by Jeff Wheeler
Palmanter held up his hands. “Easy, my friend. Do not be hasty.”
“Am I your friend?” Tyrus asked coldly. “I have told you the truth. The ring worn by the Arch-Rike’s spy confirms it. We can ask one by one if we must to prove this. But let us hasten the game. Name her, Lukias.”
Paedrin glanced at the Rike who stared at Tyrus with a mixture of awe and respect on his face. “Well done, Tyrus,” the Rike said with a half-chuckle. There was a clap of shocked silence.
“The spy?” one of the Druidecht muttered nervously.
“Who do you mean?” a Preachán asked pointedly to Tyrus.
Tyrus turned to the Rike nearby and gestured for him to disclose it.
“It is Rajas,” the man said simply. “The ring is on her right hand and is disguised in a gold filigree design of a scarab. She is your spy. The Arch-Rike told me himself.”
All eyes turned suddenly to a corpulent Cruithne with an imperious and completely bewildered look. The shock was so sudden and evident on her face that for a moment she could only splutter.
Tyrus tapped his mouth. “I do see a ring on her hand. It bears a startling resemblance to a scarab.”
The shocked expressions, the utter bewilderment thrilled Paedrin. Their entire shared minds were fumbling over themselves, reacting to the news.
“How…dare…you!” Rajas uttered lividly. Her cheeks went chalky white and she fixed a finger at Lukias.
“Do you deny it, Madame?” Tyrus said simply. Then his voice pitched low and throbbed with warning. “Do you dare deny it?” He glowered at Palmanter. “You invited me here to answer questions. Instead, you intended all along to turn me over to the Arch-Rike.”
“No, Tyrus,” Palmanter said gravely. “The Vaettir are wise and honorable. Cunning, too, it would seem. They are investigating what happened at the manor house. Surely, if what you have told us is true, there is ample evidence of your innocence.” He looked over at Rajas with disgust. “You have also done us a great service, Tyrus. We will deal with her immediately.”
“Hold a moment,” one of the other Druidecht said, standing up. “We aren’t letting him leave…”
It was Zannich. Annon saw the wariness in his face and instantly distrusted him. There were possibly more in league with the Cruithne woman. His heart was overjoyed at Tyrus’s duplicity, grateful for once that he was a man who guarded his secrets so well. He recognized Paedrin and Prince Aran. He would never forget a man like Kiranrao. And the girl Tyrus had claimed to be Hettie did not look familiar at all, but he trusted that it was magic disguising her. The Cruithne who had entered with his other friends was not a stranger to him either. He looked at the man and instantly recalled having seen him before, at the Paracelsus Towers.
“Hold a moment, Zannich. We must consider what he has told us,” Mitrisin said gravely. “Rajas might not be the only one of us who has betrayed the Druidecht. Are there more traitors among us, Tyrus?”
Tyrus gave her a probing look. “We must go. Our journey will be difficult. We will leave you. Gather around me,” he said urgently. “All of you.”
“You cannot leave!” Zannich said fiercely. “You’ve leveled accusations against the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. You must stand behind those accusations. We will summon him to Canton Vaud. If he refuses to come, then it proves the validity of your words. If you leave now, it puts everything you said before in doubt.”
“You and Stoern already doubt every word I have uttered,” Tyrus said. “My intention is not to topple the Arch-Rike. It is what I declared it to be in the beginning. I will stop this Plague from ravaging the lands. We cannot delay.”
“You must delay,” Kepniss said. “There is a war raging between Wayland and Havenrook. The whole world is in turmoil. Only delay a fortnight, that is all that we ask.”
“We will not,” Tyrus said flatly. The others began to gather around him. Annon saw the Tay al-Ard in his hand, clutched just out of sight of the Thirteen. Annon stood by him, staring down the Druidecht, those to whom he owed his allegiance.
“Annon of Wayland,” Psowen said thickly. “You will not go! You are not strong enough to face the dangers.”
“I choose it willingly,” Annon replied simply. “My mother followed him. So do I.”
Skogen had not spoken much, but he did now. “I will not attempt to dissuade you, Tyrus. You have your own mind. But remember that the last group you brought were much older, better equipped. This is a bold force, I’ll grant you that. But they are untested.”
“Enough words,” Tyrus said. “I do not seek your permission. Solve the problems as you see best. We are going. Lukias?”
Annon noticed that the Rike had not closed the circle with them. His eyes were shifting back and forth, from the Thirteen and back to Tyrus, as if trying to decide something.
Something passed between their eyes.
An explosion ripped through the pavilion.
To Phae, it felt like daggers had jammed inside her ears. The noise was so loud and so close, she felt excruciating pain from both her ears. Shards of glass sliced through her skin and clothes, stinging sharply, but it was insignificant compared to the thrumming ache in her ears. For several moments, she was too stunned to even think. In her mind, she was back in Stonehollow, her ear ripped by a thorn after Shion had chased her down. Panic and fear rose inside of her and she felt herself buried alive. She fought and kicked, trying to free herself from the smothering cocoon only to realize it was Shion, his body pressed on top of hers, shielding her from the worst damage of the explosion.
He rose, staring into her face in concern, his eyes searching hers for signs of life. He touched her throat, feeling her heart pounding, then dropped his head in relief. Then he rose and whirled, daggers in his hands, and went after Lukias.
Only it was no longer Lukias.
The man standing amidst the debris of the tattered pavilion was no man she had ever seen before. His stubbly hair was ash gray, but he was not old. His eyes were so pale they were nearly white, except for the piercing black pupils. He stood triumphantly, holding a Tay al-Ard in his own hand, mirroring the one in Tyrus’s, his expression full of delight.
“Please, Kishion,” he muttered. “I will be gone before you can touch me. I have an offer to make all of you. You must decide now whether to accept it.”
Phae tried to push herself up, but her limbs were quivering from the immensity of the blast. Annon was limp, his face ashen, Nizeera snuffling against his cheek. Was he dead? The Bhikhu were already on their feet, but each of them had sustained terrible wounds, of gashes and burn marks. Khiara ran to Annon, touching his head with her hand and summoning her magic to save him. His eyes flashed open, blinking rapidly.
“I knew you were somewhere in the room,” Tyrus said menacingly, grimacing in pain. “I felt…your voice coming from many mouths, Band-Imas.” He looked around the debris of the room, the shattered furniture. The lumps of ash. Phae’s stomach sickened. “You…you killed them. All of them!”
“And you will suffer the blame of it,” the Arch-Rike replied evenly. “Those exploding orbs you invented are so useful, aren’t they? This is my final offer, Tyrus. There will be no safe haven for you after this. No kingdom will ever trust you again. Assume you survive the Scourgelands. Assume you prevail. Who will you tell? You see, Tyrus, I know your heart. You crave the glory of defeating the Plague. That is your deepest desire. Only I can give it to you now. I will not unleash it this generation. We will invent a sickness, a pox maybe, and you will cure it. Everyone will know it was you who stopped the pox from spreading. It will even be written in the Archives. Why, I’ll have Possidius scribe it himself. There—you will have it. Everything you have desired. Another generation from now and no one will remember what was done. Nor will they care. But you will have what you have always craved most. The glory of it.” His mouth spread into a sickening smile. “This is my final offer, Tyrus. You will have a chance to live out your life.”
His attention turned to Phae and she
shrank, recoiling from his gaze. “You have a daughter. She can remain with you. If she does not bond with a Dryad tree soon, she won’t be able to. The magic will pass and she will be just an ordinary girl.” He looked at her with that same lurid smile. “Or perhaps she would prefer to go back to Stonehollow. Would you like that lass? With Trasen, hmmm?” Then his eyes sought out the others. “One by one, I will restore what you have lost. Think, Annon. After what was done here, you are now a Black Druidecht. You murdered the Thirteen of Canton Vaud! All of you did!” He smiled savagely. “You thought you could outmaneuver me. Many have tried over the years. All have failed. There is no place you will find refuge. There is no place that will be your home. But I can protect you from even this in Kenatos.”
Tyrus was on his feet now, swaying slightly, a rivulet of blood going down from a cut in his temple. His voice was raw with emotion. “We must be very close to success if you would risk such a scene as this. Kishion, take him!”
Phae’s heart lurched as she watched the Kishion fly at the Arch-Rike, dagger poised. There was a look of unbridled fear in the Arch-Rike’s eyes just before he vanished.
The Kishion landed in the emptiness, his face contorted with rage. He stalked back to Phae, standing over her protectively. He looked savage as a beast, his expression showing a welling of absolute hatred.
“Gather round me. Quickly!” Tyrus snapped. He held out the Tay al-Ard, holding it in front of him as if it were a rod of iron that would steady him. They all had injuries, but Khiara was healing them. One by one, they clasped an arm to his. Phae looked into her father’s eyes, seeing the torment there. His mouth was transforming into a snarl of rage.
Spirits began to swirl around inside the pavilion, coming in streamers from all directions.
“Quickly!” Tyrus barked again.
Phae touched his arm, looking pleadingly into his eyes. Shion rested his hand on top of hers, his face grim and determined, his mouth twitching.
Were they going into the Scourgelands? Her heart shuddered with fear. How could they? The blast had nearly killed them all. The Arch-Rike had deceived them and destroyed the Thirteen. They would be blamed for it.
Annon’s hand covered next, his fingers like talons. His face was shocked, his mouth gaping. “Tyrus, the tree! He’s at the tree right now! You must take us there! I must defend her!”
“We are already too late,” Tyrus muttered darkly, his countenance hardening.
“No!” Annon begged. “Please!”
Paedrin and the others quickly gathered around, adding their hands to the mix. There was nothing but death all around them. Ash and smoke drifted in the breezes that came through the slashed vents.
Annon began to wail, his eyes going wide with horror.
In some deep part of Phae’s blood, she felt two Dryad trees explode.
She squeezed her father’s arm, stifling a choking sob. Streamers of magic began to swirl around them. There were cries of warning from outside the tattered pavilion. Phae shut her eyes, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to even feel. Would they all die?
Her stomach felt the familiar unease and suddenly they were swept away, flung from the pockmarked graveyard of Canton Vaud.
“One cannot overestimate the power of persistence. It is persistence that guides a stonemason’s hands and causes mighty castles and temples to be built. It is persistence that persuades a Bhikhu to practice his forms to perfection. It is persistence that allows a Paracelsus to discover new and interesting uses of ancient magics. It is persistence that allows the Rikes to cure diseases. It is persistence that provides a sailor the hope of arriving at a destination. In truth, there is no force in this world as enduring as persistence.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon drowned with grief. He could see through Neodesha’s eyes, had watched as the Arch-Rike appeared in the Dryad grove. He deliberately did not look at her tree, his eyes downcast. She stared at him, trying to do anything to meet his gaze, to snatch his memory of where her tree was. He removed a glass bauble from a pouch at his waist and threw it at the tree. As the glass shattered, his connection with Neodesha and all of his reawakened memories were gone.
The Dryad’s kiss was broken.
A thick veil began to settle over his mind. The piercing intensity of his memories and his emotions were tamped down, dulled to almost oblivion. Before he had remembered every detail of his past. Now, it was sucked into a black void, impenetrable. Even worse were the feelings that he had let her down, that he had betrayed her to her fate by leading their enemy to her tree.
The young Druidecht knelt in the stiff prairie grass, clutching himself, doubled over, his stomach starting to heave with the pounding remorse. Hettie crouched next to him on one side, the illusion gone, holding him tightly, trying to soothe him. Nizeera’s tail lashed fitfully, for she could share his emotions and knew the torment he faced. It was still just after midnight, the darkest hour. How fitting to add to his misery.
His heart had been shattered like the glass orb. Already the intensity of Neodesha’s face was beginning to fade. The memories were hollow, like glass vials. The fullness was gone. He did not want that to happen. He wanted to preserve it.
Annon struggled to his feet, tears wet on his cheeks. They were all huddled together in the dark, in some forsaken wilderness somewhere. He did not recognize the land, though it seemed vaguely familiar. Before, he would have recalled it instantly.
“Is she dead?” Annon asked Tyrus hoarsely, his voice croaking. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” came the brooding reply. “My mind is dark…right now.” Tyrus kneaded his temples with his fingertips.
“Where did you bring us?” Kiranrao demanded coldly. “Where are we?” He was pacing restlessly, his expression toward them full of contempt. “Is this the Scourgelands? Where are the trees?”
Tyrus held up his hand warningly. “This was always a risk,” he muttered. “One cannot play such stakes as these without risking everything you hold dear.” He winced with pain. “I knew Band-Imas might do this.”
“How did he?” Paedrin asked, stepping forward. Khiara had healed his injuries already and he gave Annon a look of sadness. “I recognized the Arch-Rike the moment he arrived. I know the magic he used, for Hettie has the same charm that provides the disguise. How did he slip in amongst us?”
Annon looked at him, his heart melting with pain. Pain was a teacher. What a terrible lesson to learn. “It is my fault,” Annon said miserably. “We revived Lukias after the battle in Silvandom. He was a corpse. I saw him revived with my own eyes. But when Erasmus tied him up, we left him and went into Basilides.” He shook his head with self-loathing. “Then he appeared to rescue us. It was Band-Imas, of course.”
“Ah,” Paedrin said sympathetically. “He can speak in your mind. Yes, that makes it clear. He helped you escape Basilides. Because he wanted to see where you would take him.”
“And the Tay al-Ard,” Tyrus continued, “can only take you to a place you have been before. He knew about the Dryad tree in the Paracelsus Towers. He knew about Annon’s tree but did not know exactly where it was.”
The pain was unbearable. “I failed her. It’s my fault.”
Hettie squeezed his hand.
“Yes, you did,” Kiranrao said derisively. “Look at them, Tyrus. Look at the heroes you’ve summoned.” He scanned the group with contempt. “Send the striplings away. They will only hinder us. I would fight alongside the Kishion. A Shaliah is always helpful. But really, we don’t need any of the others. Leave them behind.”
Paedrin bristled at that. “And where would we return to, I ask you? Where would we find shelter from the Arch-Rike now? Tyrus, I know you desire to end the Plague, but we must end the Arch-Rike’s rule as well. He murders the innocent. Silvandom must be told of his treachery. The Bhikhu shield him unwittingly.”
Tyrus frowned and shook his head. “No one will believe us. But I will not be distracted, not even by such a loss as
this.” He approached Annon and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I feel your hurt, lad. Believe me that I do. But we must go on. We must face the Scourgelands. All of us.” The last comment was said with a sidelong look at the Romani.
“Where are we, Tyrus?” Kiranrao asked again, an edge in his voice. “Answer me.”
Annon saw the big man swallow, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Where not even the Arch-Rike will dare follow us. We are on the borders of Boeotia.”
The small fire crackled, providing a cone of warmth to those sitting nearby. Paedrin and Hettie were hidden in the shadows beneath a giant shade tree, their backs against its trunk, their shoulders touching. Their camp was being guarded by spirits, it was said, but Paedrin was more concerned about some of the people inside the camp than by the threats lurking outside it.
“Poor Annon,” Hettie whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder.
Paedrin saw the Druidecht sitting by the fire, his hands playing with the flames—unburned. It was eerie how he could do that. But probably no more eerie than a Vaettir being able to float.
“Yes, he is a poor man. I pity him.”
“Love develops differently for different people. For some, love comes softly. But the Romani people have a saying. Whilst kicking and biting, love develops.”
“Ah, how very true,” Paedrin said with a chuckle. “Though I would prefer another kiss to a bite. I recall Master Shivu having a different sentiment. He said”—using his best imitation of Shivu’s voice—“ ‘Marriages are all happy; it’s having breakfast together that causes all the trouble.’ ”
Hettie shook her head and offered a silver-threaded laugh. She was quiet for several long moments. “What I see between Prince Aran and Khiara is painful too, though in a different way. She loves him. You can see it in her eyes. But he loves no one. He rejects her with his very politeness. I pity her too.”
