Hettie followed and Annon came up behind her. The Cruithne was breathing fast, but he stopped to rest along the curved structure of the cave. Erasmus joined them and chafed his hands for warmth. His breath came in puffs of smoke. Paedrin stood outside, staring into the maw of the tree. The mist trailed off his shoulders. He turned back and stared into the fog, at the sound of the approaching hulk.
The Cruithne watched him, saying nothing. “Stubborn one,” he murmured softly.
Hettie nodded in agreement. “Paedrin!” she snapped. “Get in here!”
“It’s a tree stump,” he replied, not looking back.
“It is a gate to Mirrowen,” the Cruithne whispered.
“What?” the Bhikhu said. “You speak in riddles.”
“Trust us,” Annon soothed. “There is shelter here. Come.”
Paedrin hesitated a moment longer. Stubborn defiance seemed to make knots in his shoulders. His one arm was strapped to his side, but he still looked menacing, waiting for a battle. Waiting to test himself against his fears?
“Who are you?” Annon asked the Cruithne.
“My name is Drosta,” he answered.
Paedrin whirled at that, his eyes wide with interest. He stepped into the cave-like opening, crouching so as not to brush his head against the root fingers. The chill of the mist began to dissipate. The fog started to fall apart.
There was a roar, a roar of helpless frustration and fury.
“The Fear Liath is blind to us now,” the Cruithne said with a mocking smile. “That angers it.”
“Why can’t it find us?” Paedrin said, staring at the old man’s face.
“You would not understand if I explained it. What was important is that I won your trust in as few words as possible. In desperate moments, scorching truth is needed, not convincing argument. We do not have long to speak. What I must say is crucially important. Listen for as long as you can.”
Annon was about to interrupt, but the Cruithne held up his massive, thick hand. “You will be asleep in moments and will awake at sunrise in a different place. This is a gateway to Mirrowen, and you will suffer the effects to mortals. Remember as much as you can. A little learning, indeed, may be a dangerous thing, but the want of learning is a calamity to any people. That has been the failing of Kenatos. Not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of wisdom. My name was Drosta Paracelsus. And you have found my blade. I fashioned it. I made it. It is called the Iddawc.”
He motioned for Annon to produce it. As he uncovered it from within his cloak, the Cruithne’s face crumpled into a dark scowl. “It lives. It is a spirit weapon. There is a spirit hosted inside it, and Iddawc is its name. Knowing this, you can control it. There is only one being such as this in all of this world or Mirrowen. It was discovered by the Cruithne deep in the mines. I cannot tell you how many were killed before we learned what it was capable of doing. It was a Druidecht who warned us, but I was foolish. I knew it would be valuable to trap such a being. I devised a plan, and the Arch-Rike approved the price. I will not tell you the price, for it would be unseemly. We did not trap it; we helped it transform. It was my vanity, my pride. You see, power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did, and it never will.”
As Drosta spoke, Annon felt his mind growing thick and foggy. He was weary. More weary than he had ever been in his life. Glancing to the side, he saw that Erasmus was already asleep, jaw open. Hettie’s chin was bobbing as she struggled to stay awake.
Drosta grabbed Annon’s shoulder and squeezed with his powerful fingers, digging in to invoke pain. “It concedes nothing! You are a Druidecht as well. The spirits have told me that you are faithful. You must listen to me. The Paracelsus in Kenatos are trapping spirits, binding them into service. The lamps of the city do not create smoke. They do not create heat. Their light is borrowed by spirits, who are enslaved for a season. The terms are odious to them. They are slaves! They are compelled to serve because they were captured. The Cruithne learned the craft. We created the Paracelsus order. Stay awake!”
Annon’s eyes drooped shut and he blinked furiously. His arm throbbed with pain. But even that was beginning to subside.
“The weapon only serves one master at a time. It will only serve one. It will seek a powerful man and subvert him. When he is dead, it will seek out another. This is the Iddawc’s hunger, its terrible power. It kills and has power over death. One cut from its blade severs the life’s string. It was commissioned by the Arch-Rike as a weapon for his most feared protector, the Quiet Kishion, but it was never used as such. Tyrus of Kenatos arranged to have it stolen. To be hidden from the world without claiming more victims.”
The Cruithne watched him, saying nothing. “Stubborn one,” he murmured softly.
Hettie nodded in agreement. “Paedrin!” she snapped. “Get in here!”
“It’s a tree stump,” he replied, not looking back.
“It is a gate to Mirrowen,” the Cruithne whispered.
“What?” the Bhikhu said. “You speak in riddles.”
“Trust us,” Annon soothed. “There is shelter here. Come.”
Paedrin hesitated a moment longer. Stubborn defiance seemed to make knots in his shoulders. His one arm was strapped to his side, but he still looked menacing, waiting for a battle. Waiting to test himself against his fears?
“Who are you?” Annon asked the Cruithne.
“My name is Drosta,” he answered.
Paedrin whirled at that, his eyes wide with interest. He stepped into the cave-like opening, crouching so as not to brush his head against the root fingers. The chill of the mist began to dissipate. The fog started to fall apart.
There was a roar, a roar of helpless frustration and fury.
“The Fear Liath is blind to us now,” the Cruithne said with a mocking smile. “That angers it.”
“Why can’t it find us?” Paedrin said, staring at the old man’s face.
“You would not understand if I explained it. What was important is that I won your trust in as few words as possible. In desperate moments, scorching truth is needed, not convincing argument. We do not have long to speak. What I must say is crucially important. Listen for as long as you can.”
Annon was about to interrupt, but the Cruithne held up his massive, thick hand. “You will be asleep in moments and will awake at sunrise in a different place. This is a gateway to Mirrowen, and you will suffer the effects to mortals. Remember as much as you can. A little learning, indeed, may be a dangerous thing, but the want of learning is a calamity to any people. That has been the failing of Kenatos. Not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of wisdom. My name was Drosta Paracelsus. And you have found my blade. I fashioned it. I made it. It is called the Iddawc.”
He motioned for Annon to produce it. As he uncovered it from within his cloak, the Cruithne’s face crumpled into a dark scowl. “It lives. It is a spirit weapon. There is a spirit hosted inside it, and Iddawc is its name. Knowing this, you can control it. There is only one being such as this in all of this world or Mirrowen. It was discovered by the Cruithne deep in the mines. I cannot tell you how many were killed before we learned what it was capable of doing. It was a Druidecht who warned us, but I was foolish. I knew it would be valuable to trap such a being. I devised a plan, and the Arch-Rike approved the price. I will not tell you the price, for it would be unseemly. We did not trap it; we helped it transform. It was my vanity, my pride. You see, power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did, and it never will.”
As Drosta spoke, Annon felt his mind growing thick and foggy. He was weary. More weary than he had ever been in his life. Glancing to the side, he saw that Erasmus was already asleep, jaw open. Hettie’s chin was bobbing as she struggled to stay awake.
Drosta grabbed Annon’s shoulder and squeezed with his powerful fingers, digging in to invoke pain. “It concedes nothing! You are a Druidecht as well. The spirits have told me that you are faithful. You must listen to me. The Paracelsus in Kenatos are trapping spirits, binding them into service. The lamps of the city do not create smoke. They do not create heat. Their light is borrowed by spirits, who are enslaved for a season. The terms are odious to them. They are slaves! They are compelled to serve because they were captured. The Cruithne learned the craft. We created the Paracelsus order. Stay awake!”
Annon’s eyes drooped shut and he blinked furiously. His arm throbbed with pain. But even that was beginning to subside.
“The weapon only serves one master at a time. It will only serve one. It will seek a powerful man and subvert him. When he is dead, it will seek out another. This is the Iddawc’s hunger, its terrible power. It kills and has power over death. One cut from its blade severs the life’s string. It was commissioned by the Arch-Rike as a weapon for his most feared protector, the Quiet Kishion, but it was never used as such. Tyrus of Kenatos arranged to have it stolen. To be hidden from the world without claiming more victims.”
