by Jeff Wheeler
Annon smiled at her. “If only Paedrin and Hettie were here as well, we would be ready to face the Scourgelands right now. I have learned of another way to enter. A way that will bring us close inside. Tyrus has a Tay al-Ard. I have the knowledge of the location. I think this bodes well for our success.”
He glanced over at Neodesha’s tree, longing to speak to the Dryad again.
Phae must have caught his look, for she tugged at his sleeve. “This is why I wished to speak to you alone. She wants to see you again, Annon. She knew as soon as you arrived. Go to her.”
“One can never predict the true course of action in a war. It is by nature unpredictable. But knowledge is surfacing in the city that there was a thwarted assassination attempt against the Arch-Rike as he traveled to counsel with the King of Wayland. These are surely tumultuous times.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon winced at the gashes in the trunk of the mighty oak. The foliage that had been burned was already beginning to heal and revive. It constantly amazed him how fire caused a forest to be reborn. They were as natural companions as water and wind. His fingers grazed the jagged bark of the tree.
He heard Neodesha’s voice before he saw her.
“I told you the injury to the tree does not harm me,” she said lightly, a smile lilting the sound. She appeared around that side of the tree, wearing the same dress he had seen her in before. Her bare feet crunched on the leaves.
“I’ve not forgotten anything you’ve told me,” he answered, his heart suddenly in pain with longing. “How far does our connection reach, Neodesha? I could swear I heard you in Basilides.”
She gave him a pretty smile that tortured him. “It is not so much the distance as the state of your emotions. I felt your terror, Annon. When you are calm or quiet, I cannot hear or see you very well. I’m grateful you survived.”
He smoothed the back of his hand across the bark of the tree, gazing up at a sprig of mistletoe and feeling the strong urge to kiss her. He tried to control himself.
“You have suffered much since we parted,” she whispered. “The loss of a friend. The worry over whether you can trust the Rike in your company. You are conflicted about Tyrus’s death—or that he survived but did not tell you.”
“How easily you read me.”
She shook her head. “It is not difficult. Dryads learn much about the mortal world through our calling. It is a tumultuous existence. There is no death in Mirrowen. I wish I could bring you there.”
“Some Druidecht are allowed, eventually, to visit. Isn’t that so?”
She nodded.
“How does one earn that right?”
“I have never known anyone who has earned it. It was more common in the past, I think.” She gazed shyly down at the forest floor.
“So you do not know?”
She shook her head and looked down at her feet. “I do not.”
“What is it?”
Neodesha glanced up at him. “You’ve changed me, Annon.”
He cocked his head, his heart starting to burn again. He felt a small tremor begin in his knees.
“The change you wrought on me is more obvious,” he said. “I see the world differently now. Being able to remember everything is a blessing as well as a curse. When I think of Erasmus, my heart throbs with pain. It is an ache that will never dull. Yet when I think of you…I feel quite differently but equally powerful. How does one tame such emotions?”
“I wish I knew,” she said, coming around the tree and standing before him. “But I am struggling myself. I was content to be a Dryad. There is much solace and peace in our existence. Dangers do not threaten our trees very often. I existed between both worlds. Time has always been ephemeral to us. Until now. The boon I gave you bound us together. I worry about you now. I seek your safety and welfare. I do not want you to go to the Scourgelands.”
Annon’s stomach roiled with confusing emotions. He saw her hand resting against the tree trunk and he yearned to hold it. He remembered laying against her lap, reliving the emotional memories of his past. Her very presence comforted him, soothing the guilt and anguish of his life. He had no desire to return to Wayland, not for all the slices of honeyed bread Dame Nestra could bake.
“But I must go there,” he said softly.
“I know,” she answered with a sigh. “I…care for you, Annon. I will worry.”
She had said it and he felt a rush of relief, grateful to believe that he was not totally alone, that his feelings were not solely at risk. It had not been long, yet their connection was powerful. He nudged closer to her, staring at her hand.
“In the many years that I have guarded this tree,” she said softly, trying to meet his eyes, “I have thought often on my duty and the peace of my existence. I have not felt the desire to relinquish either.” She bit her lip. “Until now.”
He felt his throat tighten. “You know I must go,” he said in anguish.
“You misunderstand me. I do not seek to stop you. There are memories there, Annon. There are memories lost to the world. Reclaim them for us. It is your fate. The dangers of the Scourgelands are equally great. I will worry about you. And I will wait upon your safe return.” Her hand lifted timidly and brushed aside of lock of his hair.
Her touch caused a jolt of heat throughout his body. “Neodesha, I…” he whispered.
She put her fingers on his mouth, covering his lips. “Say not my name,” she said. “There are too many nearby. I would hate to be bound to anyone else…but you.”
He gently took her wrist and then kissed her fingertips. She smiled shyly.
“I will return when it is done,” he promised. “Nothing will prevent me. Not even death.”
She hesitated a moment and then stepped into his arms, burying her face against his chest. She trembled as he wrapped his arms around her like a blanket, holding her close, feeling the warmth from her body seep into his. The terror of Basilides was tamped. Smelling her hair brought a measure of peace and shards of pain.
Her face lifted, her eyes full of conflicting emotions. “I will wait for you,” she promised. One moment he was holding her. Then she was gone, vanished again into the tree.
Annon was suddenly cold, bereft of her comforting presence. Pain consumed his heart. He gazed around for her, bewildered at the suddenness of her departure. Turning, he saw Tyrus standing in the grove behind him, the Tay al-Ard in his hand.
The look in Tyrus’s eyes was full of hostility.
“What do you think you are doing, lad?” Tyrus said hoarsely.
Annon stared in surprise. “How did you find us?” he demanded, his emotions caught in a wrenching vice. “You are alive?”
Tyrus walked closer, motioning for Phae to approach. He loomed larger than a giant, though with a slight limp in his step. “You are fooling with emotions you know little about,” he said with clenched teeth.
“What?” Annon said, staring in confusion.
“The Dryad,” Tyrus said with a hoarse whisper. “There is a reason why the Druidecht do not teach this lore to the young ones. You are too young for this, Annon.”
“Too young for what?”
“To be trifling with such powerful feelings. You know where we are going. You know the task at hand. I need your mind sharp as a dagger’s blade. I need your heart as hard as stone. You will not survive the terrors of the Scourgelands if you are feeling desolate about a pretty young girl. When this is over, if we survive, that is the time to court such feelings. They will only distract you from the purpose at hand.”
A hot flush of shame came across Annon’s cheeks at the scolding. He saw Phae wince for him, her eyes full of anger at her father’s words. His body shook with suppressed feelings.
“I am not a stripling from Wayland,” Annon said, grinding his teeth. “I am a Druidecht.”
“Then act like one,” Tyrus replied. “Master yourself. You must clear your head of misty-eyed thoughts. We have a duty at hand. I do not know how many of u
s will even survive it. It is for your good that I speak plainly.”
Annon took a shuddering deep breath. In the past, he would have bristled at such a reproach. But he knew Tyrus had sacrificed so much himself. He could respect that, despite the sting of the accusation. “I will do as you say. How did you find us?”
“The same way Prince Aran found her to begin with. The necklace she wears brought me straight here. Were you successful? Did you find Basilides?”
Though Annon’s heart was still chafing, he was determined to keep his composure. “We did, though Erasmus perished. There is a chamber in the center of Basilides, a doorway to the Scourgelands. This torc I wear will help keep beasts away from me when I activate it.”
A pleased smile came over Tyrus’s mouth. “That will be very helpful. It may save your life more than once against the enemies we face. What of the secret lair? What was it like? Was there an oracle?”
“Not as I was expecting,” Annon replied. “There were tombs—sarcophagi—one for each kingdom. Erasmus noticed a pattern. He deduced something inherent about the format, but the room was infested with serpents and he was bitten and died before he could reveal what he knew. I can tell you what he said, though. I remember it perfectly.”
Tyrus held up his hand. “Hold that knowledge.” He glanced suspiciously at the woods around them. “You survived the ordeal. I’m proud of you. Nizeera and Khiara made it as well? Without Khiara, we cannot succeed. We need a Shaliah to heal us.”
“They are both over there.” He looked at Phae. “They are with the Kishion you converted to our cause. And a Rike of Kenatos named Lukias who has also joined us.”
The look on Tyrus’s face filled with dread. “Who?”
“He is a Provost-Rike…”
“I know who he is,” Tyrus said. “What I cannot understand is how he is with you. He is here, now?”
“Over there. The Kishion does not trust him either.”
“Yet you did?”
Annon choked back a retort before he accused his uncle of trusting the Arch-Rike’s personal bodyguard. “He guided us to Basilides, Tyrus. He even betrayed the Arch-Rike to free us from the trap. The Arch-Rike himself came hunting us there with at least fifty soldiers. They were on our heels but it was Lukias’s knowledge of the Tay al-Ard device in Basilides that helped us escape capture. I do not trust him fully, Tyrus. I have not trusted him with the knowledge you gave me. If you would send him away, do so. However, you should know that a Shaliah recovered him from death. His time with us will be limited. Perhaps you should speak to him first.”
“I intend to,” Tyrus replied. “Where is he?”
“This way.”
Annon led them past the ring of trees and warned Nizeera that they were coming. He felt her impatience and could sense she was pacing the woods, uneasy by the storm of emotions Annon was feeling.
Khiara was leaning back against a tree, her shoulders slumped with fatigue. Lukias was also seated, but he rose when they approached, crackling through the foliage to arrive. The Kishion was already standing, keeping an eye on their prisoner.
“Lukias,” Tyrus said curtly, his eyes narrowing.
The Rike brushed his arms boldly, meeting Tyrus’s distrustful gaze with one of his own. “Tyrus.” He folded his arms. “Are you going to slay me now or let the Kishion do it?”
“I must first ask you a question,” Tyrus replied. “One that only Lukias would know. We met in my study about four years ago. You sought information from me. What about?”
Lukias rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A good question. That was quite a while ago.”
Tyrus said nothing, only staring at the man.
“If I recall the occasion…as I am sure that you do…we discussed the vulnerabilities of the Romani trading system in Havenrook. You were of the opinion, I believe, that to topple the Preachán it was best to invest heavily in trade with them. You said it would collapse all on its own.”
There was a whisper of a breeze through the grove, the faint rustle of branches.
“You satisfy me,” Tyrus replied. “Now that I know who I am speaking with, I ask you another question. Why should I trust you?”
Lukias smiled warily. “You should not, naturally. That is the only proper answer in a circumstance such as this. There is nothing I could say that would establish your confidence in me. However, I do have knowledge that would benefit you. Prove its worth by keeping me alive. Let me vindicate the trust over time. We are both of us too clever to deceive each other properly. Let me be blunt. When this is finished, I perceive that the Arch-Rike will fall. There will be a power struggle after that. You stand the best chance to succeed him. You will reward those who had faith in your vision, in your quest. I stand much more to gain by siding with you now.”
“You also stand much to lose,” Tyrus said after a scrutinizing look. “Those who ventured into the Scourgelands with me last time all perished.”
“I have already perished once facing you, Tyrus Paracelsus. You struck down one of the Arch-Rike’s most trained cohorts with a single word. You’ve claimed the loyalty of the Arch-Rike’s most feared minion. I like your chances. If you send me away, I will skulk in the woods until word comes back of your success. Clearly returning to Kenatos is no longer an option I have.”
Tyrus stroked his beard, observing the other man keenly. “What can you tell me that will injure the Arch-Rike most?”
He responded with a curious look. “How do you mean?”
“Give me information that will harm him. A vulnerability he has.”
“You seek to kill him yourself then?”
Tyrus shook his head. “Toppling his power does not require his death.”
Lukias smiled knowingly. “A horse resists the reins but submits because of the bridle. The Arch-Rike does not use a bridle or a bit. Instead, he shapes the path he wants the horse to travel on. Where does his path lead now, Tyrus? Do you see it?”
Annon felt a wrinkle of worry at Lukias’s words. Somehow Erasmus had discerned the pattern of the Arch-Rike’s strategy. But the Preachán’s words had been a jumble of phrases, all disconnected.
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 of these, but look—look! 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. The Arch-Rike we face is an illusion.
Tyrus interrupted Annon’s thoughts. “I’m more interested in what you know and how you can help us.”
Lukias nodded sagely. “Of course. You already know that it is the Arch-Rike’s stated goal to preserve all knowledge. That tradition began long before his reign.”
Tyrus nodded.
“What most do not realize is that he plots to overthrow every kingdom. Havenrook is only the first to fall. So will Wayland, Alkire, and Silvandom. Lydi is already his. Even the Boeotians will be forced to submit. Stonehollow will be the last. Stonehollow is his goal. Even now he has been plotting to overthrow it, finding another way to invade your home country. His home country. He began paying Romani to seek alternate paths inside to circumvent the tunnels.”
Annon noticed Phae and the Kishion turn and look at each other.
“Thank you,” Tyrus said simply. “You’ve answered my question.”
Streamers of dust began to flit through the air, zigzagging with color and radiance. Annon felt the surge from the arrival of spirit beings from Mirrowen, a thick onslaught of them arriving with chiming noises and spectral streamers of magic. Their voices were rushed and urgent.
They come. They summon you.
Druidecht, they come. Be ready.
Annon tensed, feeling the suppressed giddiness of the voices. Khiara got to her feet, gripping her staff. The lights were dazzling as they infiltrated the glen.
They come, Druidecht. Be rea
dy. The Thirteen seek you.
Canton Vaud calls.
Come. You must come.
Annon sensed the presence of others in the woods, watching the forms begin to emerge from the trees. There were Bhikhu mixed with Druidecht, approaching.
Lukias’s head jerked and his face went ashen. “Who are these emissaries?”
Tyrus turned to Annon, gazing at him. Can I trust you? he seemed to be asking.
They come, Druidecht. They are here.
Canton Vaud summons you.
Come.
Annon stared at Tyrus and nodded firmly.
“Despite what I may think of their beliefs, the Druidecht hierarchy known as Canton Vaud are the most trusted and respected of individuals throughout the kingdom. They are the only ones known to be welcomed as honored guests even beyond the borders of our lands. Even the Boeotians pay them respect.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Phae was not always certain how she felt about her father. His moods were mercurial and his behavior seemed to alter depending on who they were with. When they had spoken in the cellar below the woodsman’s lodging, he was thoughtful and even tender. She had seen him scold Annon and flinched for the pain he was causing the young Druidecht. She had watched him interrogate the Rike known as Lukias with brutal efficiency and could fully understand his cold distrust. He shifted his communication depending on the circumstance, almost like a performer would in front of an ever-changing audience.
She knew he was powerful, but also that he had powerful enemies. She was beginning to realize that his power may not lie so much in his knowledge of magic as it did with his knowledge of influencing people. There was a hazy feeling of suppressed danger in the air whenever he was near. It made her want to be closer to Shion, just in case another terrible danger tried to destroy her father. Shion was the only presence amongst the group where she felt a small measure of safety. Maybe it was when he took the blast of the Kishion himself to shield her. Someone who would do that, not knowing if it would destroy them, deserved her trust. She saw his eyes constantly alert, his body tense as a bowstring. He was trained as a killer, yet she trusted him with her life. She still feared him though.
