“Did Kiranrao speak the truth?” Hettie asked. “Was there an explosion?”
Tyrus nodded. “One of my latest projects for the Arch-Rike was inventing ways of releasing power in a blast. They are volatile spirits and they are bound for one reason and one purpose. You saw them on my desk when you both visited me. They were designed to help the masons of Stonehollow crack boulders. I am sure the Arch-Rike plans to use them to destroy castle walls. When he sent his man to kill me, I used a device I made to travel far away and triggered the room to explode, hoping it would kill him. It did not, but it destroyed my tower. I am still being hunted.”
Annon stared at him. “Did my arrival to the city cause this?”
Tyrus smiled grimly. “Yes, but you did it unwittingly. I protected you both the best I could.”
“I have no love of Kenatos or the Arch-Rike,” Hettie said. “How can I help?”
“I applaud your question. Was it sincerely given?”
She nodded, arms folded. Her shoulders seemed to scrunch, as if she were tightening into knots inside, awaiting a blow.
“There is a prince in Silvandom. A Vaettir-lord named Prince Aransetis. He has agreed to journey with me into the Scourgelands. There was something he had commissioned from me that will help him survive. I did not have time to retrieve it before the explosion in my tower. You must go to Kenatos and find it. Bring it to Prince Aran. That is how you can help me.”
“What is it?” Hettie asked.
“A small leather pouch. A sturdy pouch. There are three jewels inside. They are uncut stones, not polished gems. Raw stones. There are spirits trapped in each one, bound to serve the Vaettir. Only a Vaettir can handle them and use them.”
Hettie swallowed. “Where is the bag?”
Tyrus smiled grimly. “I wish that I knew. It was in my study when it exploded. It would not have been destroyed; the magic is too powerful, and those gems were fashioned inside a volcano. It may be in the rubble. I do not know. But if you could find the stones and bring them to Silvandom, that would help me.”
Annon glanced and noticed that Paedrin was standing next to Hettie, watching them carefully. “What of me, Tyrus? Are you still in need of my service?”
Tyrus shook his head. “A Bhikhu is always very useful. But you would need to seek your master’s approval to serve me further. Your obligation to me is fulfilled. I am an outlaw now in Kenatos. You are sworn to uphold its laws.”
Paedrin nodded. He was silent for a moment. “Is that how Aboujaoude died? In the Scourgelands? He was a very famous Bhikhu, but he died before I was born.”
Tyrus stared hard at the young Vaettir. “He did indeed. What you do not understand is that you have been protecting his twins. Hettie and Annon are his offspring.” A look shadowed Tyrus’s face. The emotion vanished as fast as it appeared. “He believed in my cause, Paedrin. He gave his life for it. He knew all my motives, and he did it anyway.”
Annon swallowed hard, suddenly parched and desperate for a drink, as if water would somehow slake his fury. What was this? His father had been a Bhikhu? Then why had Annon not been raised in the temple orphanage like Paedrin? Why had he been sent to the woods in Wayland?
“What of me, Uncle?” Annon asked.
“You seek to help me as well? Or to challenge me further?”
“I do not trust you. Not yet. But like Hettie I have no love for the Arch-Rike and I am enraged at the plight of the imprisoned spirits in the city. I suspected spirit magic, but I had no idea until Drosta told us.”
“That is fair. Seek your friend Reeder. He is in the woods of Silvandom, I believe. Seek his counsel. More importantly, seek an answer that I need. The Arch-Rike has a secret temple outside of the city. I do not know where it is, but it is called Basilides. It protects an oracle that the Arch-Rike uses to divine the future. There is a connection there to the spirits of Mirrowen, a pool or a grove of some kind. The Arch-Rike uses it as a source of his power. If it truly exists, then it can tell us how much time we have before the Plague will strike. That is knowledge that I desperately need. It is knowledge that the Arch-Rike undoubtedly has, which is why he moves against me so viciously. Seek Reeder. Seek the oracle. Seek the answer to my question. That would help me.”
Tyrus looked down at Erasmus, who had also joined the group. “A question for you, Master Erasmus.”
“Yes?”
“What are my odds of surviving an encounter with a Kishion?”
“Which one?”
“You know the one. The one the Arch-Rike was training to use the blade Iddawc.”
Tyrus nodded. “One of my latest projects for the Arch-Rike was inventing ways of releasing power in a blast. They are volatile spirits and they are bound for one reason and one purpose. You saw them on my desk when you both visited me. They were designed to help the masons of Stonehollow crack boulders. I am sure the Arch-Rike plans to use them to destroy castle walls. When he sent his man to kill me, I used a device I made to travel far away and triggered the room to explode, hoping it would kill him. It did not, but it destroyed my tower. I am still being hunted.”
Annon stared at him. “Did my arrival to the city cause this?”
Tyrus smiled grimly. “Yes, but you did it unwittingly. I protected you both the best I could.”
“I have no love of Kenatos or the Arch-Rike,” Hettie said. “How can I help?”
“I applaud your question. Was it sincerely given?”
She nodded, arms folded. Her shoulders seemed to scrunch, as if she were tightening into knots inside, awaiting a blow.
“There is a prince in Silvandom. A Vaettir-lord named Prince Aransetis. He has agreed to journey with me into the Scourgelands. There was something he had commissioned from me that will help him survive. I did not have time to retrieve it before the explosion in my tower. You must go to Kenatos and find it. Bring it to Prince Aran. That is how you can help me.”
“What is it?” Hettie asked.
“A small leather pouch. A sturdy pouch. There are three jewels inside. They are uncut stones, not polished gems. Raw stones. There are spirits trapped in each one, bound to serve the Vaettir. Only a Vaettir can handle them and use them.”
Hettie swallowed. “Where is the bag?”
Tyrus smiled grimly. “I wish that I knew. It was in my study when it exploded. It would not have been destroyed; the magic is too powerful, and those gems were fashioned inside a volcano. It may be in the rubble. I do not know. But if you could find the stones and bring them to Silvandom, that would help me.”
Annon glanced and noticed that Paedrin was standing next to Hettie, watching them carefully. “What of me, Tyrus? Are you still in need of my service?”
Tyrus shook his head. “A Bhikhu is always very useful. But you would need to seek your master’s approval to serve me further. Your obligation to me is fulfilled. I am an outlaw now in Kenatos. You are sworn to uphold its laws.”
Paedrin nodded. He was silent for a moment. “Is that how Aboujaoude died? In the Scourgelands? He was a very famous Bhikhu, but he died before I was born.”
Tyrus stared hard at the young Vaettir. “He did indeed. What you do not understand is that you have been protecting his twins. Hettie and Annon are his offspring.” A look shadowed Tyrus’s face. The emotion vanished as fast as it appeared. “He believed in my cause, Paedrin. He gave his life for it. He knew all my motives, and he did it anyway.”
Annon swallowed hard, suddenly parched and desperate for a drink, as if water would somehow slake his fury. What was this? His father had been a Bhikhu? Then why had Annon not been raised in the temple orphanage like Paedrin? Why had he been sent to the woods in Wayland?
“What of me, Uncle?” Annon asked.
“You seek to help me as well? Or to challenge me further?”
“I do not trust you. Not yet. But like Hettie I have no love for the Arch-Rike and I am enraged at the plight of the imprisoned spirits in the city. I suspected spirit magic, but I had no idea until Drosta told us.”
“That is fair. Seek your friend Reeder. He is in the woods of Silvandom, I believe. Seek his counsel. More importantly, seek an answer that I need. The Arch-Rike has a secret temple outside of the city. I do not know where it is, but it is called Basilides. It protects an oracle that the Arch-Rike uses to divine the future. There is a connection there to the spirits of Mirrowen, a pool or a grove of some kind. The Arch-Rike uses it as a source of his power. If it truly exists, then it can tell us how much time we have before the Plague will strike. That is knowledge that I desperately need. It is knowledge that the Arch-Rike undoubtedly has, which is why he moves against me so viciously. Seek Reeder. Seek the oracle. Seek the answer to my question. That would help me.”
Tyrus looked down at Erasmus, who had also joined the group. “A question for you, Master Erasmus.”
“Yes?”
“What are my odds of surviving an encounter with a Kishion?”
“Which one?”
“You know the one. The one the Arch-Rike was training to use the blade Iddawc.”
