by Jeff Wheeler
“She died during your last foray,” one of the Thirteen muttered darkly.
Tyrus was as hard as flint. He did not respond to the comment. “Khiara Shaliah of the royal house of Silvandom. Friend of Canton Vaud.” There were nods in respect to her. Annon saw her bearing as aloof. She gripped her long, tapered staff, almost leaning on it. Her knuckles still bore the scars of their troubles in the mountains. Tyrus motioned next to the Rike. “Lukias of Kenatos. Provost-Rike.” There were murmurs at that, some looking at each other askance. He then gestured at the Kishion. “This man is known to many of you, in rumors if not by name. He is one of the Arch-Rike’s Kishion. He aids in our quest.”
“Your quest,” one of the Thirteen muttered, a man.
Tyrus then motioned to Phae. “This is my daughter, Phae of Stonehollow. She is Dryad-Born.”
Annon saw the ripple of shock go through their faces. The looks varied from shock, resentment, fury, and disgust—the blend conjured made Annon doubt whether Tyrus should have mentioned the last part. The girl herself seemed to shrink at the sudden hostility in their gazes.
“Impossible…”
“A cruel trick?”
“This cannot be condoned…”
“Patience,” Palmanter interrupted, motioning for the others. “The time for questions will come in due course. Be silent, Stoern. Kepniss, hush. I will introduce us, as there are many faces here that are strangers to you all.” Palmanter rose, a tall man himself, of the same height as Tyrus. He looked older, but only because his hair was silver. He paced slowly in front of the others, his head bowed low in thought. He started at the far end of the semicircle of chairs.
“Stoern of Stonehollow,” he said, gesturing toward the bird-like woman who had met them in the woods. She was very distrustful, her expression one of open contempt and wariness. She had auburn hair and Annon wondered if she possessed the fireblood. As each name was spoken, he felt the gift of the Dryad kiss working and he was able to memorize instantly each of their names as well as the kingdoms from which they hailed.
The man sitting next to her was tall and bluff, his face square. He had black hair that was fringed with gray along the temples. His skin was dark and he had the look of a man who could wield a hammer and chisel. A small smirk curled the corner of his mouth. He whispered something to Stoern. His robes were rumpled and dusty. “Zannich of Stonehollow,” Palmanter said.
The next was another woman, a Vaettir who wore the talisman. She was not a Bhikhu or a Shaliah. Her hair was cut short in a bob and she had an intense look. Not one of judgment but of great curiosity. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes taking them in. “This is Jinna of Kenatos. The only Vaettir among the Thirteen. She was an Archivist in the past.” Annon noticed Tyrus’s sudden interest in the woman.
The next man was part-Vaettir, though larger around the shoulders and fairer haired than Annon expected. “Skogen of Lydi.” The man was shrewd looking, nodding to them respectfully. His eyes were probing the Kishion’s. There was a sleek spirit animal next to his chair, a spotted cat with a long, thick tail. Its eyes were also probing them. Annon felt Nizeera brush against his leg, as if reminding him she was there.
Palmanter stood next in front of three Cruithne. They were all dark skinned but one was an exceptionally big-boned woman. “Rajas of Alkire,” Palmanter said, motioning to her. She looked at them imperiously, as if she were a queen, her eyes glinting with condescension. She dipped her chin to them, but looked as if she would prefer summoning a tornado to destroy them all.
Next to her was an older man, the oldest of them all, with thick streaks of gray in his beard. He rubbed his bottom lip, staring at all of them as if they were diseased. “Bryont, also of Alkire. And next to him, Obie of Alkire. She is the newest member of the Thirteen. These three are our experts on the Paracelsus order.” Obie had darker skin than the other two Cruithne and did not share their girth. She was looking at Phae with sympathy, her expression troubled.
Annon looked at the next three, for all were Preachán and smaller than the rest. The first was a woman, with chestnut brown hair. She was slight but wore a variety of necklaces and jewelry. The cut of her tunic was very fashionable. She was probably fifty. “Kepniss of Havenrook. Next to her are Koth and Moolien. They both speak the Romani tongue fluently and are experts in the trade disputes going on between Alkire, Havenrook, and Wayland. They have heavy accents and are sometimes difficult to understand.”
“You malign us,” Moolien said. He was bald and bearded and gestured with annoyance at Palmanter. “I will have you know we have memorized each line of the agreement scrolls and can cite them by annotation as well as by age of the parchment.” He was a small man, very feisty and energetic. “Where is the Preachán you had with you previously, Tyrus? Where is Erasmus?”
“Dead,” Tyrus said flatly, his eyes piercing the smaller man whose eyes filled with shock.
The other Preachán looked injured. He was Koth and his hair was well silvered. “He was a brilliant man.”
“We are in agreement on that at least,” Tyrus replied gravely. He nodded to the three Preachán solemnly.
“Deaths have already begun even before your departure,” Stoern pointed out snidely. “How unfortunate.”
Palmanter waved her silent and then introduced the final two. The first was a woman with gold hair flecked with slivers of steel. She was a handsome woman, elegantly dressed in form-fitting robes with elegant needlework patterns. “Mitrisin of Wayland. The king’s cousin.” She nodded respectfully to them and reached out and patted Koth on the arm, as if comforting him.
“And Psowen, also of Wayland.” He was a turtle of a man, his hair receding and he had bulging eyes that gave him almost a frog-like look. His hair was well silvered too and he looked as if he’d enjoyed too many pastries over his life. But despite his looks, he stared at them with keenness and scrutiny.
Annon recounted their names once more in his mind, fixing their features and looks. He did not know the process of being chosen as one of the Thirteen. Each one of them wore a talisman that had a different look than his did. Theirs seemed more ancient, as if it had been passed down for many generations.
Palmanter took his seat, his big arms folding imperiously. “Who would ask the first question?”
“How did Erasmus die?” Moolien asked, his jaw quivering with emotion. He leaned forward in his chair.
Tyrus held up his hand and took a step forward. “You have summoned me here to answer questions. Rather than submit to them, I propose an alternative. Let me explain what I am doing here, what these friends are doing here with me, and what our intentions are. Then I have a few questions of my own to ask the Thirteen. Are we agreed?”
Zannich snorted. “We summoned you, Tyrus. Not the other way around.”
“I came here willingly, as a friend of Canton Vaud. I understand there are some suspicions regarding my recent activities. It is probably best if I address them directly.”
“You may try,” Zannich muttered darkly.
Tyrus seemed to focus on him first. “We are countrymen, Zannich. I understand your skepticism. Let me speak freely then, if you are agreeable?”
Palmanter looked at the frog-eyed man, Psowen, who nodded, his face impassive.
“Thank you. I do not wish to claim all of your time. My motives remain as they have always been. I seek to banish the Plagues. I know how this may be done. These, along with a few others, have agreed to journey with me into the Scourgelands. Our intent is to depart immediately and face the horrors there once again.” It was clear some of them were going to interrupt by the way they shifted in their chairs, but Tyrus waved them silent. “Please, I must beg your indulgence further. Hear me out. I will be brief.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “As we gathered in Prince Aransetis’s manor house in Silvandom, we were viciously attacked by the soldiers and Paracelsus and by the Arch-Rike of Kenatos himself. We were outnumbered, caught by surprise. We defended ourselves and many of the Arch-R
ike’s servants were killed in the battle. I admit this freely. There was no offer to treat with us. To put it plainly, they tried to destroy my quest before it could even begin.” He gestured broadly. “These are the witnesses, including two of the Arch-Rike’s servants who have since changed sides. This is my evidence. I have been hunted and attacked nearly every day since I fled the prison city of Kenatos. The Arch-Rike seeks my life. He wishes to stop me.”
Mutters and words began to mix.
“Are you saying,” Kepniss said with a thick accent, “That the Arch-Rike of Kenatos attempted to murder you? You know this is what he accuses you of.”
“Of course he does,” Tyrus replied, folding his arms. “One of us is a liar. There can be no other conclusion. Against every treaty, against common sense, and even against wisdom, he led a group of armed men into the jurisdiction of Silvandom with the express intent of murdering me and those who follow me. When they failed, with corpses as proof of that failure, he needed to concoct a story granting his arrival some semblance of legitimacy.”
Stoern shook her head. “You have the same burden of proof as he does. You cannot prove your story any more than he can. We have a long history of relations with Kenatos. The Vaettir are his sworn allies. If he wanted you turned over to him, he would only have needed to ask.”
“Curious then, isn’t it, Stoern?” Tyrus replied, locking his hands behind his back again and giving her a shrewd look. “With such good relations with Silvandom, you would think he would have been welcomed into their kingdom as an honored guest. Why the secrecy and treachery? He was anticipating killing us all and ridding our bodies as evidence. That begs a very important question.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Why would he seek to thwart my quest at all? If his intentions are as good as he claims, why not leave me alone?”
“Because,” answered Koth grumpily with a look on his face as if he’d bitten into something very sour, “your intentions are no more honorable than his own. The Arch-Rike holds great influence and power, but he is dependent on the goodwill of the kingdoms to maintain it. You have always been jealous of that influence. I remember when you last ventured into those dreaded woods. Everyone died.” He snorted. “Except for you.”
Annon saw the cheek muscle on Tyrus’s face twitch.
“I have since learned,” Tyrus said in a low, steady voice, “that my last quest was compromised before we even left. We walked into a trap and were butchered. The Arch-Rike himself was behind our failure. I have the tools needed now to be successful. And I will use them. Believe me or not, it does not matter. We are going anyway.”
“But it does matter,” Mitrisin said imploringly. “Tyrus, you know I admire and respect you. You have a reputation to be envied. But you are ambitious. This ambition clouds your vision. If there was a way to penetrate the Scourgelands, we would have discovered it long ago. The woods are our domain, Tyrus. Not yours.”
“You are blinded by what you do not see,” Tyrus answered.
“You are the one who is blind here,” Moolien said savagely.
“Please, let us not provoke one another,” Kepniss said calmly. “Tyrus, you know I respect you as well. You are without peer. But it is said, and whispered by many, that you have the fireblood. That you are of the forgotten race. Do you deny it?”
Tyrus bristled at the question. He looked at Zannich and Stoern, both of whom eyed him with great hostility. Annon remembered hearing that those from Stonehollow persecuted people with the fireblood.
“No, I do not deny it,” Tyrus replied. “I am not bound to answer your questions. I chose to do so openly.”
There was an audible murmur.
Kepniss shook her head. “It is also said that those who possess the fireblood often go mad. There are words they use that tame this power. But if those words are not used, well, that is how the madness begins. It is incurable.”
“Who taught you this lore?” Tyrus asked her. “It is not Druidecht.”
“I did,” Jinna said, her Vaettir eyes probing. “It is written in the Archives.”
“It is true,” Tyrus replied. “The lore, that is. My own sister succumbed to madness.” His eyes blazed with unbridled fury. “It pains me, even now.” His voice dropped low. “And I am the last person in the seven kingdoms who would allow it to happen to myself. I know the dangers of fire. So does the Arch-Rike. He has the fireblood too. I have seen him summon it.”
There was another burbling of gasps in the pavilion.
“What proof does he have?” Zannich muttered.
Tyrus spread out his hands. “Let me be quite clear. I do not seek your permission to enter the Scourgelands. I do not seek your support for my quest. I am not a Druidecht nor am I bound by your customs. You say the woods are your domain. Very well. Prove it. Do any of you have the courage to join me?”
“You have already persuaded a Druidecht to join you,” Obie declared. “He is just a boy. Your daughter is little more than a child herself. Can you safeguard their lives as you failed to do before?”
Tyrus stared at her and then shook his head.
“Why should we let you go then?” Zannich demanded, leaning forward, nearly coming out of his chair.
The look in Tyrus’s eyes was cold and it froze the Druidecht. “What makes you think you possess the power to stop me?”
Annon saw some of the Thirteen glance at each other. There were a few curt nods. They were planning something. He could see the stiffness in their shoulders. He could see the looks of distrust. They had no intention of letting any of them go free.
“I have a question,” Bryont said sagely, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a simple one, really.” He stroked his grizzled beard. “You said your daughter was Dryad-born. I presume that has some relevance to this or you would not have brought her or sired her. That knowledge is not in any book in Kenatos. How did you learn that lore?”
Tyrus smiled grimly. “A good question, Master Bryont. You always go straight to the crux of the matter. I like that about you. I have been honest with all of you so far. I first learned the lore from Merinda Druidecht. Now I have a question for you. For all of you. How long have you willingly harbored one of the Arch-Rike’s spies in your inner circle?”
Palmanter leaned forward. “What did you…?”
“You heard me well enough, old friend. One of you is in the paid service of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. Shall I have Lukias name the person for you? Or will you confess it willingly? I know who you are.”
Psowen’s face twitched with rage. “Bhikhu!” he ordered sharply. “Attend us!”
The flap of the tent fluttered as the Vaettir began to enter the pavilion.
“Please, don’t do anything rash, old friend,” Palmanter said warningly, making a gesture to the Bhikhu entering. “We are turning you over to the Bhikhu. They will investigate your claims before any are delivered to Kenatos. You are a dangerous man, Tyrus. You are dangerous to these friends, as you call them. For the good of everyone, we must question you further.”
“It is one of the bad habits of kings and those with power to attribute the virtue of truthful speaking to those from whom there is no further risk of hearing it.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin entered the pavilion first, gripping the chain ring in his hand. He was used to its heft and ready to begin whipping it about the room. He quickly observed the situation, saw Tyrus standing in front of the others and immediately assumed a defensive posture, tightening the chain between his fists loudly so that the links clashed when they went taut. Hettie entered next, the charm she wore around her neck disguising her as Vaettir-born, the Bhikhu robes perfectly disguising her and gripping the hilt of the Sword of Winds. Kiranrao and Prince Aransetis came next, taking up position, four Vaettir in all. Baylen was stacking the bodies of the unconscious bodyguards out of sight.
It was good to see the others again. Annon looked greensick, a lad taken before his masters for punishment. If scolded, he might vomi
t. He saw the Quiet Kishion with dread and respect, amazed that Tyrus had tamed him. He hoped it was not a trap, for he did not relish the thought of fighting the Kishion a third time. He was willing to though. His vision was whole, his body healed, and he had enjoyed an especially savory dish of rice and peppers for supper earlier.
Judging by the looks on the Thirteen’s faces, none of them had realized their bodyguards had been dispatched yet. All Vaettir looked the same to foreigners.
One of them, a pudgy man with a sallow face, pointed to Tyrus. “You will submit to us. We are well aware of your capabilities, Tyrus. We know you can vanish through use of a magic device. We may not be able to stop you, but you will not take many of these with you on the mad quest you insist on. Annon—you owe us obedience and allegiance, stand aside. The rest are offered clemency if you desist immediately. You are in the middle of Canton Vaud. Do not be foolish to presume that you will all escape.”
Tyrus’s reply was classic. “You are the one who is presuming much, Psowen. Allow me to introduce the remainder of my group.” Paedrin could not keep the smirk from his mouth. It was a brilliant use of the Uddhava.
“This is Paedrin of Kenatos, last Bhikhu of the temple. The others were poisoned to death and the Arch-Rike did nothing to help or cure it, though he did not lack the antidote or the knowledge of it. Hettie, who appears to you as a Vaettir girl right now, is also the child of Merinda Druidecht. Kiranrao of Havenrook you will recognize and perhaps even sense the presence of the blade Iddawc in his hand. There is Prince Aransetis, of course…I am sure you overlooked him since he is not dressed as a Rike currently. And lastly, here he comes, is Baylen of Kenatos, guardian of the Paracelsus Towers.”
Tyrus took a meaningful step forward. “It may not have escaped your notice that there are twelve of us. Had Erasmus been here, it would have been an even thirteen. Threaten us again and you will find that your talismans will not save you from me. I have not come this far to be thwarted by Canton Vaud.”
