Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

Annon slid his finger along the smooth wood of the desk, staring at one of the little globes that was still uncovered. He reached his finger toward it, and the wisp of light responded immediately, throbbing into several shades of color: blue, then purple, and then lavender.

“What are these?” Annon asked, his finger nearly touching the glass. “They seem sentient.”

“If you ask a Druidecht about his craft, he will say it is merely Druidecht and nothing more. Do you expect a Paracelsus to be any different? Please do not touch the glass. They are fragile things.”

Annon was tempted to. He stared at the color and the comforting shade. Was it merely a bauble, some craft intended to delight a wealthy man’s little girl? His finger nearly grazed it.

“Where is the Bhikhu temple?” Annon asked simply.

Tyrus gave him a knowing smile.

Annon frowned. He had the very real feeling that he was being manipulated. “You are withholding too much of the story from me. There is much more to this than you are saying.”

Tyrus steepled his fingers over his mouth. “I can only reveal so much at this time. For your own sake. You will have to trust me. Maybe later I will be able to explain what you wish to know.”

“Trust you? That is a bold request. How can I possibly trust you? Surely there is something else you can give me. At least tell me why you did not tell me before.”

He shook his head. “I cannot. I have spent far too much time already. You do not understand the nature of my obligations and duties. I truly have very little time. You must trust me, Annon. Will you aid your sister?”

Annon stared at him as if he were mad. “You may be a terrible uncle, but I will not be a terrible brother. I will see her now.”

“The highest possible stage in moral culture is to realize that we ought to control our thoughts. And no group does this better, in my opinion, than the Bhikhu. This order originated thousands of years ago and was the chief offering of the Vaettir to the establishment of Kenatos. It is said among the Bhikhu that the Vaettir can fly because their thoughts are so elevated. My observations, on the contrary, lead to a more prosaic conclusion. I have witnessed that their ability to float in the air is simply an act of respiration. They inhale and rise. They exhale and sink. It is a strange form of buoyancy that other races experience in bodies of water. Only Vaettir-born have this trait, and thus, the Vaettir make superior Bhikhu. I have been to the training yards and seen younglings race along the ground and then scamper up a wall as if it were not perpendicular to the ground. It is fascinating to observe. One may call their natural power ‘magic.’ In my experience, what is called magic is not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Paedrin saw the girl from the corner of his eye, smothered in shadows against the blazing noonday sun. She moved beneath the covered walk while he was in the middle of the training yard. He noticed the bounce of her hair and her tightly folded arms, and then he saw the gouged staff swinging at his eyes. Had he blinked at that moment, it would have broken his nose. Arching his spine, bending his knees, Paedrin leaned back as the staff whistled just over the tip of his nose. With so much backward momentum, he had no choice but follow it up with a flip, kicking out with his legs before landing on his feet in a low squat.

Another staff went over his head, and Paedrin lunged forward, striking with his fists, three times in rapid motion. The other Bhikhu crumpled and dropped the staff, which Paedrin snatched and spun around from one end. It clacked with another staff and soon the two were sweeping, striking, and parrying until Paedrin caught his opponent’s fingers with an especially well-placed blow, making him yelp and drop his weapon. There she was again, walking down the aisle, arms folded, face intent on the ground, never once looking at the training yard. Her stride was quick and impatient.

Three more charged him the next moment, staves whirling dangerously in circles. It looked impressive to an outsider, but it was easy to disrupt as he jammed his staff into the wheeling wooden spokes. One strike to the chest and the fellow grimaced with pain. Another on his toe with a crunch that probably meant his toenail was cracked and would fall off in a few days. With the staff held before him, Paedrin disarmed the second and third attackers, a series of dizzying blows that were too fast to follow, let alone defend. Crack—crack—clatter. Another staff down.

Paedrin spun on his heel, bringing his weapon over his shoulder and dropping a silently approaching fourth opponent. The fifth and final Bhikhu charged him, face twisted with vengeance. Paedrin planted the end of his staff, took in his breath, and lifted himself up on the pole, swinging his body around it once, his foot clipping the last fighter in the temple, dropping him; Paedrin proceeded to swivel around the staff, coiling around the upper end like a lizard, balancing on it like a pennant of flesh. He made a perfect stance, shoulders back, legs locked, arm extended for balance, fingers raised up. He clung to the top of the staff, held his breath to keep his body floating, enjoying the feel of the sun on his neck and the sweat trickling down his back.