Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen #1)

Annon’s temper began to simmer at the contemptuous greeting. But he was eighteen, not eight. A man now. He pushed at the nicked door and it slid shut with a firm thud.

The floor was made of stone tiles, arranged in a complicated succession of angles, but Annon noticed obvious scorch marks throughout. It was swept and showed no dust. He expected the air to smell musty, but instead it contained a strange mix of fragrances—like cooking spices and flowers he could not name, as well as the hint of wood wax. The books on the window seat were of various sizes, but all bound in leather with ornate gold fluting at the corners. Some were quite hideworn and others relatively new. Annon could not discern a speck of dust except for on the windowsill.

Annon approached a bronzework brazier, admiring the craftsmanship. “Your accomodations are lavish. You’ve actually managed to seclude yourself from the city, which is not an easy feat. I don’t think I can even smell it up here.”

Tyrus smiled at the remark, intent on a glass globe containing a wraithlike substance, and then he rose from the table. He was taller than Annon, but only barely. There was no sign of pain in his expression, no stoop to his back. He looked hale and strong for a man past his prime.

The curtains by the window were velvet with threaded tassels that secured them to tall iron rings. The room would be quite dark if they were closed. Other than the brazier, there was no fireplace, but narrow vents in the ceiling above the room. A section of wall was pocked, as if something heavy had smashed into it, and ribbons of cracks ran through it. Annon had no idea what sort of work his uncle really did. Another door in the wall behind the desk probably led to his sleeping chamber. There were no gouge marks in it.

“You already know that I’m a terrible uncle,” Tyrus said matter-of-factly. “I faced those limitations a very long time ago. You look well. Did you have any trouble along the way here? The taverns are ripe with tales from the kingdoms beyond. The dangers that walk the land…”

“There was more danger within the city than without,” Annon said. He waited for Tyrus to explain. He did not want to appear overly anxious to hear Tyrus’s news or too eager.

“What news in Wayland? Any new treaties signed?”

Annon shrugged. “I would not know.”

“You do not keep abreast of politics in the King of Wayland’s court then?”

“I am a Druidecht, Uncle. My place is the politics of nature. I can tell you about a beaver’s dam that was disturbed by woodcutters. Does that interest you?”

“Not really.”

Annon knew his uncle was testing him. He did not want to play games. He knew if he waited long enough, the truth would come out. He was not disappointed.

“Why not cut to the quick? I sent for you for two reasons, Annon. You barely know me, and that is my fault. But it’s not that I don’t have interest in you, lad. My…responsibilities in the tower are only getting heavier. I am not free to come and go as I would wish. My work keeps me confined to Kenatos.”

He glanced down at the tabletop and then withdrew a thin golden circle with a cut in the middle—a hoop. He sighed. “I probably should have done this earlier, but it is too late for regrets.” Tyrus looked at Annon fiercely, his expression no longer calculating. He looked deadly earnest. “You see, boy…you have a sister. I should have spoken of her before, but I did not. But now it is out in the open.”

There was no way to prepare for such news, so it struck Annon in the pit of his stomach and nearly stole his voice. For a moment, he could not breathe. The words buzzed in his ears. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I believe you heard and understood me.”

Tyrus had always been his only relation. His parents were dead. He had been told that explicitly. The Plague had taken his father. Sadness had killed his mother. Emotions flooded inside his chest, but the chief of them was rage. Blood-scalding, fire-seething, implacable rage.

“Her name is Hettie.”

“I cannot believe that you…”

“Let me finish, Annon.”

“You tell me I have a sister as if you are commenting on the weather. For pity’s sake, how do you think this makes me feel about you?”

Annon tried desperately to tame the anger roiling inside. A sister? How could that even be possible? Was it some sort of trick? Tyrus was the sort who manipulated others for his own ends. Reeder had warned him of that, but surely Reeder had not known. His loyalty was to Annon, not Tyrus. He would have told him if he had a sister.

“You are angry.”

“Obviously that matters very little to you, or you would have told me earlier. This is outrageous. I’m not sure I should even believe you,” Annon said, his voice nearly choking with rage and humiliation. “Surely, Uncle, you would have said something before now if it were true.”