by Jeff Wheeler
“I will, Tyrus.” The Bhikhu gripped the pommel of the sword and rose into the air, flying away from their small camp at the edge of the city. Phae shook out her cloak before fastening it around her neck. Only the Vaettir could hear the trouble coming clearly, but she was just beginning to as well with the sound coming down the canyon wall. It was like the lumbering of a great beast.
They cleared the camp quickly after everyone rose, watching the pale orange of the dawn start to blush in the sky. Phae slapped the dust from her clothes and watched as Shion scanned the Bhikhu floating up toward the road. He seemed to hang, poised, and then came swooping down like a hawk, landing in front of Tyrus.
“It’s no animal I have ever seen before,” Paedrin said, much to everyone’s amazement. “It is tall, like a horse, and has long legs with flat feet. There are these strange humps in its back and it has a long neck. There’s a rider on its back, swathed in many drapes, but the face and head are covered. A single rider. The beast has a saddle of some kind and something to hold up a covering against the sun. It is strange to see, Tyrus. But only one of them comes.”
“An emissary from the Empress?” Aransetis suggested.
“It would seem so,” Tyrus answered. “One man or beast does not prove a threat. Perhaps the Empress wishes to treat with us.”
“Or one of her bodyguards,” Baylen said.
“I won’t fear one man,” Tyrus said. “We’ll hear him out.”
Phae waited with suspense as the masked rider slowly approached. They could all hear him now, the thud of the heavy, padded feet, the snort and grunts of the strange animal. Phae had never known its kind before and saw it perpetually chewing, like a cow. On its humped back crouched a rag-wearing rider, face and arms covered, swathed in tattered garments. The beast he rode was cream-colored with cute little ears on each side. It was a strangely beautiful animal.
The beast lumbered up the trail, approaching Tyrus’s camp arduously, clearly in no great hurry. It approached and the rider gave a single command—“Hup”—and the beast slowly lowered itself on all four knees. The rider swayed slightly on the saddle.
Phae studied him carefully, looking for any sign of threat. She edged closer to Shion, who positioned himself in front of her. The man was breathing heavily, clearly winded and worn out with fatigue.
“Who are you?” Tyrus asked in a firm voice.
The rider slowly swung one of his legs around the beast’s neck and slid off the slope to land unsteadily on the ground.
“He’s sick,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “He may have the Plague. Don’t let him near us.”
Tyrus nodded curtly. “Stand there, friend. If you are a friend. Do you speak Aeduan?”
Phae felt a prickle of unease.
The stranger’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. “Yes, we were friends once.” With one hand, he began unwinding the cloth around his head, revealing a face hideously pockmarked and bulging with sacks and crusty skin. One of his eyes was milky white. The lesions on his face were grotesque, great putrid bulges of diseased flesh. His other eye was normal and looked at them with great intensity.
“Gather round me,” Tyrus murmured softly, his hand grasping the Tay al-Ard.
“If my throat were not so parched, perhaps you would recognize my voice. You clearly do not recognize my face. I cannot blame you for that. We knew each other well as boys. I remember you . . . remember you humbling Sanbiorn Paracelsus when he visited the orphanage. I am still your friend, Tyrus. Even though you left me to die in the Scourgelands long ago.”
“Revenge is a terrible tool, a dagger where the hilt is as sharp as the blade. I have heard the Arch-Rike wisely describe revenge another way. In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior. I thought he was the author of the saying, but have since found it written by one of the ancient scholars of Silvandom: To refrain from imitation is truly the best revenge.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VI
Annon recoiled in horror at seeing the man’s ravaged face. The pustules were oozing, flecked with dirt, dust, and crusted blood. It was clearly a fatal disease, one that caused a wheezing rasp in his breath. All were silent following his announcement. All except Tyrus.
“Mathon?”
The cracked lips twisted into a smile. “You recognized me at last?”
“Not your voice, but the memory you described. Forgive me if I do not trust you. We have often been deceived by our enemy and even a man who looks like a friend turns traitor. The dead at Canton Vaud are testament of that.”
“Ah, yes. Word of that has already spread to Boeotia, Tyrus. The Boeotians trust the Druidecht and so you have no small reputation in these lands at the moment.” He doubled over and coughed fitfully against the ragged sleeve. Annon saw blood in the spittle. He felt Nizeera coiling next to his leg, her wariness mirroring his own.
“I did not harm anyone there,” Tyrus said. “None of my company did.”
“I know that,” Mathon said, struggling to catch his breath. He wheezed, leaning back against the beast he had ridden on and hung his head. “I know you are innocent. I know this because I understand the full ruthlessness of the Arch-Rike we once respected and faithfully served. I wore a black ring on my hand. It gave the Arch-Rike access to my thoughts and it allowed him to control me. But I am talking too quickly. My message first.” He took several deep breaths, steadying himself. “The Empress of Boeotia bids me invite you to her palace. Such as it is. I was dispatched three days ago and was guided by a vulture to this place where the spirit creatures of Mirrowen led you.” He turned his gaze to Annon, his milky eye a disgusting sight. “You must understand that the spirits in this realm obey the Empress before anyone else. You were guided to a place of safety, as promised, but they guided you here where I could find you.”
Annon’s heart turned cold with fear. “They deceived me then.”
He nodded curtly. “In a way. This is the way of the spirits in Boeotia. They are subtle. Many are cruel. Some would lead you to a scorpion’s nest if you sought meat. Mortal pain amuses them.”
Tyrus cleared his throat. “That is not much help in convincing us to accept the Empress’s hospitality.”
“Did she send you here to poison us with your disease?” Kiranrao challenged. “Shall I dispatch him? I can kill him from here.”
Mathon began to cough again. After several alarming moments, it calmed. “The disease I suffer from is not contagious. You know my training, Tyrus. I was a healer first of all. I learned to my shock and horror that this particular illness comes from the mushrooms inside the Scourgelands. I was hopelessly lost and wandered for days without food, managing to elude the beasts sent to kill the rest of you. I think the Arch-Rike didn’t care whether or not I survived. He used me to discourage you, to make you doubt yourself. I was helpless against his power, I assure you of that.”
The ravaged face twisted with emotions, impossible to discern due to the craggy flesh. “In my absolute misery and hunger, I chose to eat some mushrooms to stay alive. Somehow I managed to wander out far to the north and west. There are fewer defenders along that side, but the terrain is more rugged and difficult to cross. I managed to escape the tricks and illusions that sought to contain me and I walked alone into Boeotia. I noticed the rash at first on my breast as my clothes were in tatters. The rash eventually deadened my skin. It is a fearful affliction, Tyrus. When I was discovered, half-dead, by the Boeotians, they would not kill me. They call it leprosaria. Men and women who are afflicted with it are pitied here, and they are feared. There are colonies of the weak and dying, hidden deep in canyons in the hinterlands. The Boeotians avoid the Scourgelands at all cost for fear of contracting this disease. Sometimes the winds blow the mushroom spores . . . but that doesn’t matter right now. I must convince you. I must tell you as much as I can before that Vaettir killer n
ext to you decides to separate my larynx from my esophagus.”
“You will not be harmed,” Prince Aransetis said, giving a baleful look at Kiranrao. “I will not allow it. You came peacefully.”
“Of course you would believe this wild tale,” the Romani said with a snort. “Let’s be done with him.”
Prince Aransetis turned to Kiranrao, his look stern and ripe with foreboding. The two looked as if they would strike each other. There was an unspoken challenge between them, a mounting threat.
Annon chewed on his lip, feeling compassion begin to mingle with the disgust.
Tyrus’s expression was hard and interested, but he looked equal parts skeptical as well. “I will not try to prove your identity verbally. It seems the Arch-Rike can mimic even the memories of men we trust. So it would help your cause if you explained the Empress’s invitation. You cannot think we would willingly enter the heart of her domain.”
Mathon chuckled without humor. “She does believe you will, actually. You must come, Tyrus.”
“I can think of a number of compelling reasons why that would be unwise. I do not wish to delay our quest. I do appreciate the warning about the mushrooms, but we had no intention of eating anything in that cursed place.”
“The entire forest is poisoned. But I must persuade you. Let me try. I was taken by the Boeotians to one of their colonies for those with leprosaria. That is her court, Tyrus. She is not an Empress like the Arch-Rike, with servants and valets and Rikes to do her bidding. She serves the weak and the dying. She is unafraid of contracting the illness. Her courage and fearlessness is what bind the Boeotians to her. She does not control them. She cannot give orders and expect to be obeyed. She rules through influence, and because none of the warlords in this place have the courage to face her in her stronghold for power. Their fear of the disease and her lack of fear are what give her power. When there is a dispute, fighting warlords will seek her wisdom and abide by her decisions. But they mostly leave her alone and she goes from colony to colony, serving those who are weak and dying. That is how I met her. I was one of the weak and dying.”
Annon stared at the man in surprise. This was totally beyond anything he expected. He knew the Boeotians were cruel and merciless. He could hardly comprehend that their feared Empress was a woman who treated those afflicted with a disfiguring disease.
“You were taken to one of these colonies. Eventually she came. Go on.” Tyrus continued to look doubtful.
“We became friends, Tyrus. She is a little older than us, a compassionate and educated woman. The history of their people is verbal, handed down like the Druidecht lore. While I was wearing the ring, the Arch-Rike continued to control me. He helped me gain her trust. He’s quite good at that. I was to learn everything I could about her defenses. I was blindfolded when taken there, so I did not know where it was. The Boeotians treat her whereabouts as their greatest secret. Most do not know where she is at all. She leaves on camel when she travels between the colonies.” Annon looked at him quizzically and he saw that others did as well. “The name for the beast I rode on. They are like horses of the desert and can go great distances without water. The Cruithne brought them from their original homeland before settling the Alkire. There are horses here as well, horses bred for stamina and strength. The customs here—I could spend days explaining the nuances to you. It is a savage land. They are cruel and desperate. But there is also beauty in these vast caverns and wastes. But I neglect to finish my tale.”
“You realize this is incredible,” Tyrus said softly, his lip quivering with revulsion and surprise. His emotions were rattled and he continued to gaze at his old friend with shock and distrust. “I am still amazed you are even alive. But I cannot recognize you. Even your voice is not familiar to me. This feels like a trap, Mathon. If that is who you are.”
“Of course it does. That’s because it is a trap, in a way. The Empress is wise. She knows the nature of men. She is very skilled at persuasion and manipulation. As are you, my friend. She reminds me of you in many ways. Now to the point. I remained in the colony for several years, the disease beginning to ravage my body slowly. I used every cunning and device the Arch-Rike planted in my mind to win her trust. It did not happen easily or quickly because she knew I was a Rike of Kenatos. But eventually, in time, she began to trust me. I felt the Arch-Rike’s triumph.” He gritted his teeth. “He was forcing me to betray someone I respected and admired, much as he had forced me to do with you inside the Scourgelands. It is torture. I could not remove the ring because I knew that it would destroy me. I lacked the courage and the will to surrender to death after having survived that far. I began to learn one of the consequences of my disease. The flesh deadens. The rash spreads. The victims, ultimately, begin to lose various parts of their bodies. Some lose their noses. Some a foot.” He slowly began unwrapping the rags around his arm, exposing a diseased stump. “I lost my hand. And the ring with it.”
Paedrin let out a whistle, his face a mixture of horror and delight. “That would do it,” he said with a grin. “I believe him, Tyrus. He’s telling the truth.”
“As do I,” Aransetis said.
Tyrus held up his hand to silence any others before they could add their voices. “What did you do when you became free of the Arch-Rike’s influence?”
Mathon lifted his jaw. “I told the Empress everything. I confessed my treachery and the knowledge I had gathered, designed to destroy her kingdom. I told her the Arch-Rike already had the knowledge she had shared with me. I told her that I did not need to speak with him in order to share it with him.” He shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.
“What did she do to you?” Tyrus asked.
The head lifted again, his lip quivering with emotion. Annon felt his own throat thicken. He stared at the afflicted man.
“She asked me . . .” he said hoarsely, “if I would agree to be her consort for life. She is my wife, Tyrus.”
Hettie gasped with surprise, her expression showing disbelief that the Empress forgave him. Annon was amazed himself and wondered what sort of woman would do that, especially considering Mathon’s disease.
“She trusts me completely. There is knowledge that she has about the Arch-Rike and who he really is. She will not allow me to divulge it and I will not. All I will say is that it is worth knowing. It will benefit your quest to end the Plague. You will not expect or be able to deduce this information, Tyrus. It is an ancient secret. She sent me here, her own husband, knowing that you all might kill me because of my ravaged face. But it is vital that you know what she knows. It is crucial to you to understand the nature of our mutual enemy. When you vanished from the plains, she suspected you had a Tay al-Ard. Her Druidecht spies in Canton Vaud revealed as much. With a Tay al-Ard, and with my memory of the location, I can take you to her right now. She wishes to speak to you, Tyrus. You will not succeed without her knowledge.”
Tyrus frowned, his expression solemn. “You could take us anywhere you chose, Mathon. Including right into the Arch-Rike’s clutches.”
“I know,” Mathon replied. “So you will have to trust me.”
The pained look in Tyrus’s eyes made Annon hurt for him.
Mathon sat slumped against the side of the camel, resting, his arms folded. Tyrus’s band huddled inside one of the abandoned structures, pulling close together in a tight circle. They were all seated on the ground, heads lowered.
“I seek your counsel,” Tyrus said, looking at each of them. Annon felt the huge weight of responsibility and wondered what the decision would ultimately be.
“From all of us?” Baylen asked.
“Of course. I think I know Kiranrao’s verdict already. Has it changed?”
The Romani snorted and said nothing.
“Aran and Khiara. I think you are like-minded on this issue. But tell me your opinion.”
Prince Aransetis sat calmly. “Sometimes the simplest answ
er is the most obvious. The man is clearly infected with a disease. His story rings true. There is an element of fate in this situation. As if a greater good drove us here.”
Tyrus pondered the Prince’s words. He nodded subtly. “Khiara?”
She looked almost startled. “His skin smells putrid. I do not believe it is a disguise.”
Hettie motioned with her hand. “I have a charm, a necklace, with the power to assume the disguise of anyone I have seen or met. If he is a Druidecht, perhaps he wears such a charm. We cannot trust what our eyes see. He admitted himself that the spirits in this realm were cunning. I do not have a good feeling about this, Tyrus. I smell a trap.”
Kiranrao gave her a pleased look, rose and began pacing around the circle. He seemed edgy and restless to Annon. He had changed much since their first meeting in Havenrook. Khiara watched him with wary eyes.
“Baylen?”
The Cruithne rubbed his forearm vigorously, pausing a moment. “I’m still thinking about this. Come back to me.”
“Paedrin?”
The Bhikhu was squatting so low his heels touched the ground. He gave Kiranrao a challenging look. “His story rings true to me as well. He described perfectly the way one of the Arch-Rike’s rings controls you. If we all go to see the Empress together, then the Tay al-Ard will be drained and we won’t be able to use it again quickly. I’m not sure the Empress knows this, but let’s assume that she does. If her intentions are evil, she brings us to her in a way where we are surrounded and in terrain we do not know without a way to escape. It seems foolish to me, therefore, to all go together. Just a few should be sent to claim the knowledge. The rest stay here.”
“A thoughtful plan, Paedrin. Thank you.” Tyrus picked at his beard. “Do you believe a trap is awaiting us?”
“After what you put us through in Drosta’s Lair, I’ve come to expect them. If you go, you should take only one of us with you. I would suggest myself because of the Sword of Winds. It would be easier for a Vaettir to escape and I don’t think Kiranrao even wants to go.”
