Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen #1)

“A liar, am I?” Tyrus said, his eyes like flint. “Really, Annon, I told you before that you needed to master your temper. This will not do.”


“How did you expect me to react?” Annon said, his voice shaking. The emotions spun and twisted him. He took a step forward, not sure what he would do.

A glass globe on the varnished desk suddenly lit with orange light. It was bright, like the sparks from a blacksmith’s anvil. The light darted and bounced against the curve of the glass, toward Annon, as if it were a little bee stinging in rage.

Tyrus scowled with annoyance. “Be still,” he muttered and fetched a dark velvet rag to cover the globe. “You are angry and rightly so. I owe you an explanation. I was attempting that when you began spitting at me.” He glanced over some of the other globes, which also started to flicker awake with light. He whistled a low tone, and then began to warp it into a tune, a haunting yet soothing melody. He glanced at Annon and then scooped something up from the table.

Tyrus held up the golden hoop. “You are not the only one who has known a life of pain, Annon. I was raised in an orphanage here in Kenatos. My sister brought me here as an infant to earn wages scribing languages. My brother…to be honest, I would rather not even talk about him. I know about loneliness and unfulfilled hopes. I overcame them, and I have prospered here. You can even give me some credit in choosing your mentor. Now tame your feelings. Master yourself. We do not have much time, and you need to understand something. You told me that you know of beavers and woodcutters, but what do you know of the Romani?”

Annon struggled against his feelings, for he desperately still wanted to lash out at Tyrus. Sweat trickled down his ribs as he battled to tame himself. Irritation clung to his voice. “Everyone knows of the Romani. They run goods between kingdoms, except for Silvandom. They are worse than thieves.”

“About their customs? Do you know what this is?”

“It is an earring. Romani wear them, the boys as well as the girls.” Annon was impatient. He wanted to know about his sister, not the Romani. “Their ears are pierced at a young age, as babies, I believe. I’ve met several caravans through Wayland, though never trusted them. I was warned not to.”

“You are correct. The Romani travel the lands and move goods from one place to another. They steal anything that has value. Give it a thought, Annon, but you are probably still too angry. What has the most value in a land routinely cursed with Plague? Children. They are worth more than gold ducats. The Romani covet children. When they are stolen, they are marked in their ear by a single hoop. This they wear until they are eight, when they are first sold. The fee is for ten years.”

Tyrus set down the hoop and waved his hands over several of the glass globes resting in intricate metal stands all over his desk. As his hand passed over them, some flared and flickered. Some dashed against the glass, as if trying to sting his hand. Some glowed brightly and remained lit.

His voice snagged Annon’s attention back. “Then the Romani return and take back what was sold. They are sold again at eighteen. This is when their other ear is marked. Two hoops. They are sold again, ten years later. And again. And again. Each time, the price decreases until they are old. Each time, they earn another ring.”

“It sounds like a miserable life,” Annon said distastefully. “Do they marry?”

Tyrus nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. The Rikes of Seithrall would ban them from Kenatos if they did not. But the marriage only lasts until the term is done. If the husband refuses to pay again, they can be sold to another man.”

“What if the child is a boy?”

“We are not speaking of the boys, Annon. We are speaking about the girls because you need to understand this to understand your sister. Hettie was stolen by the Romani when she was a babe. As you are almost eighteen yourself, so is she. You are twins but look nothing alike. It is time for her to be sold for her second hoop.”

Annon shook his head, astounded. His emotions were simmering now, but he was still incredulous. “You are serious? She was stolen from you?”

“If I had a black ring like the Rikes wear, I would give it to you. Yes, she was stolen.”

“And you are telling me that with all of your resources, you could not reclaim her? You have no small reputation in this city, Uncle.”

“Which the Romani know. You do not understand them as well as you pretend.”