by Jeff Wheeler
And no one knew where that word was inscribed except for Tyrus. If only he had shared that knowledge with someone else—like Possidius.
He looked up at the others, who were each staring at him with looks of hopelessness and despair. They could see nakedly that he had no answers for them. He had no plan that would guarantee their survival. He had led them into death itself.
His heart began to shrivel.
He stared down at Declan, who seemed surprisingly lucid for a man bleeding to death.
“What do you advise?” Tyrus whispered to his friend Mathon, a friend he had known since their shared days in an orphanage.
Mathon swallowed hard. His face was full of sadness and despair. “We thought you knew, Tyrus. We believed in you.”
It was the first crack in the eggshell. The rest of it crumpled around him.
He had failed. The despair of that knowledge hurt worse than the claw marks ravaging his face.
“Our best chance is to flee these woods,” he heard himself saying hoarsely, as the sadness nearly unmanned him. “If we separate and go our own ways, our enemy will hunt us separately and some of us may survive.” He licked his bleeding lip. “I’m not certain any of us will make it out of here alive.”
Looking down, he watched Declan Brin shut his eyes, and an expression of peace crossed the Preachán’s face. He would lie there, still, and wait to die.
It was the hardest decision Tyrus had ever made in his life. He was twenty-five years old.
“Over the years, I have periodically, though seldom, received requests to understand the lore of the Scourgelands. There is very little in the records about that forbidden place. I ascribe the lack of history to the fact that it is so lawless and dangerous that few who venture there have ever survived. Some menace lurks in those woods, a cunning menace that even the Boeotians fear. The only man I know personally who has survived a journey there is Tyrus Paracelsus. And even he rarely speaks of it without shuddering.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
II
The fire snapped and spat out a cluster of glowing sparks into the night air. Even the wind was timid. Phae glanced surreptitiously at the faces surrounding the camp, all eyes fixed on her father. She could see her own feelings mirrored in most of their expressions—horror mingled with dread. Only two seemed impervious to the emotional tale, namely Kiranrao and Baylen.
On the other side of Tyrus sat Annon, a Druidecht. He was Aeduan and only slightly older than Phae, but his eyes were haunted and his clothes showed the scorch marks and stains of his rough journeys. The talisman and a torc around his neck gleamed in the firelight and he absent-mindedly stroked the fur of a spirit cat, Nizeera, nestling beside him. By Annon, she saw his twin sister, Hettie. Both were the children of Merinda, the only other person who had barely survived the Scourgelands journey with Tyrus, but who had lost her mind overusing the fireblood’s magic. Hettie wore leather hunter garb and smoothed her hair over her ear as she watched. She had been abducted by a Romani as an infant, though she had eventually renounced her Romani heritage and begun Bhikhu training under the man seated next to her.
Paedrin had the dark skin and slanted eyes of the Vaettir and he was an outspoken Bhikhu. His hair was shorn short and he wore stained gray robes that were spotted with blood. His eyes were always expressive as he had listened to the tale, eager to learn more. There were several other Vaettir in the party as well. Prince Aransetis wore the black tunic of the Rikes and his cousin, Khiara, wore paler colors, clad in the formal robes of her order—the Shaliah, the healers of Silvandom. The last Vaettir was the Romani lord Kiranrao, who had listened to the tale with a curl of derision on his lip. He dressed like shadows and his very presence reminded Phae of smoke. Baylen was slightly apart from the others, a hulking Cruithne warrior from Kenatos who had multiple blades strapped to his back and wore armor and battle gear. He showed little emotion on his face or in his eyes, and had listened to the tale with only small coughing chuckles to mark his surprise.
Seated next to Phae, his knee just touching hers, was Shion, her protector. He had the look of an Aeduan and he had once served their enemy, the Arch-Rike. His face was raked with scars from some previous vicious battle. His gaze was intent as Tyrus spoke. Phae believed that Shion was connected to the Scourgelands somehow.
Tyrus’s voice resumed, breaking the stillness as the sparks winked out. “That was the moment when I broke,” he murmured softly. “That was the moment when I failed. I rarely share this experience and still feel the shame of it. I left one of my best friends to die. But it is important—crucial, even—that you understand the horrors we will all face inside the Scourgelands. That was eighteen years ago. Only Merinda and I survived, and only because she sacrificed herself and unleashed the fireblood’s full force to save my life.”
He took the small, charred stick he had been using to stir the fire and prodded it once more, shifting the weight of a glowing log. “There was something we had in that previous journey that we lack among us now. Any thoughts as to what that might be?” He raised an eyebrow curiously.
“A Preachán?” Kiranrao said with a smirk, earning an aghast look from Hettie. Phae observed how the Romani girl was always watching him, covertly, but still Phae noticed the subtle deference. Paedrin’s frown was a sullen curl at the remark.
Tyrus ignored it.
Prince Aransetis leaned forward. “You replaced a Rike gifted at dispensing healing magic with a Shaliah, whose power is innate.”
Tyrus nodded, but Phae could tell it was not the answer her father sought. “No. What we lack is a single word. Trust.” He gazed at each one of them. “They were each tested and loyal, or so I thought. Looking back now, I think my friend Mathon was sent by the Arch-Rike to poison my thoughts. I’ve learned since then that our enemy is quite adept at such arts. It is probably his key power of influence—the ability to sow doubt. It was right at that moment, with Declan Brin dying before my eyes, that Mathon’s words affected me so much. I failed because I chose, at that moment, to surrender to my doubts. We disbanded, each going our own way. I was hunted and chased and later stumbled upon Merinda, which is when I learned she was pregnant.” He shook his head, frowning with determination. “I have since learned that trust is essential to an endeavor such as this. If we cannot trust one another, then we will fail. I’ve shared with you this story to show you my trust. It was trust that won Phae’s protector from the Arch-Rike’s service. Trust is a powerful motivator.”
Tyrus set down the stick, setting the smoking end amidst the coals. “Trust is where it begins. I would like each of you to describe why you are here. Before you decide whether to accompany me on this suicidal quest, you must know what you can about each other and then make your choice to stick with us or leave.” His gaze shifted to the Cruithne. “Baylen. Why are you here?”
Phae rubbed her chin with the back of her hand as she stared at the giant Cruithne. He was easily three times the size of anyone else there, his skin shadowy in the night. Streaks of gray swept through his hair along his temples, but the rest was a lustrous brown. He had big jowls and an expression of sardonic amusement. “You chose me first because you trust me the least?” he asked, and then waved it off as a joke. He sighed and then stared at the fire, his meaty fingers tugging absently at the prairie grass. “I observe people. It’s what I was paid to do at the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos. I observed those coming in and going out. I judged the threat that each individual presented in their countenance. I wasn’t only hired for my ability to see people, though. I’m pretty good in a fight. Maybe not as tough as Glebbon, but I learned something of street fighting from a fellow named Aboujaoude who rescued me from a scrape I couldn’t win. I suppose I have always felt indebted to that Bhikhu. I’ve spent most of my life fighting one thing or another.”
He tossed a clump of prairie grass into the fire pit. The pieces flamed brightly for a f
ew moments. “I suspected that you were planning another trip to the Scourgelands, Tyrus. You never said it in your words, but I could see the intent in your eyes. Part of me wanted you to ask me to join you. When you vanished in a cloud of dust and rubble, I thought my chance to join you might have passed. Seems now like I was just in time.”
Tyrus nodded slowly, giving the big man an appraising look. “Are you in league with the Arch-Rike of Kenatos?”
The Cruithne’s expression went flat. His eyes glittered. “No.”
Tyrus nodded again. “I don’t have one of those rings the Rikes wear, Baylen. I’ve learned that it isn’t wise to trust a man by his words alone. I was just asking.” Then turning his look to Prince Aransetis, the Vaettir lord, he nodded deferentially. Aransetis wore the black cassock of a Rike, which gave him an incongruous appearance amidst them, especially in light of her father’s last question. Though Tyrus said nothing, the Prince understood his meaning.
“My name is Aransetis,” he said in a distinctly formal tone. Phae had first met him in the barn at the Winemiller orphanage in Stonehollow where he had tracked her down. He had warned her that her life was in danger and had tried to persuade Master Winemiller to let her accompany him to safety. The natural distrust of those from Stonehollow had thwarted his effort, and she had managed to sneak away that night. She shook her head with the memories that followed, glancing at Shion, who stared fixedly at the Prince.
“I am from one of the noble houses of Silvandom and my family has been allies of Tyrus for many years. We sent three Bhikhu with Tyrus the last time, one of them being my brother. I was a young man myself at the time and believed in the quest to rid the world of plague. I was not allowed to go and grieved when I learned what happened. I decided at that moment that I would train to kill that I might be useful if a second attempt was made.”
His eyes shone with intensity, his frown a sign of dark strength. “I trained to protect Tyrus’s daughter.” His gaze met hers and she felt a shiver run through her. “To give my life so that she might reach the center of that hideous maze. I gladly step aside, relinquishing that role to someone better suited than I. Many of you have asked me why I wear these black robes. The answer is simple. To better understand the cunning mind of our enemy, the Arch-Rike. Like Tyrus, I suspected Lukias was a traitor among us. I did not recognize that he was the Arch-Rike himself. Because of that betrayal, I suspect each one of you of deception. I will be watching you closely. Expect that.”
Kiranrao snorted. “This speech is supposed to help us trust one another? Even black hens lay white eggs.”
Aransetis frowned at the comment, but Tyrus held up his hand. “Have a care, Kiranrao. We just watched the Thirteen of Canton Vaud get murdered by the Arch-Rike and we took the blame for it. Trust is improved when we understand one another’s motives. Prince Aransetis is explaining his rather candidly.”
“And so are you?” Kiranrao challenged.
“You heard my speech to the Thirteen,” Tyrus replied heatedly. “My motives have ever been the same. The Arch-Rike ascribes it to a lust for glory and fame. As you no doubt have realized, we will get very little of that if we succeed. Khiara—what about you?”
The Vaettir girl did not raise her eyes but continued to stare down at her hands. “A Shaliah is a healer. My purpose is to keep you all alive. Had I been there, Declan would have survived and you might have made a different decision.” She sighed, her voice trailing off very softly. “I go where my cousin goes.”
Phae saw the unmistakable flush in the girl’s cheeks and her heart throbbed with pity. Khiara was in love with her cousin, Prince Aransetis. It was painful to look at, for it reminded her of her own feelings for Trasen. As a Dryad-born, she had erased all of Trasen’s memories of their time together because the Arch-Rike was using him to hunt her. Khiara’s feelings were simple and uncomplicated.
But Phae could see that Prince Aransetis did not reciprocate them. His jaw clenched at her mumbled words, his stern expression becoming even more so.
“Thank you, Khiara,” Tyrus said. “We are grateful you are with us. Without you, we cannot succeed.” He said a few words in the Vaettir tongue, which Phae could not understand. Khiara sat as still as a stone, saying nothing in return.
“Annon.”
The young Druidecht was only a little older than Phae, but he seemed to have aged in the hours since the destruction inside Canton Vaud. He had connected with a Dryad in the woods of Silvandom and her tree had been destroyed by the Arch-Rike shortly after the death of his masters—the Thirteen. He absently stroked the fur of a spirit creature nestled in the grass next to him, a big cat named Nizeera.
“My mother was Merinda Druidecht,” Annon said in a hoarse voice. He gazed around the fire at each of them. “For years I believed that Tyrus was my uncle. I thought he abandoned me in Wayland to be taught by a mentor because he was ashamed of me. I’ve learned that he was only trying to protect me, that Kenatos is a prison, and he was a prisoner.” He snorted with disdain. “I am here because the Arch-Rike must be stopped. I seek his downfall. He knows about the Plague and its source. There is a shrine . . . a sanctuary of some kind in the mountains north of the island city. He has stonecutters from Stonehollow working on the outer façade. As we learned from Tyrus this evening, there are Calcatrix in the Scourgelands—these are serpent-like birds that have poisonous claws and can turn you to stone if you look at them. Khiara and I faced them in the Arch-Rike’s secret temple, which he calls Basilides. The doorway inside Basilides leads into the Scourgelands. It may even lead into the heart of it.”
Tyrus held up his hand and made a gesture and Annon quieted. The young man sighed deeply, the expression on his face pained. “The Arch-Rike has struck me quite personally. He destroyed the Druidecht hierarchy. And he took someone from me as well.” His voice hushed as he mastered his emotions. Phae noticed a slight blue glow appear in his hands. “I will do whatever I must to defeat this man.”
The firelight was beginning to dim, but Tyrus did not feed it with another log. He turned his face to the Romani girl, Hettie. She was looking at Annon with softness and compassion.
“Why am I here?” she said with her particular accent. She reached over and took Annon’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “This is my brother, if you did not already know. We are the twins of Merinda Druidecht. I was raised by the Romani.” Her voice did not betray any emotions, but Phae noticed that she had chosen her words with care. “Though now I no longer wear a hoop in my ear. I seek my freedom. I seek a change in the order of things. I am a Bhikhu in training.” She glanced over at Paedrin, giving him a slightly mocking smile, one that shared many memories.
All eyes went to him next, another Vaettir who squatted low on his haunches, his sandaled feet flat against the ground. He looked over at Tyrus and then shrugged. “I do not know why I am here. I think I took the wrong road back in the woods and ended up with all of you by mistake.”
Phae smiled, appreciating the Bhikhu’s sense of humor. She saw the effect on all of them, the lightened mood, except for Kiranrao, who looked disdainful.
“We’re all so serious. I thought it might be best to try levity. I am here to keep all of you from dying. I will do my best.” He looked at Tyrus shrewdly. “I understand your warning about the dangers we face. I am not afraid to kill. I would prefer not to, but if the odds are against us, then I will do what must be done. When this is finished, I intend to return to the Shatalin Temple in the mountains along the coast. I have a promise to fulfill there. It seems the Arch-Rike keeps some of his servants training there.” His eyes went straight to Shion. “It is time they were sent away.” He glanced around the fire ring and then fixed Kiranrao with an evil look. “I do not trust Kiranrao. I don’t care how many nights we spend around the fire holding hands and singing songs. I don’t think that I can ever trust him. Prince Aransetis, maybe we can take turns keeping a watch?”
�
�Paedrin,” Tyrus warned.
“I’m just getting started,” Paedrin said. “We would be better off without him.”
Tyrus fidgeted angrily, but the Romani was quick to interject. “Let the lad speak his mind,” Kiranrao quipped with an exaggerated yawn. “He’s more to be pitied than laughed at.”
“A goose is still a goose, even if you call it a duck. I made that proverb up myself. I rather like the sound of it compared to all of yours.”
Kiranrao’s eyes narrowed—that was the only indication of his displeasure.
“Paedrin,” Tyrus said, “be silent. If you can.” The Bhikhu bowed his head to Tyrus, but his look was unrepentant. “Kiranrao? Of us all, you bear a grudge against the Arch-Rike. His machinations are destroying Havenrook as we speak.”
The Romani snorted. “That is well known, so I won’t give any flowery speeches. I am here for one simple reason—revenge. Since I escaped the hangman’s noose in Kenatos, the Arch-Rike has repeatedly earned my scorn. His armies attack my people and cripple my city as we sit here mumbling in the shadows. When this is through, I will see him dead. As for a strategy, Tyrus, I see you are overlooking the simplest one. We could end this by tomorrow night.”
Tyrus clenched his teeth. “Kiranrao . . .”
“It will only take but a moment to explain.” The lanky Vaettir was as mercurial as a cat. His hand never strayed far from a dagger belted to his waist. The look of the dagger made a pit inside Phae’s stomach. “Just give me the Tay al-Ard now. I will venture into the Scourgelands alone. None of the beings skulking in there will be a match for me. When I find the Dryad tree in the center of the woods, I will come back to you and we can all enter together. You can all have a little . . . a little picnic while I am gone.” He smirked at Tyrus.