The Preachán glanced up at them and smiled. “Ho, there.”
Paedrin swiveled his neck, as if loosening his muscles, and held still, gripping his walking staff in front of him. “Several in the woods on each side,” he muttered to Annon. “Let me deal with them if you want to chat with the dagger collection ahead.”
“Not yet,” Annon said softly. He looked at the Preachán disinterestedly. “Ho, there.”
The Preachán admired his long, sharp dagger deliberately, looking up and down its blade. “I can see that you are travelers bound for Havenrook.” He had a quaint accent, one that Annon was unfamiliar with. “You are not from these parts. I take it as my duty to offer you my protection as you travel this road. There are dangerous sorts about, and I would not want you to come to any harm.” He scraped his whiskers with the edge of his knife. “Three ducats would do as there are three of you.”
Annon took offense at the tone and the trap. “There are three of us. And one of you.”
The Preachán smiled appreciatively. “Yes. I noticed that. I am only the collector of the tithes, as the Rikes like to say in Kenatos. Three ducats is not an unreasonable value for the life of a person. I mean no disrespect. Perhaps I should demand more? But I was feeling generous this afternoon.”
Annon saw Hettie glance at the woods, where he began to see the subtle shift of shadows hidden amidst the debris on each side. There was a gentle creak of wood.
“At least twenty,” Paedrin muttered again, voice low. “Better to strike first than talk. I will…”
Annon used a hand gesture to quiet him, as if calming a horse. He looked back at the Preachán firmly, his voice rising with emotion. “Just to be clear, sir. Even if we had three ducats, you would not limit yourself to only those. You want us to show you where we keep our purses to save you the time searching our bodies. We appear as simple travelers and easy prey, and you know there are no caravans either coming or going to interfere with the murder. You do this every day.”
The Preachán’s eyebrows rose, as if pleasantly surprised. “Well, you can put it that way if you wish. In the end…”
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon raised his hands and flames gushed from his body as he twisted and sent them rushing to the deadwood debris to the right. There was heat, light, and the crackling snap of raw flames exploding into wood. The debris of wagons and barrels and crates created a skyward blaze. Crowding trees were blasted by the heat and the flames began running up the trunks and catching the deadened branches afire.
Behind Annon, there was a twin explosion of flames, this one caused by Hettie as she followed his lead and turned the other piles into tinder. Screams filled the air along with the roar and groan of the fires. The Preachán sitting on the wagon rim fell backward in his shock and surprise, leaving the daggers stuck in the wood.
The feeling of loosing the flames was visceral and innately pleasurable. Annon could feel his blood singing with it. More! Loose more! They wanted to be freed, like some caged mountain cat bursting with savagery. He delighted in the power, in the taming of the fire, and he yearned in the deepest part of his soul to let it flow from him, engulfing the trees and rotting caravan ruins until nothing was left but cinders. Rebirth. That was what flames brought. A chance to be reborn.
Yet he knew the feelings were not telling the full truth. The longer he let the flames dance across his hands, the more they would begin to control him. The incomprehensible yearning of the fireblood was an illusion. It would fade in time and be replaced with self-loathing and guilt. He knew it, even though he did not feel it. Clenching his teeth, he tamed the fire within him and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. It did not obey him at first. Slowly, so slowly, the impulse to unleash it began to ebb. Slowly, his mind forced it to obey. Flickering tongues of flame danced across his fingers and then guttered out.
Annon turned and saw Hettie, her eyes wide with frenzy, her hands still held open, flooding the woods with flames, sending it lancing out at the fleeing Preachán, streamers of liquid hate that hit them from behind and burst their clothes into flame. They were screaming and running.
“Hettie!” Annon called, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her off-balance.
The forest all around them was blazing with heat and billowing black plumes that arched skyward. The flames would rage and battle the rest of the forest. He could not let that happen.
“Hettie!” he called again, trying to get her eyes to focus. She blinked rapidly, unable to focus, a half-smile of pleasure on her mouth.