Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) Read Online Free PDF

Moments after shooing him away, another had come offering to buy his talisman for five hundred pents, then quickly doubled and then tripled the price. He was accosted third by a Preachán who offered to guide him to his destination since he was new. Graves was right about them. Annon was a newcomer, but he was no fool. He ignored them and used the distinctive spires of the towers as his guide.
    There were also Vaettir in Kenatos, though they were few in number; most of them were Bhikhu. They wore the traditionalgray garb of their order, and they patrolled the streets of Kenatos, looking for wrongdoing and offering assistance to those in need. The Vaettir were a tall race, dark-skinned and black-haired, but they did not have the same ashy complexion as the Cruithne. Those who were not Bhikhu wore their hair long and straight, their eyes slightly pointed, always dark. Some had high cheekbones. Others had flat noses. There were varieties that Annon could not understand because he was not from Silvandom. Only the Vaettir could live there permanently.
    With the advent of nightfall, Annon was surprised when light appeared suddenly from atop tall posts with domes of glass. The light was bright, and all of the posts illuminated together at the same moment. There was no smoke. Annon was amazed. All throughout the city, the lights had illuminated at once, turning the hazy dusk into a new dawn. More interestingly, the domes of glass did not give off any smoke or steam. Annon approached one, staring up at the light, trying to determine the source. But it was too tall to see. The light did not shimmer or waver, like a flame would. It was cold and beautiful, like spirit magic.
    He observed some Preachán watching him, and he quickly went on his way before they found something else to try and sell him. He was curious about the lights that glowed all around him. The whole of Kenatos was an impossible jumble of lopsided houses, some built of stone and some of rotting timber and pitch. Chimneys jutted into the sky, spewing smoke. Reeking garbage cluttered the cobbled streets. Carts clacked and rumbled, accompanied by shrieks and warnings, jangling harnesses, and the distant peal of bells. The light from the domes cast away the thickening shadows. Kenatos never slept, it seemed.
    Annon wandered the city slowly, realizing that he was not making good time to the Paracelsus Tower. When he finally reached it, the doors were locked and no one answered afterhe pounded with his fist. The tower had a portcullis for a gate; Annon could see a shriveled oak tree in the courtyard beyond. It was dead, the heavy limbs barren of leaves, the bulky branches spiky and thick with clumps of mistletoe. It was a sullen-looking tree, and Annon pitied it. It was strange to find such a mature oak in the middle of the city.
    Leaving the tower behind, Annon sought a nearby inn off of the main road and was not as fortunate as he was with the ferryman. He did not have to pay for the lodging as long as he slept in the common room, but he was required to pay for his meal. He did, without complaint, and had an ill night’s sleep on the floor.
    During the night, a Preachán ventured too near him, testing to see if he was asleep. Annon heard the other approach and opened his eyes, staring at him coldly. The fellow studied him, wondering if it was worth the bother to rob a Druidecht, and then decided to move on, slipping from person to person for something to steal. Annon’s hands tingled with heat, but he kept a tight rein on his disgust and waited for the passion to subside. In the woods, a spirit would have protected him and frightened the intruder away. He could not wait to leave.

    In the morning, Annon vacated the inn and returned to the Paracelsus Tower. The portcullis was open and he passed beneath it warily, staring up at the sharp spikes as he passed. He paused at the oak, running his palm across the husk-like bark. It looked decayed and withered, a sad replica of a