Annon smiled nervously. “Not that I doubt your skills, sister, but I imagine Kiranrao can afford a Finder himself. We may have to confront them. Like we did on the road to Havenrook.”
Paedrin turned to look at them. “Only after they have killed me first. Save your magic. I’m not afraid of Kiranrao.”
“You should be,” Hettie said.
“And why is that?” Paedrin challenged. “No one speaks of him in Kenatos. No one even knows his name.”
Hettie rolled over and looked at him. “Not now, Paedrin, but the Arch-Rike has offered a reward for his death so vast that even the Romani are tempted to betray him. He stole something from the Arch-Rike’s palace and got away. Very few people have been able to do such a thing or fear the Arch-Rike too much to try. Kiranrao is dangerous and he is deadly.”
“Which is why I’d prefer we stay ahead of him,” Annon said. “Does he know about the fireblood?”
“Does he know that I have it?” she asked.
“That’s not what I meant. Does he know that it exists?”
Hettie shrugged. “I am sure he keeps a vial of our blood with him at all times to ward off the Plague. Yes, I am fairly confident he knows about our race.”
Paedrin leaned forward. “What exactly is your race? You never said in the woods before we reached Havenrook.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Annon replied. “We do not know what the race is called, only that it gives us the power of the fireblood. That power grows as we age, but also becomes more uncontrollable. We were taught the words to tame it and warned never to lose control of it.”
“If anyone says those words, can it be controlled?” Paedrin asked.
Hettie shook her head. “No, it does not work like that. We say it in our minds before summoning the power. It helps us control it.”
“But we run the risk of losing control,” Annon said. “I would rather not use it at all. But if Kiranrao is hunting us, we may not have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” Paedrin said. “If I hear them coming, I will wake you.”
“If you all stop talking,” Erasmus complained, “We will all be able to sleep. I told you this journey was impossible at the beginning. We may make it there before he catches us. But not away. I hold to my prediction.”
Annon nestled down amidst his blanket. He stared at Hettie and saw her eyes gazing up at the stars.
“He is right about one thing, you know,” Annon whispered.
“Paedrin or Erasmus?”
“Paedrin.”
She rolled and looked at him, waiting for his explanation.
“You are already free.”
Her lips pursed. “We will see, Annon. We will see.”
He lay his head down, but it took a while before he fell back asleep. Hettie’s warning about Kiranrao lodged in his throat.
“When the Plague strikes, it is different every time. In one generation, the sickness caused sores around the mouth and joints. In another, it caused a red, irritating rash. Each time it leaves a telltale sign of its devastating presence. White spores. Yellow skin. Red flux. When the Plague strikes a community, it ravages it quickly, leaving the majority dead. Some try and flee the Plague, which helps it spread to other cities and kingdoms. The change in symptoms has made it very difficult to cure. One thing is certain. When the Plague strikes, the people die.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The climb into the mountains of the Cruithne taxed their strength. Annon had been raised in the woods of Wayland, full of hardwoods like oak and walnut and crisscrossed with streams and brooks and wild berries. The higher they climbed, the more the mountains transformed the surroundings. Towering pine and cedar, rocky ledges, the occasional thunder of waterfalls. The footing was difficult, upward, with the taunting of jackdaws and blue jays. The strain on his legs and breathing revealed a weakness he had not experienced before. Paedrin did not seem troubled at all; neither did Hettie. But Erasmus wheezed and needed to rest constantly.
There was no trail to guide them, but Erasmus knew the way. He would often stop at a tree, feeling the rough bark for a sign of some sort, a memory from the past. He would nod and then point the right way. He seldom spoke, but he observed the woods continually and mumbled to himself.
After two days, the tension in Annon’s mind had begun to ebb concerning their pursuers, but the peace ended abruptly with the whispers from several tree spirits clustered in a grove of pine that warned of danger behind them. Many spirits from Mirrowen traveled alongside birds, and Kiranrao’s band had been spied earlier that day, following their trail closely.
When Annon announced this to the others, he was met with grave looks from Hettie, a dubious one from Paedrin, and a curt nod from Erasmus.
“We are still another day or two away from Drosta’s lair,” Erasmus said. “They have caught up with us faster than I expected. They may overtake us before sunset if we do not hurry.”