One of the inventions he did not tell the Arch-Rike about was a soul-trapping stone. Since the craft of the Paracelsus involved trapping spirits into performing acts for a specified duration, he wondered if it would be possible to trap his own essence in a stone. His own spirit, for lack of a better word. He discovered the proper charm, a stone that was suitable for such an exercise, and crafted the small sculpted rock with the ancient Vaettir runes of power etched into it. He kept it always in his pocket, easily within reach.
When the Kishion had prepared to kill him, Tyrus had gripped the charm in his hand, squeezing it with all his strength. The force of his fingers had activated the magic. It was not instantaneous. It was not designed to be. But when the dagger had plunged excruciatingly into his back, he released his spirit into the stone, causing his body to collapse in the dirt. Just like a dead man. Any attempt to feel his pulse would indicate he had died.
From inside the stone, he was aware enough of his surroundings to feel the Kishion leave. He waited for good measure, just to be sure. Then deliberately, knowing the pain would return instantly, he used the charm to bring his spirit back into his body again. The agony nearly made him black out. He could feel his blood starting to flow again, sending dagger-pricks all over his body. The wound was deep in his muscles. His pumping heart would soon leave him dead. There were no lesser spirits of Mirrowen in the Fear Liath’s lair. As his eyes fluttered open and he felt himself dying again, consciousness fraying around the edges, he summoned the Tay al-Ard from the bottom of the churning waterfall into his hand and invoked its power to bring him deep into the woods of Silvandom. A memory of the place was all he needed. It was a peaceful part of the woods, thick with friendly spirits.
Please, he beckoned with his thoughts. Please save me. I am a friend of Mirrowen. I release your trapped brethren.
The spirits of Mirrowen attended him immediately, healing the deadly wound.
Tyrus lay in the feathery growth, breathing deeply again, experiencing the fading of the agony in his back. The gash closed. The blood ceased to drain. He lay still, panting from the effort.
He wanted the Arch-Rike to believe he was dead. It would provide him time to set in motion the rest of his plan to conquer the Scourgelands and the Arch-Rike himself.
Phae heard the words from the man’s own mouth. “I’ve come for my daughter.”
It was her father. Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. She stared at him in shock, her heart burning with a sudden unfamiliar feeling—hope. Her father had survived the Kishion’s attack. He was limping slightly, she could see that, but he had survived. It meant that the Kishion was not unstoppable.
The Kishion slipped off the saddle, fast as a hawk. He pulled Phae down, catching her before she sprawled on her face. His arm was made of iron and fastened around her neck and she saw his dagger appear in his other hand. He did not stop her from breathing, but he was clearly claiming ownership of her.
Tyrus held up his hand. “If I had wanted to steal her from you, I would have waited in the tunnel and touched her as you passed by. Hear me out, Kishion.”
She heard the Kishion’s breath coming in short puffs. “I have orders to bring her to Kenatos.”
“This is the only road to Kenatos,” Tyrus said. “With one word, I can collapse this tunnel and delay your journey back. I am here to make you an offer. I wish you to join us.”
The Kishion snorted. “I am loyal to the Arch-Rike. You waste your breath.”
Tyrus shook his head slowly. Phae’s heart trembled, wondering what he was going to do or say. Fighting him was impossible. She gripped the Kishion’s arm, but did not try to pull it away. Her knees began to quake. The dagger was near her. She saw it poised, ready to plunge into her. Please don’t kill me, she thought.
“I can help you,” Tyrus said, his hand open calmingly, as if he were trying to soothe a skittish horse. “Let me tell you what I know about you. It may be more than you know. Here is my offer. I know how your memories can be restored. I can provide you the chance to learn who you really are and why the music from that little charm affected you so much.”
The Kishion hoisted Phae up higher, keeping his arm around her neck. She felt the dagger tip press against her side and she began shaking all over, her breath coming in gasps.
“How did you survive?” the Kishion demanded. “My dagger went inside you. You are not protected by magic like I am.”
“You are not protected by magic at all,” Tyrus replied. “I know all of the types of spirits that can or have been harnessed, including the blade Iddawc. I also know that the blade Iddawc can kill you. It was designed to. The Arch-Rike claimed that it would be used by you to kill others. But it was invented to protect him against you. He fears you, Kishion. With good reason.”
When the Kishion had prepared to kill him, Tyrus had gripped the charm in his hand, squeezing it with all his strength. The force of his fingers had activated the magic. It was not instantaneous. It was not designed to be. But when the dagger had plunged excruciatingly into his back, he released his spirit into the stone, causing his body to collapse in the dirt. Just like a dead man. Any attempt to feel his pulse would indicate he had died.
From inside the stone, he was aware enough of his surroundings to feel the Kishion leave. He waited for good measure, just to be sure. Then deliberately, knowing the pain would return instantly, he used the charm to bring his spirit back into his body again. The agony nearly made him black out. He could feel his blood starting to flow again, sending dagger-pricks all over his body. The wound was deep in his muscles. His pumping heart would soon leave him dead. There were no lesser spirits of Mirrowen in the Fear Liath’s lair. As his eyes fluttered open and he felt himself dying again, consciousness fraying around the edges, he summoned the Tay al-Ard from the bottom of the churning waterfall into his hand and invoked its power to bring him deep into the woods of Silvandom. A memory of the place was all he needed. It was a peaceful part of the woods, thick with friendly spirits.
Please, he beckoned with his thoughts. Please save me. I am a friend of Mirrowen. I release your trapped brethren.
The spirits of Mirrowen attended him immediately, healing the deadly wound.
Tyrus lay in the feathery growth, breathing deeply again, experiencing the fading of the agony in his back. The gash closed. The blood ceased to drain. He lay still, panting from the effort.
He wanted the Arch-Rike to believe he was dead. It would provide him time to set in motion the rest of his plan to conquer the Scourgelands and the Arch-Rike himself.
Phae heard the words from the man’s own mouth. “I’ve come for my daughter.”
It was her father. Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. She stared at him in shock, her heart burning with a sudden unfamiliar feeling—hope. Her father had survived the Kishion’s attack. He was limping slightly, she could see that, but he had survived. It meant that the Kishion was not unstoppable.
The Kishion slipped off the saddle, fast as a hawk. He pulled Phae down, catching her before she sprawled on her face. His arm was made of iron and fastened around her neck and she saw his dagger appear in his other hand. He did not stop her from breathing, but he was clearly claiming ownership of her.
Tyrus held up his hand. “If I had wanted to steal her from you, I would have waited in the tunnel and touched her as you passed by. Hear me out, Kishion.”
She heard the Kishion’s breath coming in short puffs. “I have orders to bring her to Kenatos.”
“This is the only road to Kenatos,” Tyrus said. “With one word, I can collapse this tunnel and delay your journey back. I am here to make you an offer. I wish you to join us.”
The Kishion snorted. “I am loyal to the Arch-Rike. You waste your breath.”
Tyrus shook his head slowly. Phae’s heart trembled, wondering what he was going to do or say. Fighting him was impossible. She gripped the Kishion’s arm, but did not try to pull it away. Her knees began to quake. The dagger was near her. She saw it poised, ready to plunge into her. Please don’t kill me, she thought.
“I can help you,” Tyrus said, his hand open calmingly, as if he were trying to soothe a skittish horse. “Let me tell you what I know about you. It may be more than you know. Here is my offer. I know how your memories can be restored. I can provide you the chance to learn who you really are and why the music from that little charm affected you so much.”
The Kishion hoisted Phae up higher, keeping his arm around her neck. She felt the dagger tip press against her side and she began shaking all over, her breath coming in gasps.
“How did you survive?” the Kishion demanded. “My dagger went inside you. You are not protected by magic like I am.”
“You are not protected by magic at all,” Tyrus replied. “I know all of the types of spirits that can or have been harnessed, including the blade Iddawc. I also know that the blade Iddawc can kill you. It was designed to. The Arch-Rike claimed that it would be used by you to kill others. But it was invented to protect him against you. He fears you, Kishion. With good reason.”
