“What else did you expect me to do? Keep my word?”
Tyrus shook his head. “You did exactly what I did expect you to do. You took the blade far away. The Arch-Rike fears the Quiet Kishion. He fashioned that blade to defend himself against him. And I have turned that Kishion to my side. He aids in the quest.”
“You lie!” Kiranrao said, disbelieving Tyrus though the ring on his finger did not warn of any falsehood.
Tyrus leaned forward. “This is how it ends, Kiranrao. I have the Quiet Kishion on my side. He will dispatch the Arch-Rike when this is through. I have left nothing to chance. The last time I led a group into the Scourgelands, I was defeated by my own ignorance. I’ve learned much since that failure. I have everything I need to succeed except one thing.” His eyes narrowed. “You.”
“What?” Kiranrao looked at him in annoyance.
“You heard me, Kiranrao. I truly believe that we cannot defeat the Scourgelands without you. Every piece is important. But yours is crucial. You will not do it for the cause. You will not do it to save the world. You will do it because you stand to gain more wealth than anyone else should the Arch-Rike fall.”
There was a trick hidden inside the words. Kiranrao knew there was. He was determined to pry it loose.
“Back in Silvandom, you said that there was another to join the quest. You refused to tell me before who it was. Was it the Arch-Rike’s minion then? Was it the Quiet Kishion?”
Tyrus smiled in chagrin. “I see it is very difficult to hide the truth from you. I cannot succeed without your help. You cannot succeed without mine. We are bound together, you and I. If one of us stumbles, both of us falls.”
Kiranrao stared at the Paracelsus, feeling the sweet urge to kill him, to prove him wrong. Somehow their destinies had been entwined together. It was time to sever that tie.
“You are the only man I know of who has been inside the Scourgelands,” Kiranrao whispered. “What can you possibly have that can defeat it?”
There was a glint in Tyrus’s eye. From the folds of his robe, he raised the strange scepter he had been concealing. There were gems fastened inside it, scroll work and fluting that made the Vaettir’s eyes bulge. It was truly a rare specimen.
“I have this. It is called a Tay al-Ard. With it, I can travel to any place I have ever been. You arrive there instantly. Imagine having a magic such as this. There are only two in existence. The other one is held by the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. When he falls, his will be yours.”
There was a deep ache that started in Kiranrao’s belly. He stared at it, transfixed.
“I am going back to Silvandom now. Come with me.”
“Sometimes even the wisest of scholars and archivists are fools. They think much learning gives wisdom. They are doubtful of every person and argue over trifles. I have found the opposite to be the better approach. Stineo said it best: Seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Being in the Dryad grove brought memories to Annon both pleasant and painful. It was this place where his friend and mentor Reeder had been murdered. Though the body had been taken to Canton Vaud, Annon recognized the spot and it was where he had summoned them to through the magic of the Tay al-Ard. The forest of Silvandom was awash in colors and scents, the air alive with the presence of myriad spirits. Their thoughts brushed against his panicking mind, for his heart was still racing from their flight from Basilides. The narrow escape had cost them dear. Poor Erasmus was added to the dead in Tyrus’s quest.
There are others here, Nizeera said, her tail lashing. I sense them near the tree. It could be a trap.
Annon raised his hand, stopping Khiara and Lukias.
“What is it?” the Vaettir girl whispered, drawing near him.
“We are not alone,” Annon answered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He prepared to tame the fireblood. “Be ready.”
Who are they? Boeotians or Bhikhu? he thought to Nizeera.
I cannot smell them yet. I heard movement in the trees, over there, in the shadows.
Annon marched forward, preparing to defend the tree again. As they approached the inner ring of oaks, he saw the jagged gash in the trunk of the Dryad tree, the raw skin now blistered with sap. He observed motion through the screen of trees on his left and turned to face it. Someone was approaching, quickly, a man by his shape and size.
“There,” Lukias warned, stepping forward, pointing.
The intruder emerged from the cover. It was the Quiet Kishion.
Annon’s heart quailed at the sight of him. His bowels turned to water. There was no Tay al-Ard to rescue them this time. How was it possible that he had found the Dryad tree? Annon stared at him in shock and dread, Nizeera lowering on her haunches, preparing to spring and defend him.
Tyrus shook his head. “You did exactly what I did expect you to do. You took the blade far away. The Arch-Rike fears the Quiet Kishion. He fashioned that blade to defend himself against him. And I have turned that Kishion to my side. He aids in the quest.”
“You lie!” Kiranrao said, disbelieving Tyrus though the ring on his finger did not warn of any falsehood.
Tyrus leaned forward. “This is how it ends, Kiranrao. I have the Quiet Kishion on my side. He will dispatch the Arch-Rike when this is through. I have left nothing to chance. The last time I led a group into the Scourgelands, I was defeated by my own ignorance. I’ve learned much since that failure. I have everything I need to succeed except one thing.” His eyes narrowed. “You.”
“What?” Kiranrao looked at him in annoyance.
“You heard me, Kiranrao. I truly believe that we cannot defeat the Scourgelands without you. Every piece is important. But yours is crucial. You will not do it for the cause. You will not do it to save the world. You will do it because you stand to gain more wealth than anyone else should the Arch-Rike fall.”
There was a trick hidden inside the words. Kiranrao knew there was. He was determined to pry it loose.
“Back in Silvandom, you said that there was another to join the quest. You refused to tell me before who it was. Was it the Arch-Rike’s minion then? Was it the Quiet Kishion?”
Tyrus smiled in chagrin. “I see it is very difficult to hide the truth from you. I cannot succeed without your help. You cannot succeed without mine. We are bound together, you and I. If one of us stumbles, both of us falls.”
Kiranrao stared at the Paracelsus, feeling the sweet urge to kill him, to prove him wrong. Somehow their destinies had been entwined together. It was time to sever that tie.
“You are the only man I know of who has been inside the Scourgelands,” Kiranrao whispered. “What can you possibly have that can defeat it?”
There was a glint in Tyrus’s eye. From the folds of his robe, he raised the strange scepter he had been concealing. There were gems fastened inside it, scroll work and fluting that made the Vaettir’s eyes bulge. It was truly a rare specimen.
“I have this. It is called a Tay al-Ard. With it, I can travel to any place I have ever been. You arrive there instantly. Imagine having a magic such as this. There are only two in existence. The other one is held by the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. When he falls, his will be yours.”
There was a deep ache that started in Kiranrao’s belly. He stared at it, transfixed.
“I am going back to Silvandom now. Come with me.”
“Sometimes even the wisest of scholars and archivists are fools. They think much learning gives wisdom. They are doubtful of every person and argue over trifles. I have found the opposite to be the better approach. Stineo said it best: Seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Being in the Dryad grove brought memories to Annon both pleasant and painful. It was this place where his friend and mentor Reeder had been murdered. Though the body had been taken to Canton Vaud, Annon recognized the spot and it was where he had summoned them to through the magic of the Tay al-Ard. The forest of Silvandom was awash in colors and scents, the air alive with the presence of myriad spirits. Their thoughts brushed against his panicking mind, for his heart was still racing from their flight from Basilides. The narrow escape had cost them dear. Poor Erasmus was added to the dead in Tyrus’s quest.
There are others here, Nizeera said, her tail lashing. I sense them near the tree. It could be a trap.
Annon raised his hand, stopping Khiara and Lukias.
“What is it?” the Vaettir girl whispered, drawing near him.
“We are not alone,” Annon answered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He prepared to tame the fireblood. “Be ready.”
Who are they? Boeotians or Bhikhu? he thought to Nizeera.
I cannot smell them yet. I heard movement in the trees, over there, in the shadows.
Annon marched forward, preparing to defend the tree again. As they approached the inner ring of oaks, he saw the jagged gash in the trunk of the Dryad tree, the raw skin now blistered with sap. He observed motion through the screen of trees on his left and turned to face it. Someone was approaching, quickly, a man by his shape and size.
“There,” Lukias warned, stepping forward, pointing.
The intruder emerged from the cover. It was the Quiet Kishion.
Annon’s heart quailed at the sight of him. His bowels turned to water. There was no Tay al-Ard to rescue them this time. How was it possible that he had found the Dryad tree? Annon stared at him in shock and dread, Nizeera lowering on her haunches, preparing to spring and defend him.
