“Can it be destroyed?” Paedrin asked. He was down on one knee, gazing intently at the huge man.
“Never,” he replied. “The Iddawc cannot be unmade. It will exist until its length of service has expired. That is well beyond my lifetime or even a dozen lifetimes. It was bound for ten generations. We are only in the second right now. It cannot be destroyed and must be hidden and safeguarded. It has no master but seeks one. I can hear it right now, and it disgusts me because even I crave it. I, who created this evil thing, in my foolish vanity I brought it into existence. A weapon to conquer death.”
The final words were slurred and Annon felt his head bob. He struggled against the sinking oblivion of sleepiness. “Be wiser than I. Those of Kenatos are treacherous and claim to preserve knowledge. They preserve slavery, the slavery of beings that they cannot even see. What sympathy exists in a kingdom that enslaves others? When a civilization quietly submits to such a practice, you will have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong that will be imposed upon them. I have spent my days attempting to redress the damage that I inflicted on the spirits of Mirrowen.” He gripped the talisman around his neck, tears bulging in his eyes. “They know my heart and they trust me. I was once their greatest adversary. Now I am like you. A humble Druidecht.” He leaned forward, his voice husky with emotion. “Tyrus knows this truth as well. He and I are brothers in mind. We are likeminded. Remember this. It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. Forgive him for abandoning you. It cost him greatly. But there is so much at stake. So very much at stake.”
Annon heard the mumbling bass of Drosta’s words, felt the pain recede in his shoulder as he floated into the invisible threads of slumber. The horrors of the mountains faded. The chill night air was replaced with a comforting warmth. He thought he could smell flowers, not night jasmine but the heady scent of hyacinths and roses. There was a trickling of water, the soft lapping sounds carrying him away.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
“I once caught a young Rike tearing a page from an ancient book. I chastised him severely and rebuked him for violating his sworn duty to preserve knowledge. He said the page contained blasphemy and that it should be destroyed by fire so as not to taint the minds of men in the future. After a scolding and a thrashing, I told him that if the truth cannot bear the scrutiny of candlelight, what will it do if exposed to the sun? He apologized profusely for his error and swore he had only destroyed three such pages out of one hundred books. The Arch-Rike assured me that he would be assigned to a stewardship other than the Archives. The young make so many mistakes. They lack wisdom.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Sleep enveloped Annon like a shroud, burying him beneath layers of warm blackness. There were voices murmuring in the stillness, the faint whisper of the breeze rustling branches. The patter of rainfall, or was it a brook? Everything was hazy and tangled. But the sleep ended when a hand clutched his shoulder and jerked him hard.
“Annon!”
He was confused, snapping out of a forgotten dream and realizing that sunlight came in streamers through a copse of thin yew trees and half-blinded him. The smell was different, not the heady scent of pine and thin mountain air. Now, it was a lowland smell, thick with the pungent smells of grasses and weeds and brush.
“At last! Wake up, boy!”
He jolted, recognizing the sound of his uncle’s voice. Twisting with a sudden desperateness, he whirled and beheld Tyrus kneeling over him. At first, he could not believe his own senses. His uncle, his face, his towering presence. Shock thundered inside him, and then he felt the first swells of anger.
“The sleep affects everyone differently. Your friends may awaken soon or not, but I needed to rouse you first.” He gripped Annon’s shoulder with a strong hand, clenching his tunic. “I may not have much time before the Arch-Rike’s minion finds me again. Give me the blade you snatched from Drosta’s lair. This entire area reeks of it, and the spirits are frightened of you. The blade Iddawc.”
Annon struggled to sit up, but his uncle’s hand kept him down. He was exceptionally strong. His fist was tighter than knots.
“What errand did you send us on, Uncle?” he asked, feeling every emotion fire up in hostility. “A treasure to buy Hettie’s freedom? Was that even your intent?”
Tyrus rifled through Annon’s cloak with his other hand and discovered the blade pouch fastened to his belt. He began untying the knot and Annon grabbed at his hands, trying to stop him. It was like trying to bend iron bars.
“Never,” he replied. “The Iddawc cannot be unmade. It will exist until its length of service has expired. That is well beyond my lifetime or even a dozen lifetimes. It was bound for ten generations. We are only in the second right now. It cannot be destroyed and must be hidden and safeguarded. It has no master but seeks one. I can hear it right now, and it disgusts me because even I crave it. I, who created this evil thing, in my foolish vanity I brought it into existence. A weapon to conquer death.”
The final words were slurred and Annon felt his head bob. He struggled against the sinking oblivion of sleepiness. “Be wiser than I. Those of Kenatos are treacherous and claim to preserve knowledge. They preserve slavery, the slavery of beings that they cannot even see. What sympathy exists in a kingdom that enslaves others? When a civilization quietly submits to such a practice, you will have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong that will be imposed upon them. I have spent my days attempting to redress the damage that I inflicted on the spirits of Mirrowen.” He gripped the talisman around his neck, tears bulging in his eyes. “They know my heart and they trust me. I was once their greatest adversary. Now I am like you. A humble Druidecht.” He leaned forward, his voice husky with emotion. “Tyrus knows this truth as well. He and I are brothers in mind. We are likeminded. Remember this. It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. Forgive him for abandoning you. It cost him greatly. But there is so much at stake. So very much at stake.”
Annon heard the mumbling bass of Drosta’s words, felt the pain recede in his shoulder as he floated into the invisible threads of slumber. The horrors of the mountains faded. The chill night air was replaced with a comforting warmth. He thought he could smell flowers, not night jasmine but the heady scent of hyacinths and roses. There was a trickling of water, the soft lapping sounds carrying him away.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
“I once caught a young Rike tearing a page from an ancient book. I chastised him severely and rebuked him for violating his sworn duty to preserve knowledge. He said the page contained blasphemy and that it should be destroyed by fire so as not to taint the minds of men in the future. After a scolding and a thrashing, I told him that if the truth cannot bear the scrutiny of candlelight, what will it do if exposed to the sun? He apologized profusely for his error and swore he had only destroyed three such pages out of one hundred books. The Arch-Rike assured me that he would be assigned to a stewardship other than the Archives. The young make so many mistakes. They lack wisdom.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Sleep enveloped Annon like a shroud, burying him beneath layers of warm blackness. There were voices murmuring in the stillness, the faint whisper of the breeze rustling branches. The patter of rainfall, or was it a brook? Everything was hazy and tangled. But the sleep ended when a hand clutched his shoulder and jerked him hard.
“Annon!”
He was confused, snapping out of a forgotten dream and realizing that sunlight came in streamers through a copse of thin yew trees and half-blinded him. The smell was different, not the heady scent of pine and thin mountain air. Now, it was a lowland smell, thick with the pungent smells of grasses and weeds and brush.
“At last! Wake up, boy!”
He jolted, recognizing the sound of his uncle’s voice. Twisting with a sudden desperateness, he whirled and beheld Tyrus kneeling over him. At first, he could not believe his own senses. His uncle, his face, his towering presence. Shock thundered inside him, and then he felt the first swells of anger.
“The sleep affects everyone differently. Your friends may awaken soon or not, but I needed to rouse you first.” He gripped Annon’s shoulder with a strong hand, clenching his tunic. “I may not have much time before the Arch-Rike’s minion finds me again. Give me the blade you snatched from Drosta’s lair. This entire area reeks of it, and the spirits are frightened of you. The blade Iddawc.”
Annon struggled to sit up, but his uncle’s hand kept him down. He was exceptionally strong. His fist was tighter than knots.
“What errand did you send us on, Uncle?” he asked, feeling every emotion fire up in hostility. “A treasure to buy Hettie’s freedom? Was that even your intent?”
Tyrus rifled through Annon’s cloak with his other hand and discovered the blade pouch fastened to his belt. He began untying the knot and Annon grabbed at his hands, trying to stop him. It was like trying to bend iron bars.
