The young Druidecht nodded, staring off into the distance. It surprised him how much of the hurt was still in his heart. He thought he had buried it long ago. Yet the pain of the memory suddenly was fresh, and tears pricked his eyes. He refused to give in to them, though. Memories could torment like poison.
His uncle had finally appeared. It was ten years before, when he was not yet a boy of eight. How young he had been. How softhearted. Uncle Tyrus loomed over him, an obelisk of iron will, his amber beard grizzled with gray. He looked uncomfortable being with Annon, as if the boy’s presence caused him pain that he was determined to endure. It was so long ago, but he could never forget that moment of hope. His uncle had come for him at last. Tyrus had taught him about his anger. He had warned Annon what it could do. He had even shown him, and Annon remembered with guilty pleasure the look of his hands as the flames leapt from his fingertips. Most importantly, he had revealed the Vaettir words that could tame fire. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon stared at his hands, struggling to subdue the disappointment of lost hope.
As a young boy, he craved to learn the lore of the Paracelsus. He wanted to learn it desperately, to prove to his uncle he was smart and determined. He assumed his uncle wanted to teach him the ways, to bring him as a student to Kenatos, and open the library corridors stuffed with all the recorded knowledge from all of the races. Annon practiced over and over, learning to control the flames, to control his anger. The invitation never came. A year went by. And another. And yet another. Disappointment turned to shame. Why had his uncle not thought him worthy to learn? Shame turned to guilt. He had done something wrong in his uncle’s eyes. He had failed to act in some way to earn his uncle’s trust. Guilt turned to resentment.
When Annon was twelve, he gave up hope of ever being invited to Kenatos. Four years was long enough to waste on an empty dream. So Annon had redoubled his commitment to learning the Druidecht ways, to immerse himself in the lore. He rose quickly, earning the right to wear a talisman at age sixteen. It was rare for one so young to be so recognized by the inhabitants of Mirrowen. Reeder had not worn his until he was twenty.
He began to pace, his heart rushing with conflicting emotions. Not even Reeder’s singing could distract him from the hive of his thoughts. An outside fire pit crackled and spat, the smoke warding off flies, but Annon stared at the coals, the orange pulsing coals, and he could only think of his hands, his child’s hands cupping a flame. He could reach into that nest of fire and pull out a burning log and it would not harm him so long as he had uttered the words in his mind. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
It had been several years since Annon had summoned that power. When he had rejected his uncle, he had rejected his uncle’s teaching. It was not Druidecht. He should never have been taught how to do it. Annon never told Reeder—or anyone—what happened. He carried it in his memory as a secret shame.
Staring into the eyes of the fire, he wondered if he should obey his uncle’s summons. He did not need to think about it very long, for Annon knew in his heart that he would wonder about it for the rest of his life if he did not. He was no longer that hopeful little boy. He was no longer bound to the past.
Annon was a Druidecht.
“The city of Kenatos was founded centuries ago on an island lake. The location was proposed by an advisor to the Arch-Rike for its proximity to the adjacent kingdoms as well as its defensible position. It took twenty years to build the shipyards on the southeastern shoreline; there, the ships were constructed to ferry the stone and timber and animals required to begin the construction. To this day it remains an icon of cooperation between the races and kingdoms, a monument to the knowledge that wise rulers can band together and work for the good of civilization. I believe that in the end we shall see that those individuals and kingdoms that learned to collaborate and adapt most effectively have prevailed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon had a solid stride and could cover leagues without getting tired. The further north he went, the more sparse the woodlands became. Thinning pockets of boxwood and maple stretched before him, revealing glimpses of the undulating hills, thick with heather and fern. Jays swooped and glided nearby, and he nodded to them in greeting. There were fewer signs of spirits as well, giving the land a dead feel to it that Annon found worrisome.