Tyrus rose to his full height. He withdrew the long cylindrical object that Annon had last seen him holding. Holding it in his fist, he extended his arm toward Annon.
“If we had made that wager this would be cheating,” Erasmus said as he gobbled another piece of fruit and hurriedly stood. He rested his hand on Tyrus’s arm.
Annon stared at the jeweled object. There were stones set into cunningly worked gold. The stones sparkled in the lamplight. The device was extended to him—an offer. An invitation.
“You are not my uncle,” Annon said, unwilling to move. His anger started to rekindle. He shoved it back violently.
“I know,” Tyrus answered simply. “Come with me. Learn the truth. I promised you in my tower that you would.”
Annon hesitated. A part of him whispered a warning. Another part of him was too curious to resist. This was the invitation to learn Tyrus’s secrets. He knew it would only be offered once. He had to make a decision. One choice was to stay at Canton Vaud and learn more of the Druidecht ways. The other was to accompany Tyrus and eventually face the Scourgelands.
He reached out and gripped the open end of the cylinder.
“Have a hold on your cat,” Tyrus said, a pleased glint in his eye. As Annon grabbed the ruff of Nizeera’s neck, he heard the angelic song of spirits shudder as the device made everything go black.
In a moment, the blink of an eye, they were leagues away. The air was frigid and sharp. It smelled of fir trees and juniper. The land was choked with snow. They stood on a stone bridge, wide enough for a single wagon to cross. On the other side was a stone house with works of timber for a roof and faded red tiles. The roof had a curious slant to the corners, which were pointed like an ox’s horns. Instead of a straight edge, it sagged, creating little dips and sways that gave it a distinguished appearance. There were three levels to the building—a large main section of house and then two narrower levels forming a second and third floor, each with their own slanted rooflines and pointed corners.
The strange house was built into the rock itself, and it was difficult to see where the walls began and the mountainside ended. The air was frightfully cold, and Annon hugged himself immediately.
“Look,” Tyrus said, pointing at the edge of the bridge down into a lush valley below.
Annon stared in amazement. The valley was teardrop shaped and full of majestic trees and enormous stone structures, each with the same shape and design of the home ahead of them—only grander and more impressive. The structures below existed with the trees and were shaped and defined in open spaces. It seemed that no tree had been felled to clear the way, but that the structures had been built amidst the trees deliberately.
Erasmus whistled. “Silvandom. It is too beautiful to describe. The timber here is worth a fortune.”
“Many poets have tried to describe it,” Tyrus said. “And many Romani have tried to steal it. It’s protected by the mountains on all sides. Only a few narrow passes lead into the valley. See the cliff edges? This valley was carved by ice thousands of years ago. Giant walls of ice strong enough to split stone. See that bald rock face over there? The other half is there, on the opposite side.”
Annon saw it and was skeptical. How could ice have carved such a thing? The cliffs on each side were full of waterfalls, emptying into rivers and streams in the valley below. It was an idyllic place. No wonder the Vaettir had claimed it.
“That is the Shearwater,” Tyrus said. “We can rest and eat there and then journey to the city later. You have questions, I am sure. Hopefully they are good ones.”
Tyrus took them to the stone house on the far side of the bridge. He paused on the entryway, staring up at a blotchy stain on the wood frame at the top of the door. Annon wondered about the stain, noticing Tyrus’s slight pause on observing it. He rapped firmly on the door and then pushed it open.
Inside was a tiny Vaettir woman, her hair well silvered; she walked with an obvious shuffle caused by age and pain. She looked at Tyrus and smiled a beaming smile and began to prattle off in the Vaettir tongue. Tyrus answered fluently, much to Annon’s surprise. He made some requests and then motioned toward a table and benches. The old woman nodded in reply and limped to the kitchen. No one else was in the room.
Tyrus seated himself at the table, planting his elbows on the pocked wood, and motioned for Annon to sit across from him. Nizeera wandered over to a large hearth and settled down on the warm stone.
Erasmus prowled around the common room, silently counting the number of seats and tables. Annon knew he would be lost in his guessing for a while. He sat down opposite Tyrus, unsure of what even to say. Then a thought came to him.
“If we had made that wager this would be cheating,” Erasmus said as he gobbled another piece of fruit and hurriedly stood. He rested his hand on Tyrus’s arm.
Annon stared at the jeweled object. There were stones set into cunningly worked gold. The stones sparkled in the lamplight. The device was extended to him—an offer. An invitation.
“You are not my uncle,” Annon said, unwilling to move. His anger started to rekindle. He shoved it back violently.
“I know,” Tyrus answered simply. “Come with me. Learn the truth. I promised you in my tower that you would.”
Annon hesitated. A part of him whispered a warning. Another part of him was too curious to resist. This was the invitation to learn Tyrus’s secrets. He knew it would only be offered once. He had to make a decision. One choice was to stay at Canton Vaud and learn more of the Druidecht ways. The other was to accompany Tyrus and eventually face the Scourgelands.
He reached out and gripped the open end of the cylinder.
“Have a hold on your cat,” Tyrus said, a pleased glint in his eye. As Annon grabbed the ruff of Nizeera’s neck, he heard the angelic song of spirits shudder as the device made everything go black.
In a moment, the blink of an eye, they were leagues away. The air was frigid and sharp. It smelled of fir trees and juniper. The land was choked with snow. They stood on a stone bridge, wide enough for a single wagon to cross. On the other side was a stone house with works of timber for a roof and faded red tiles. The roof had a curious slant to the corners, which were pointed like an ox’s horns. Instead of a straight edge, it sagged, creating little dips and sways that gave it a distinguished appearance. There were three levels to the building—a large main section of house and then two narrower levels forming a second and third floor, each with their own slanted rooflines and pointed corners.
The strange house was built into the rock itself, and it was difficult to see where the walls began and the mountainside ended. The air was frightfully cold, and Annon hugged himself immediately.
“Look,” Tyrus said, pointing at the edge of the bridge down into a lush valley below.
Annon stared in amazement. The valley was teardrop shaped and full of majestic trees and enormous stone structures, each with the same shape and design of the home ahead of them—only grander and more impressive. The structures below existed with the trees and were shaped and defined in open spaces. It seemed that no tree had been felled to clear the way, but that the structures had been built amidst the trees deliberately.
Erasmus whistled. “Silvandom. It is too beautiful to describe. The timber here is worth a fortune.”
“Many poets have tried to describe it,” Tyrus said. “And many Romani have tried to steal it. It’s protected by the mountains on all sides. Only a few narrow passes lead into the valley. See the cliff edges? This valley was carved by ice thousands of years ago. Giant walls of ice strong enough to split stone. See that bald rock face over there? The other half is there, on the opposite side.”
Annon saw it and was skeptical. How could ice have carved such a thing? The cliffs on each side were full of waterfalls, emptying into rivers and streams in the valley below. It was an idyllic place. No wonder the Vaettir had claimed it.
“That is the Shearwater,” Tyrus said. “We can rest and eat there and then journey to the city later. You have questions, I am sure. Hopefully they are good ones.”
Tyrus took them to the stone house on the far side of the bridge. He paused on the entryway, staring up at a blotchy stain on the wood frame at the top of the door. Annon wondered about the stain, noticing Tyrus’s slight pause on observing it. He rapped firmly on the door and then pushed it open.
Inside was a tiny Vaettir woman, her hair well silvered; she walked with an obvious shuffle caused by age and pain. She looked at Tyrus and smiled a beaming smile and began to prattle off in the Vaettir tongue. Tyrus answered fluently, much to Annon’s surprise. He made some requests and then motioned toward a table and benches. The old woman nodded in reply and limped to the kitchen. No one else was in the room.
Tyrus seated himself at the table, planting his elbows on the pocked wood, and motioned for Annon to sit across from him. Nizeera wandered over to a large hearth and settled down on the warm stone.
Erasmus prowled around the common room, silently counting the number of seats and tables. Annon knew he would be lost in his guessing for a while. He sat down opposite Tyrus, unsure of what even to say. Then a thought came to him.
