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 vomit. 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.”
“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 vomit. 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.”
