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.
“The Vaettir escaped a terrible Plague by crossing the great waters in mighty ships. They were granted land in the west by the seashore. They were given the land that was once occupied by a race previously destroyed. Just as the Cruithne crossed great deserts and inhabited the mountains of Alkire, the Vaettir claimed the forests known as Silvandom. There is very little need for shipbuilding now, as the great races continue to converge in the hopes of surviving the future devastations to come.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
“My name is Aransetis,” the man said, his voice deep and slightly hushed. He was stern but not unfriendly. “You are my humble guests.”
He entered the room and inclined his head to each of them. “Forgive my appearance if I have startled you. You have traveled long and are weary. In your eyes, I represent those who have hunted you. But I do not serve the Arch-Rike or his minions. This jerkin helps to remind me of our cause. One only knows his enemy when he has worn his shirt, as they say. Welcome to Silvandom. Welcome to the mastermind.”
Paedrin stood and bowed in respect. Hettie had not released her grip on the knife hilt. Her instincts were at war. Kiranrao looked unimpressed, and he gazed at their host with an air of indifference.