice after approaching. “You met the Dryad?”

Annon nodded. “I must speak with my uncle.”

Palmanter pursed his lips. “I thought you might. Your Preachán friend is with him.” He put his meaty hand on Annon’s shoulder. “He sought asylum here, lad, but we cannot grant it. He bears something of great evil. A blade that speaks to the mind. We cannot permit it to remain longer in Canton Vaud. There are many Druidecht suffering from its effects. Will you leave with him?”

Annon stared at the older man. He was not sure of the answer. Palmanter sensed his hesitation. His eyes narrowed. “Be wary, Annon. There are stories about your uncle. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Palmanter gestured to another pavilion, a smaller one. Several Bhikhu guarded it.

“He is your prisoner?” Annon demanded.

The older man shook his head. “They are there to protect him from the Kishion. At his request.”

Wise of him, Nizeera thought.

Annon stroked Nizeera’s head and then walked over to the small tent. He could hear voices inside. The Bhikhu stared at him, studying his features, and then nodded; they opened the flap.

Tyrus was inside, sharing a morning meal with Erasmus. Both were seated on large cushions, eating a variety of gathered fruit.

“I estimated you would arrive this morning,” Erasmus said smugly to Annon. “I should have wagered a few ducats on the outcome. Your uncle offered that you would breakfast in the city of Silvandom and not here. I was a fool not to take the wager.”

Tyrus looked up at Annon. “Have you eaten yet?”

Annon shook his head. His jaw muscles felt as hard as iron. He kept his emotions in check and stared at Tyrus’s face for any sign of resemblance. There were the tiny scars, as if claws had ravaged his face long ago.

“There is a place in Silvandom,” Tyrus said. “A bridge on the outskirts of the city proper. Not many know of it because it connects to the city amidst the mountains at a higher elevation. A waterfall is nearby. It’s impressive. There are shops on the bridge. A place for weary travelers to rest before entering the city. A place to eat. It is called Shearwater.”