by Jeff Wheeler
“Ah, I see. Then you seek Poisonwell. The source of the Plague. It is in the Scourgelands, boy. Only one thing here will help you conquer that place and I wear it around my neck. That land is a maze of madness and disease. We alone hold its powers at bay. It seeks the death of all knowledge. You would unleash it on us again.”
“I would destroy it,” Annon replied. Poisonwell? The name made him shudder. He did not understand why.
“You cannot destroy the Plague,” the man said with a laugh. “Some curses cannot be undone. Will you surrender or do you intend to commit suicide?”
Annon lunged for the nearby bier. Crackles of energy exploded into the place where he had been crouching moments before. He abandoned the plan to shove the lid, knowing instinctively that it would be too heavy. As he slammed into the stone, he saw the damage done to the other bier, the one he had come from. The convergence of energy had cracked open the lid at the corner where he had been crouching. A faint mist crept from the dark void.
He hoped beyond hope.
“Calvariae!” he said again, taking a risk he prayed would work.
There was a blinding flash of light and then groans of pain. Annon crawled on his hands and knees, blinded by the flash. The presence of a spirit touched his mind.
You have freed me, Druidecht, boomed the voice inside his head. In return, I will disarm your enemies.
Annon blinked furiously, trying to see. The sarcophagus lid flung at the Rike who was approaching him, crushing him beneath it. A pillar of light emerged from the gaping maw of the sarcophagus. From all corners of the chamber, brilliant shards of lightning struck at it, but it only made it glow brighter. The being of light began to zigzag through the chamber, faster than a wisp of sunlight, causing grunts and shrieks of terror. It moved so quickly, going from column to column. The knot of light finished its bounding tour and then came back to Annon, revealing itself as a small, gnarled man with a long, hooked nose, gripping a small cudgel. The being nodded to him with wizened eyes then vanished.
Amazed at the reprieve, Annon slowly got to his feet, his knees wobbling. Smoke drifted in the air, clinging to the floor from a spilled brazier. A muffled groan came almost unheard nearby. Annon saw the man pinned beneath the sarcophagus lid, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. The Druidecht approached him warily.
The man’s eyes were feverish with pain, his lips pulled back in a snarl of agony. His head turned slightly, his gray eyes piercing Annon. “You…will…still…die…”
“Khiara?” Annon called. She emerged from behind a stone pillar, her robes singed. Erasmus poked his head in from the massive stone doors.
Annon crouched by the crumpled Rike. “Where is Poisonwell?” Annon asked him.
“You…will…still…die…”
“Help me lift this off him,” Annon said and the two hurried to him. Together, knees bent, they struggled to raise the lid. Muscles bunched and limbs strained. The lid came off and they dumped it nearby.
The wheezing Rike stiffened with anguish, his neck twitching. Then he fell still.
“Khiara?” Annon asked.
She knelt by him, placing her hand on his broken chest. He was already dead, his eyes fixed blankly at the domed ceiling. A strange jeweled ornament was fashioned around his neck, offset with two deep blue gems. It almost looked like a necklace except it did not connect in a full circle. She looked up at Annon and then nodded toward the other interior doors. “We do not have much time. We know the Arch-Rike can send people quickly through the aether. We should enter Basilides now.”
Annon nodded and motioned for them to follow. The doors they had entered began to groan shut. In a panic, the three charged back to the doors, but they closed solidly behind them. The crossbar landed in place.
Erasmus cursed colorfully and scanned the room. Smoke from incense hung in the air, giving it a charred, unhealthy smell.
“Nizeera?” Annon called, searching the room for her. She emerged from behind a set of pillars, all hunched with hackles.
I am ashamed.
He looked at her, saw the whipped countenance. What happened?
He wears a torc. It is anathema to me. I could not approach him nor attack him. It causes terror in animals. The Cockatrice could not have harmed him. No wild creature could.
Do not be ashamed, Nizeera.
She growled. I failed to protect you.
Annon stared at her and shook his head. His heart was still settling after the near encounter with death. He stared at the individual biers, counting twelve in all. One was marked with the name of Wayland. Another with runes written in Vaettir. Each was from a different kingdom, each representing a fallen ruler from the past.
“Erasmus,” he said, looking at the Preachán hopefully. “Study the room. See what you can learn. Khiara, come with me.”
“How will we get out of here?” she asked him.
“First, we seek the oracle. Over there.” As they approached the doors, Annon noticed something unusual. It was Erasmus’s observation all over again. The crossbar was on their side of the door. It made him pause.
“What is it?” Khiara asked.
He stared at the door, at the great carved letters above it: BASILIDES. The crossbar held the stone doors shut. It was there to keep something out. His mind jumbled the pieces together. Two sets of doors, both facing the same direction.
It made him think of a castle fortification, multiple barriers to provide a defense. A defense from what? What were the doors meant to hold back? Were they there to protect the Rikes? From what? From Basilides itself?
He stared at the doors, at the carved text. The massive stone doors. Strong enough to hold off battering rams. Sturdy enough to wall them inside to die. It came as a flash of insight. Annon took an involuntary step backward.
“What?” Khiara whispered, gripping the staff defensively.
“I know where that door leads,” Annon said numbly. “We’ve been traveling into the mountains, north of Kenatos. These tunnels go underneath the mountains. What is on the other side of the mountains, Khiara? What do these mountains protect us from?”
She stared at him, the dawning horror spreading across her smooth face. “The Scourgelands.”
He nodded. “This is a doorway into the Scourgelands.”
“It must be so,” Erasmus said, muttering to himself. “Annon, Khiara! Look at this! Look! It is the only explanation that makes sense. By the fates, I cannot believe it!”
Annon turned to the Preachán. “What did you find?”
“Look at these!” he said, waving his arms at the various biers. “Alkire. Havenrook. Silvandom. Lydi. Boeotia. Kenatos. Wayland.” He gasped with some vision inside his head. “These are not crypts for the dead. Look—the one that broke over there. No bones inside. Just folded clothes and weapons and jewelry. Coins from the past. These are not crypts, Annon. These are not the remains of the dead.” Erasmus started to pace, his hands gesticulating broadly. “These are masks.”
“What are you saying?” Annon demanded impatiently. “Erasmus, help us understand your thoughts! You are going too fast!”
The Preachán trembled with emotions, his face seeming to shrink with the massive weight of the thought he was experiencing. His lips contorted. “The race immune to the Plague. Yes, that must be it. The missing race. The nameless race. The persecuted blood. He’s part of it, Annon. The Arch-Rike is not who we think he is. He masquerades as one, but look—look!” He rushed over to one of the biers. “This one—Kenatos. The name on the crypt is Band-Imas. It is the name of the current Arch-Rike, not a dead one. Look at that one—Wayland. It bears the king’s name and he is alive.” Erasmus struck his forehead with his hand. “The Arch-Rike…this is his illusion.”
Annon could not comprehend what Erasmus was raving about. “I don’t understand, Erasmus. What do you mean? The Arch-Rike isn’t a man?”
Beware! Nizeera growled. They come from the walls!
Khiara cried out in warning. “On the floor, Erasmus! Behind you!”
The Preachán barely heard her, but he lazily turned and saw it too. An enormous black cobra, thick and sinewy, gliding through the haze toward the Preachán. There were more, slithering through the smoke. Annon cried out in warning as well, watching in horror as they converged at them from all sides.
Erasmus saw the serpent’s hood flare as it rose toward him. His eyes widened with utter terror and he twisted to flee.
Annon cried out in warning.
The serpent struck Erasmus from behind, sinking its fangs into his leg. The Preachán let out a howl of pain and fell to the ground, writhing and twisting in agony as the venom coursed through him. The twitching lasted for only seconds. Then he was still. Then he was dead.
The hissing serpents surged at Annon and Khiara.
“War is indeed upon us. Reports arrived of an attack in the woods of Alkire by the Preachán and Romani from Havenrook. A great fire engulfed the woods and burned for days. You can see the smoke from Kenatos. It is absurd that the Romani attacked the Cruithne if their quarrel is against Wayland. They will be trapped between two opposing kingdoms now. Fortunately the King of Wayland has mustered a large force and is preparing to march on Havenrook.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The burning pitch on Evritt’s arm caused him to wail in unceasing pain. Phae winced as she watched him thrash, his face a mottled twist of veins and suffering. Tyrus knelt by him, grabbed his shoulder, and waved his hands over the tongues of flame. When the fire died, Phae saw the blackened skin and had to turn away or risk vomiting. Dizziness from the magic that had transported them away mingled with her revulsion at seeing Evritt’s injury.
“Be still, be still,” Tyrus soothed.
“Where are we?” Prince Aran asked, crouching near.
“Silvandom, near the border. Let me try to summon a spirit.”
The Kishion put his hand on Phae’s shoulder, steadying her as she started to wobble.
Evritt moaned. Tyrus offered soothing words. “They won’t heed me. Aran, we must get him to a healer quickly. The Arch-Rike will trace us here and let loose others to hunt us.”
“We should divide then,” the Prince said. “If we stay together, it will drain the Tay al-Ard. We stayed at the cabin too long, allowing the Arch-Rike time to put forces in place to bombard us.”
“We should keep moving.” Tyrus agreed and stood. He came to Phae and Kishion. “The Arch-Rike has tools to sense magic when it is used. It will take him time to locate this place. Take Phae and hide her in the woods. Canton Vaud is in Silvandom right now. They may shelter you.”
The Kishion snorted with ill humor. “The Arch-Rike has a spy in Canton Vaud. We knew you were hiding there. He was unwilling to risk an open confrontation with the Thirteen at that point.”
Tyrus’s expression hardened. “Do you know who the spy is?”
The Kishion shook his head.
“Fair warning then. We must avoid Canton Vaud while concealing our presence in Silvandom. The Prince told me that Annon and the others will assemble at a Dryad tree in the woods, somewhere to the north and west. This forest will provide ample places to hide. Here, Phae—” he reached into his pouch and pulled out the necklace with the blue stone she had left behind at the Winemillers—“Take this. With it, we will be able to find you again, wherever you are.”
“How did you…find it?” she asked, staring.
“Prince Aransetis took it when he went after you and gave it back to me. He has the stones that will find it.”
Phae took the necklace, examining it with relish. She had grown up wearing it and was grateful to have it again, especially if it would always help them find her. “Thank you.”
Prince Aran helped Evritt to his feet and then supported him. The old man’s face was blanched white from clenching his jaw. He smelled of cinders and brimstone.
Tyrus sighed deeply. He reached out and cupped Phae’s cheek. “I hate to be parted from you. But you are safer with him than you are with me.”
She nodded awkwardly, not sure what she should do. “I have decided, Father.” She let out her breath. “I will help you, if I can.”
The ghost of a smile drifted across his mouth and was gone. He swallowed suddenly, his eyes intense and almost fearful. Unable to speak, he patted her shoulder. Phae was an affectionate person, so she embraced him, pressing her cheek against his broad chest. She felt his beard against her hair. He squeezed her once and then departed, assisting Evritt.
The Kishion looked at her, gazing at her curiously, and then nodded in approval. They both started into the woods, heading northwest.
Phae and the Kishion walked in silence, crossing the forest in broad strides to put as much distance as they could from the place where they had entered Silvandom. The forest was a maze of moss-covered evergreens, with slanting descents and rugged climbs, full of fern sprays and fragrant juniper shrubs. Insects buzzed and clicked throughout the lush woods, interrupted occasionally by a woodpecker or a jackdaw. Fallen trees lay rotting across their path at regular intervals. There were no paths or roads, just the unlimited expanse of ancient trees and furrowed hills.
Around midday, they stopped to rest at a small pool fed by a trickling waterfall. The water was clear and clean and Phae cupped it in her hands, drinking deeply. The Kishion produced some roots and sour berries for her to eat. The flavor of the berries made her scrunch up her face. He smiled faintly at the look.
After gulping down another long drink, Phae wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “I’ve decided something. You need another name.”
His eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. When she looked at him, she could not help but see both facets of his nature. He was a ruthless killer. He could also be gentle and compassionate. Both aspects seemed to always be at war with each other. It filled her with a sense of dread, as if watching storm clouds pent up with lightning.
Phae sat by the edge of the pool, gazing across the sunlight twinkling on the water’s surface. If his dual nature were still conflicted, she wanted to do something to shift the balance. “I can’t keep calling you Kishion,” she said softly, barely meeting his eyes. “I know that is what you are. But it is not who you are. It would be a temporary name though. Until we find your real one.”
He stepped closer, his boots just at the edge of the water. “And did you have one in mind for me?”
“I have your permission then?”
“Names are not important to me. The truth is.”
She rubbed her arms, nodding slowly, grateful he had not responded angrily. “What my father said about you—being in the Arch-Rike’s dungeons. That he is secretly afraid of you. I would be very angry, if I were you. I would want to know the truth as well.”
“Tyrus is either very foolish or very wise. Perhaps a little mad. Who else would have let his enemy protect his only child? By trusting me so implicitly, he compels me to be honorable.” Slowly, he sat down next to her, facing the cool waters. Taking a pebble from the edge, he flung it carelessly into the pool, rippling the waters.
“Trust is powerful,” Phae said. She looked at him seriously, feeling emboldened. “I trust you. The Arch-Rike ordered you to kill me, but you did not. Why not?”
His expression darkened. “Did you want to die?”
“Tell me.”
He did not meet her gaze. “I couldn’t.”
She waited, letting the silence do the goading.
He glanced at her, then back at the waters. His expression was deeper than a lake, his eyes lost in some inner void. “I could not do it,” he whispered. “I know I have been trained to take life and think nothing of it. I look at you and see a thousand ways I could kill you. You are truly defenseless. But there is something about you…something familiar. As if I knew your voice from sometime before. Your smell. The look in your eyes…” He frowned, but not with anger. It was more frustration…an elusive memory nagging him. “When the Arch-Rike sensed my unwillingness, I knew that he was going to use the ri
ng to destroy you. That he would kill you in front of your father in such a brutal, merciless way, reveals his desperation and utter ruthlessness. I cannot serve a man like that. If Tyrus spoke the truth about things, then I will face the Arch-Rike. Since that Romani thief has the blade Iddawc now, there is nothing to protect the Arch-Rike from me.”
The menace in his voice sent chills racing down Phae’s arms. “I pity him.”
“You, of all people, have no need to pity him. What name have you decided for me?” He looked her in the eyes and it caused a warm flush to run through her.
“It will not be for long,” she answered, looking down at her lap. “I just feel that you are no longer a Kishion. It is silly, probably, but I want to be able to call you something else.” She sighed. “I think—Shion.”
“Shion,” he murmured, letting the word roll over his tongue. “Very well.”
Phae sat cross-legged then and leaned forward, peering across the pool. There was an enormous blue butterfly perched on the moss on the other side. It was dazzling in color, as vivid as the sky. A feeling of dread and nervousness struck the pit of her stomach. The butterfly lifted up and started to dance in the air. “Father mentioned that there is a Dryad tree here in Silvandom, but only the Druidecht know where her tree is.” Phae rose.
He nodded in agreement and stood. The feelings of dread intensified.
“When you were chasing me through Stonehollow, I was warned of the danger. There were these moths and butterflies that kept flitting around me. I see one right there, across the pond. I just noticed it and felt the same warning I did then.” She glanced back the way they had come. “I think the Arch-Rike’s minions are getting close.”
“I see it,” he said. “The blue one. It’s beautiful.”
“In Stonehollow, the moths led me to the safety of the Dryad tree. Maybe they will this time as well. Come.”
The feelings of dread began to lessen as she followed the butterfly into the woods. They increased their pace, leaving behind the small pool and its trickling fountain, and plunged deeper into the terrain. When she ran from him before, the feelings were much more intense and ominous. The blue butterfly winged ahead of them constantly and it was easy seeing it amidst the dark browns of the tree trunks and loam. Ferns whipped at their legs as they crossed, keeping pace with the flitting spirit creature.
