Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

“A little farther,” the Bhikhu said, looking at her with a shrewd smile. “I think you will make it.”

They crossed fourteen bridges and steps cut into the mountains. More and more homes and structures could be seen. Her stomach was ravenous with hunger. But she would not stop to eat if the men did not. Her pride demanded she keep up.

After the fifteenth bridge and an agonizingly painful set of steps going down, they passed another chasm that opened up into a valley.

Hettie stared at in shock and felt tears sting her eyes.

Never in her life had she imagined such a place of beauty could exist.

Silvandom.

It was nearly sunset when they reached the prince’s estate on the eastern outskirts of Silvandom. The Bhikhu who had guided them nodded in farewell and left without a word, floating into the air and off to another destination. A destination he would reach much faster this time.

They were met by a Vaettir woman who was perhaps a little older than she or Paedrin. She was pretty, in a very subdued way. She had long jet-black hair that was perfectly straight. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, but did appear to be in some form of ceremonial dress.

“Welcome to Silvandom,” she said perfectly in their language. “My cousin, Prince Aran, will join you shortly. He asked me to offer hospitality. My name is Khiara Shaliah.”

The word seemed to interest Kiranrao. “A healer?”

She nodded meekly. The estate was not what Hettie expected. In Wayland or Stonehollow, the rich had opulent palaces, but that was not the fashion in Silvandom. It was an open-air estate and made of stone. The buildings were interconnected by bridges and garden paths. The setting was private and secluded, not as bustling as the deeper center of the city proper had been.

With the light fading outside, Hettie found the interior lit with a few candles and oil lamps, giving it a natural darkness. Incense burned in the air, flavoring each breath.

Khiara led them to a chamber with a low table and cushions. There were no chairs. She motioned for the table. “There are bowls, spoons, and eating sticks. Many years ago, this house sacrificed much to save the citizens of Silvandom. In return, the home is blessed with food. Think of what you would eat and it will appear inside the bowl. You may eat your fill. There are no servants here. The prince delights to serve his guests personally, but he has asked me to on his behalf as he is currently busy. He will join you shortly.”

Hettie approached one of the cushions and seated herself gratefully. Her legs and back were exhausted. She watched Paedrin seat himself and stare at the bowl in front of him. It filled with steaming rice with small seeds and he looked surprised. Taking two long sticks from the table, he lifted the bowl and began shoveling the hot rice in his mouth. Kiranrao knelt on the cushion, formally, and his bowl filled with a dark, steaming soup.

She thought of stew she had made with Evritt. He had taught her how to cook it just the way he liked it. Her bowl filled instantly. Raising it to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance. The smell made her mouth water. Taking the cropped spoon from the table, she ladled some into her mouth and was amazed that it tasted so delicious. It was like eating a memory. She could see his wizened eyes. She could almost hear his words. Evritt’s life was in her hands. If she betrayed Kiranrao, she knew he would be poisoned too. The feeling made the soup taste bitter.

Khiara watched them begin their meal. She let them eat for several moments and then sat on a nearby cushion herself. “You walked a great distance today. There is shelter here to sleep and rest. Tyrus said we could expect two of you.” Her eyes went to Kiranrao. “I did not know we would receive a third.”

“Luck comes in threes,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

“That is so. Tyrus passed through here recently. He went to Canton Vaud, the seat of the Druidecht hierarchy. They are here in Silvandom now.”

Hettie squirmed in her pillow. “Is it far?”

“He will come here,” she answered. “Many years ago, he came here as a child to wait out the Plague. His sister’s blood is on the lintel of the great house. No one who was here died of the Plague that year. None have died since. He is greatly esteemed in this house. My cousin esteems him the most.” Her eyes brightened for a moment as she seemed to look over their shoulders at someone else.

“I do,” said a stern voice. Hettie turned and saw the man enter. He was Vaettir-born, but had not shorn his hair to nubs like a Bhikhu. What struck her immediately were his clothes. He wore a dark black tunic with a high collar, marking him as a Rike of Seithrall.

She flinched, her hand straying to the knife at her belt.