by Jeff Wheeler
The Empress’s face was very expressive. “I am pleased you chose to trust me. Observe those bringing food to your friends. Mathon will tell you the significance of which hand they are served with.”
Annon turned so he could notice.
Mathon’s voice was thick and wheezing from the walk. “There are many subtleties in Boeotian culture. If you are served food from the left hand, you must assume it may have been poisoned. There are certain rituals of honor in this land. It’s considered perfectly just to murder a man who does not follow the culture. The left hand is used to . . . I’ll put this delicately . . . cleanse the body after performing certain purging functions. It is the shameful hand. You greet a man with your right hand only. If someone does not observe that they are served with the left, then it is suitable to kill them through poison. Much is left to a person’s ability to notice what goes on around them and interpret it.”
“I see,” Tyrus said. “And you lost your right hand along with the Arch-Rike’s ring on it. You can only eat or greet someone with the shameful hand.”
The Empress’s eyes glittered with delight. “He is quick, Mathon. You did not underestimate him. We may survive this yet.”
Tyrus cocked his eyebrow at her curious comment.
“Who you chose to accompany you is critical. You did not pick your most ruthless fighters. You did not pick your wisest Vaettir. You chose a Druidecht to aid you in some aspects of spirit culture you could not know or have been trained in. And you brought your daughter because you care for her safety above all others.”
“You knew she was my daughter?”
“I have spies in Canton Vaud. Yes.”
“Then would a father do any less?” Tyrus offered with a smile.
“My invitation to come here was not strictly duplicitous, Tyrus. When I learned you were in my lands, it gave me a glimmer of hope. I will soon be deposed. Not in all the years the Empresses have ruled Boeotia has a warlord gained the courage to unite all the factions and challenge one of us. Until now. Your arrival is timely. I do have information you desperately need and knowledge that should not be confined any longer to these forgotten lands. It is knowledge relating to our mutual enemy, the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”
Tyrus leaned forward. “Who challenges your rule?”
“That is not important right now. Let me deliver the knowledge I promised first. You don’t understand what a treasure this is to speak to someone like you. In these lands, learning is despised. Knowledge is rarely sought. It is like that for a reason, and it is also why I fell in love with Mathon. I knew him before the sickness disfigured him. Outward appearances are deceptive. Sometimes the most beautiful people are the most shallow, corruptible, and feckless. Beauty conceals one’s inner worth, the value of a heart and mind. Such is the case with leprosaria and Kenatos. The purpose of Kenatos is not to preserve knowledge.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “That is a lie. They destroy knowledge. They mask the truth. It happens slowly and subtly. It has been happening even before Kenatos was founded. Instead of building libraries, we in Boeotia have built a culture that would preserve the most important knowledge we sought to maintain.”
The Empress folded her hands in her lap, leaning forward, and studied Tyrus closely. “We live by a culture of honor. My ancestors found that it was the only way to preserve the knowledge of our enemy and to combat him. We have crafted this culture deliberately and its fruit has grown rather wild. In a culture such as ours, the smallest thing can give rise to mortal offense. The passions of this people run deep. They love deeply and they hate deeply. Enmity is the key emotion we foster here. Revenge is the butter to our bread. Again, this was done deliberately.”
“Long term it seems an impractical strategy,” Tyrus observed.
“On the contrary,” she said, shaking her head. “Enmity is the only thing that endures. What you need to understand, Tyrus, is that the enemy you face is not the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. That is only the mask that he currently wears.”
The choice of words the Empress used reminded Annon of something Erasmus had said. He sat up straight, leaning forward and listening intently. His mouth went dry.
The Empress’s gaze met Annon’s. “I think you begin to understand,” she whispered eagerly. “Trust your intuition, Druidecht. There is magic in Mirrowen beyond our understanding and even our dreams. It is a realm where there is no death. Imagine if you understood how that was done. What if a mortal made it to Mirrowen, learned the secret of living always, and returned? That man would live in a world full of death. But he would never die. There is such a man. He has been purged from every history book, stripped away by generations of Archivists who did not know what they were doing or that they were serving an evil purpose. Every mention of this man was removed, copy by copy. Page by page. There are only a few references left, and they were so obscure and hidden that very few would even know what they were reading if they happened upon it. This is a great and terrible secret. Yet it must be told again for fear of it being shrouded if the line of Empresses fails.” Her smile wilted; her eyes were like daggers. “You fight not against a mortal man, Tyrus Paracelsus. You fight against the first of your kind. The first who bore the fireblood. The father of your race. He is no more the Arch-Rike of Kenatos than he is the dead King of Stonehollow . . . or likely the King of Wayland next. He is already shifting his strategy, preparing a new guise, another metamorphosis. All the attention goes to Kenatos but he is preparing to alter his identity again and rule with another man’s countenance.”
Tyrus looked at Mathon, his eyes blazing. He said nothing, but his jaw was set.
“It’s true,” Mathon said, his voice throbbing with emotion. “We were both betrayed by the Arch-Rike, but not the man who he was. Not Band-Imas. We were tricked by the one who supplanted him and locked him away somewhere in the dungeons, and then took his place when he discovered that you were not to be dissuaded from entering the Scourgelands. This is the man, the Intelligence, who has unleashed the full fury of the Scourgelands upon us. And he is waiting for you to enter it again, Tyrus, with even more evil beings to do his bidding this time. You must understand this, Tyrus. You must understand that you are fighting a man who cannot be killed.”
Annon noticed a twitch in Tyrus’s cheek. It was a twitch that stopped him from turning his head and looking back. Phae, on the other hand, did not have the same self-control. Annon watched her head jerk and she stared back at the Quiet Kishion in shock.
“For what cannot be cured, patience is best.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VIII
Tell me what you know of this enemy,” Tyrus said softly, eagerly.
Annon watched as the Empress’s gaze tracked Phae’s movement. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. A sickening curl twisted inside Annon’s stomach. The woman was observant, shrewd, and he could not know her thoughts or what she intended. Her attention went back to Tyrus.
“There is not much time remaining before they come,” she murmured softly. “I will say what I can.”
“Who is coming?” Annon demanded.
“Those who seek to destroy me. I will be quick.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Tyrus’s leg. “I do not know the name of our ageless enemy. In our tongue, he is called Shirikant—it means ‘the Accuser’ in your language. Let me describe the pattern to you, for it happened here in Boeotia and it has happened repeatedly since our fall. A wise man arrives, seeking to trade knowledge and wisdom that he has assembled in a vast book. He is friendly, considerate, rather charming. Some believe he is a Druidecht, for he wears a talisman. He has the fireblood but never uses it but to light candles or quench a flame. He is calm and works hard, winning trust easily. Such a man came to Boeotia long ago. He was given access to the records of the Empress, seeking knowledge about the history of the people. He jotted down his notes and studies, trading quips with the best scholars in the rea
lm. He was fluent in many languages, but most importantly, the unspoken language of influence. When trust is earned, he brought several students to come as well. They are his disciples and help spread word of his fame.”
She stopped, eyeing something deeper in the chamber. A small frown tugged at her mouth.
“Go on,” Tyrus said.
“As the disciples pore over the records as well, they begin to steal snippets. They are covert. Sometimes they painstakingly copy a page or corrupt the text, changing the meaning of words. These deeds were done in secret, but the Empress Kosonin had them watched and observed. When she learned what was happening, rather than challenge the visitor, she began to study what the changes were and what things were being erased. Can you guess, Tyrus Paracelsus? Can you guess what information was being destroyed?”
Annon was growing more and more restless. The air felt tinged with dread and some lurking danger. He felt power emanating from the boulder behind the Empress, whispers in a language he could not comprehend. The hair on his arms pricked. He made a subtle signal to Tyrus, but the man’s eyes were locked on hers.
“Information about the Scourgelands and its history,” Tyrus said in a hushed tone. “Knowledge of Mirrowen.”
“Of course. The Empress was wise and realized that the man was an interloper. She began to hide the records, one by one, to keep them safe. She prepared her servants to slay the man and his disciples for their treachery. But she was wise. She did not act rashly. She saw that the man was winning over the hearts of her people. Then his behavior changed, rather suddenly. Rather than seeking knowledge, he began seeking her affections. It did not matter that she already had a consort. His moods shifted. His information seemed limitless. She suspected that he was no longer the man who had arrived in Boeotia. He was an imposter, though he looked and sounded the same. She tested his knowledge, seeking to confound him with information, but although his responses were delayed, his information was accurate . . . as if he still had access to the mind of his victim.”
She shifted uncomfortably in the dirt, her expression wary and full of loathing, and folded her arms imperiously. The purple tattoo on her face twitched with repressed anger. “Suspecting treachery, she summoned him to her chambers, bringing her most subtle skills. She tried to poison him. He did not die. She arranged for an accident where he was pushed from a height that would have broken any man.” She shook her head. “When that failed, she suspected that he could not be killed. He retaliated, of course. He began to speak of holy signs, began to warn of the coming of the Plague. He predicted that it would strike the heart of Boeotia. His words caused a black fear through the people. He had seen the signs in other lands. He recognized them anew in our kingdom.”
A low rumble of chanting began to swell. It was in the language of the Boeotians. The hair on the back of Annon’s neck spiked up. It was a guttural, hissing sound, the chant of a war-like people. It slithered in the air like the snakes of Basilides. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of the Druidecht’s face. Phae was trembling, her eyes wide like a child’s.
“Say on,” Tyrus prompted, leaning forward, seeming oblivious to the dangerous sounds bubbling up around them.
Annon noticed the carving of the face on the boulder—its eyes started to glow orange.
“Her consort was found dead. There was no mark on his body indicating how he had died. But fear began to crack the kingdom. Like an egg gripped too hard, it collapsed suddenly, all yolk and pus. The Plague struck with its devastation and fury. She sent her most trusted man to kill Shirikant. He returned, wounded, with a tale only a fool would believe. No knife could pierce the man. No fire could burn him. The Empress took her faithful servant, two books from her vast library, and fled. The Boeotian kingdom fell asunder. Her once-proud city was turned into a field of bones.”
She reached and took Tyrus by the wrist with her right hand—right hand to right hand. “I am the seventy-second Empress of Boeotia. What I told you of occurred almost a thousand years ago. We have watched this pattern repeat over and over. The same pattern struck the Vaettir’s homeland across the sea. The same pattern struck the Cruithne. There are races lost and forgotten, wiped clean as a sandstorm erases footprints. Beautiful races. Clever people. All of these have fallen to Shirikant.”
The chanting grew louder. Annon saw Paedrin and the others were all standing, watching Tyrus to see what he would do. They gripped weapons nervously, feeling the tension in the air without understanding it. Annon shook his head, trying to steel himself against the dreadful emotions churning inside of him. Something was coming. A presence was awakening inside the boulder. His hand, uncontrollably, was trembling.
“The Plague has struck each kingdom in turn,” Tyrus said sternly, ignoring the commotion around him. He pressed her for more, his eyes locked on hers. “Slowly they have been coalescing together, banding ever closer together to hold off the Plague. His goal is not to rule over us then. It’s to destroy us.”
She nodded solemnly. “There are times . . . occasions . . . when he has toppled the ruler and planted himself. The Plague does not come yet. The people unite under his rule, becoming his slaves. But in every case, over time, his oppression is finally unbearable and the people revolt and seek his overthrow. And when that happens, the Plague strikes again.”
“Tell me of the Scourgelands,” Tyrus said.
“You know more about that place than any other living person, save my husband.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“It has always been a forbidden place,” she said. “Even in the records that have been handed down to me. It was forbidden even before Shirikant. It is the gateway to Mirrowen. There is the place called the Well of Plagues. To pass that place and go beyond is to seek eternal life. I surmise that Shirikant wishes to brook no rival. He has posted his sentinels to guard that twisted wood. He has corrupted the defenders to keep all others out. That is why you are his greatest threat, Tyrus Paracelsus. And our greatest hope of deliverance.”
Tyrus’s muscles were clenched, his eyes narrowed with stormy thoughts. “So what you are telling me is the man I thought betrayed me . . . the man who loved my sister . . . may still be alive? Our enemy is not truly Band-Imas?”
Mathon coughed fitfully and nodded in strong agreement. He was trembling as well, as if the power emanating from the rock unsettled him too. “Before we left for the Scourgelands, the Arch-Rike . . . Shirikant, to be clear . . . gave me a ring to wear. It was one of the Kishion rings. He said it would help keep communication with him while we were in the woods. He said that I could relay information back to him, which would be written down by the Archivists. I was not to tell you this, of course. Once I put the ring on my finger, he totally consumed my mind. I was trapped in my own body, unable to warn you. He used me to make you doubt yourself. That is his greatest weapon, Tyrus. That is how he gains power over someone. He put me there to poison your thoughts, because he knew that you trusted me, that we were friends. I can’t tell you how it feels to be free of him. He is a monster, Tyrus. He seeks the death of everyone. It is my belief—”
“Our belief,” she interrupted, releasing Tyrus’s arm and reaching and taking Mathon’s hand, squeezing it.
“Our belief,” he agreed, “that he is drawing all kingdoms together. That he is pulling the remnants of all civilizations into a single place so that we’ll be easier to exterminate with the Plague. I do not know if this is true, but what I have learned here these many years has convinced me. This may well be the last Plague, Tyrus. You must succeed. What we don’t understand is how you will do it.”
“My spies in Canton Vaud were not among the Thirteen,” the Empress said. “We did not hear your conversation, but only saw the aftermath of it. This is part of Shirikant’s pattern. He overthrows kingdoms, principalities, and powers. He seeks no one to rule but himself, yet he cannot rule wisely and destroys those he lures into obeying him. The pattern
is sickening to watch. So I ask you, Tyrus, how do you plan to defeat him?”
Shifting, stumbling men emerged from the caves, surrounding them on all sides. Some carried crooked walking staves. Some carried spears. Wave after wave began to emerge.
“Tyrus,” Prince Aransetis called in warning.
The Empress’s mouth flattened into a firm line. “I am sorry, Tyrus. I have held them off as long as I could. I said that no one would attack you without express permission. Unfortunately, I will be killed shortly and my power to protect you will be gone. I have done what I could to aid your arrival. Food and water have been gathered for your travels. They are packed with camels at the top of the ridge beyond this chasm. There I have guides who will bring you as close to the Scourgelands as they dare go. You are on your own now. Farewell.”
Tyrus seized her wrist like a snake strike. “Who seeks to overpower you?”
She did not fight his grip. Her eyes turned hard like flint. “His name is Tasvir Virk. He is a Druidecht, though one of the Black. He has corrupted the spirits with his madness, or perhaps they corrupted him. He has the fireblood too, so your powers will not harm him. He lost his right arm in a battle in Silvandom recently and came here to convalesce. When he saw the truth of things, he overcame his fear of the disease. He understood that I have no true power, only what my courage gives me. So he summoned his war band and he will unite the tribes under himself. The line of Empresses is ending.”
Her words made Annon nearly choke with fear. Images flashed in his mind, of flaming torches whose smoke killed the spirits of Mirrowen. In his mind he heard the bite of an axe against Neodesha’s tree. A gaunt man had arrived, speaking the Boeotian language, insisting that they hack down the tree and destroy the Dryad trapped inside. His goal was to purge the woods of all Dryad trees. Annon had fought him, wrestling with him by the oak tree. He remembered the sickening blow of the axe that had finally ended their struggle. He could still picture the severed arm amidst the smoke and ashes.
