“The Vaettir escaped a terrible Plague by crossing the great waters in mighty ships. They were granted land in the west by the seashore. They were given the land that was once occupied by a race previously destroyed. Just as the Cruithne crossed great deserts and inhabited the mountains of Alkire, the Vaettir claimed the forests known as Silvandom. There is very little need for shipbuilding now, as the great races continue to converge in the hopes of surviving the future devastations to come.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
“My name is Aransetis,” the man said, his voice deep and slightly hushed. He was stern but not unfriendly. “You are my humble guests.”
He entered the room and inclined his head to each of them. “Forgive my appearance if I have startled you. You have traveled long and are weary. In your eyes, I represent those who have hunted you. But I do not serve the Arch-Rike or his minions. This jerkin helps to remind me of our cause. One only knows his enemy when he has worn his shirt, as they say. Welcome to Silvandom. Welcome to the mastermind.”
Paedrin stood and bowed in respect. Hettie had not released her grip on the knife hilt. Her instincts were at war. Kiranrao looked unimpressed, and he gazed at their host with an air of indifference.
Hettie glanced back at the girl, Khiara. Her eyes were aglow, her expression softening as she stared at Prince Aran. It was as obvious as the moon at night that she had feelings for him. Hettie scorned her blatant adoration.
“Please, you must have questions,” the prince said. He walked to the head of the table and seated himself in a graceful move. “Let me answer what I can.”
“Where did you get your outfit?” Kiranrao asked, his voice slightly smug.
“I had it made. And you are?”
“Kiranrao. Do you know of me?”
The prince’s expression was stern. “Your reputation extends to these woods. You will find no Romani here except for the two of you.” He extended his hand, palm up. “I believe you have my stones.”
Kiranrao’s eyebrow twitched. He said nothing.
“They will not serve you, Kiranrao. They are powerless in your hands.”
Hettie felt the tension increase between the two men. Paedrin leaned forward—just slightly. His gaze shifted between them.
“What do they do?” Kiranrao asked at last, his voice disinterested.
“They will find someone who is lost. It is easy to lose one’s way in the Scourgelands. The trees there are ancient.”
“Trees?” Kiranrao asked with a half-chuckle.
“Ancient ones. As old as the world. The stones, please.” His palm did not waver.
Kiranrao stared at him silently. He did not move.
Hettie felt uneasy. She knew Kiranrao was sizing him up. He was examining him for weaknesses. She was not sure what she had expected. A pampered Vaettir lord who was soft and simple? This one surprised her in every possible way. He had none of Paedrin’s bravado. His eyes were deadly earnest. He had the look of a Bhikhu who had killed.
“You are a guest in this house,” Khiara said, her voice serious. “It is the only thing that shelters you in this land. Though you are Vaettir-born, you are not familiar with our ways. The prince has been lenient thus far. Do not try his patience.”
“Do not try my patience,” Kiranrao warned softly.
“The stones,” the prince repeated firmly.
Hettie’s hands began to tremble. There would be violence here. There would be blood spilled. She sent a pleading look at Paedrin, but his eyes were fastened to the prince’s. The air in the room was oppressive and heavy. Even the incense smelled too strong.
Kiranrao flung a small leather bag onto the outstretched palm. It was tossed too hard and would have bounced, but the prince’s fingers closed like talons, seizing it.
He opened the drawstrings and emptied the stones into his palm.
The feeling in the room began to shift. The tension ebbed.
Each stone was a mottled blue color, unpolished, uncut. They could have been river pebbles, except for the streaks of green and white that marked them. The prince stared down at the three, his gaze firm and hard. The stones began to glow. Satisfied, he stuffed them back into the pouch.
“You didn’t trust me?” Kiranrao said with a smirk.
“It’s for her own good that the cat purrs.”
Hettie was startled, for that was a Romani saying. It was not a commonly known one. She nodded to him in deference. Kiranrao did not, but she saw his countenance darken.
“You said welcome to the mastermind,” Paedrin said, speaking at last. “Where did you get that word?”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
“My name is Aransetis,” the man said, his voice deep and slightly hushed. He was stern but not unfriendly. “You are my humble guests.”
He entered the room and inclined his head to each of them. “Forgive my appearance if I have startled you. You have traveled long and are weary. In your eyes, I represent those who have hunted you. But I do not serve the Arch-Rike or his minions. This jerkin helps to remind me of our cause. One only knows his enemy when he has worn his shirt, as they say. Welcome to Silvandom. Welcome to the mastermind.”
Paedrin stood and bowed in respect. Hettie had not released her grip on the knife hilt. Her instincts were at war. Kiranrao looked unimpressed, and he gazed at their host with an air of indifference.
Hettie glanced back at the girl, Khiara. Her eyes were aglow, her expression softening as she stared at Prince Aran. It was as obvious as the moon at night that she had feelings for him. Hettie scorned her blatant adoration.
“Please, you must have questions,” the prince said. He walked to the head of the table and seated himself in a graceful move. “Let me answer what I can.”
“Where did you get your outfit?” Kiranrao asked, his voice slightly smug.
“I had it made. And you are?”
“Kiranrao. Do you know of me?”
The prince’s expression was stern. “Your reputation extends to these woods. You will find no Romani here except for the two of you.” He extended his hand, palm up. “I believe you have my stones.”
Kiranrao’s eyebrow twitched. He said nothing.
“They will not serve you, Kiranrao. They are powerless in your hands.”
Hettie felt the tension increase between the two men. Paedrin leaned forward—just slightly. His gaze shifted between them.
“What do they do?” Kiranrao asked at last, his voice disinterested.
“They will find someone who is lost. It is easy to lose one’s way in the Scourgelands. The trees there are ancient.”
“Trees?” Kiranrao asked with a half-chuckle.
“Ancient ones. As old as the world. The stones, please.” His palm did not waver.
Kiranrao stared at him silently. He did not move.
Hettie felt uneasy. She knew Kiranrao was sizing him up. He was examining him for weaknesses. She was not sure what she had expected. A pampered Vaettir lord who was soft and simple? This one surprised her in every possible way. He had none of Paedrin’s bravado. His eyes were deadly earnest. He had the look of a Bhikhu who had killed.
“You are a guest in this house,” Khiara said, her voice serious. “It is the only thing that shelters you in this land. Though you are Vaettir-born, you are not familiar with our ways. The prince has been lenient thus far. Do not try his patience.”
“Do not try my patience,” Kiranrao warned softly.
“The stones,” the prince repeated firmly.
Hettie’s hands began to tremble. There would be violence here. There would be blood spilled. She sent a pleading look at Paedrin, but his eyes were fastened to the prince’s. The air in the room was oppressive and heavy. Even the incense smelled too strong.
Kiranrao flung a small leather bag onto the outstretched palm. It was tossed too hard and would have bounced, but the prince’s fingers closed like talons, seizing it.
He opened the drawstrings and emptied the stones into his palm.
The feeling in the room began to shift. The tension ebbed.
Each stone was a mottled blue color, unpolished, uncut. They could have been river pebbles, except for the streaks of green and white that marked them. The prince stared down at the three, his gaze firm and hard. The stones began to glow. Satisfied, he stuffed them back into the pouch.
“You didn’t trust me?” Kiranrao said with a smirk.
“It’s for her own good that the cat purrs.”
Hettie was startled, for that was a Romani saying. It was not a commonly known one. She nodded to him in deference. Kiranrao did not, but she saw his countenance darken.
“You said welcome to the mastermind,” Paedrin said, speaking at last. “Where did you get that word?”
