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?”
“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?”
