As they were escorted into the grand pavilion of the Thirteen, Annon swallowed hard, not certain what to expect but fearing the outcome. It was just past midnight, according to the stars peeking from amidst the tree branches, but there was still a general buzz about the camp. He noticed streamers of magic lingering in the air, and the flames of several of the torches fastened to iron poles sticking around the perimeter of the pavilion burned a strange blue color and chased away shadows. There were several Bhikhu guarding the main entryway.
Annon ducked slightly as he entered and found the pavilion full of bodies. The Thirteen were a mix of the races and his eyes jumbled at the sight of all of them and his pulse quickened with worry. Each wore an ornate talisman over their clothing, which were varied depending on the country they hailed from. As soon as Annon straightened, he felt several sets of eyes on him, staring at him shrewdly, judging him. They were all much older, several well silvered, but none of them were very old, as he had been expecting. They all had accoutrements of some kind—chokers around the neck, some with bracers or rings. Some even had torcs, similar to the one he wore, but without the glowing gems fastened to the ends. It was an intimidating group and Annon felt himself shrivel being in their presence and under their intense scrutiny.
The others assembled into the pavilion with him, Tyrus taking the lead and striding to the front of the council, his bearing confident. He had stood before them previously seeking asylum that had not been granted.
Palmanter spoke first. “Welcome to Canton Vaud. You are safe here. Be at ease.” He sat on a comfortably padded chair, his arms folded, one hand tapping his cheek. “Introductions, before we begin.” He motioned to Tyrus.
Tyrus nodded in acceptance. “You are quite aware of who I am. Let me introduce the rest. This is Annon of Wayland, son of Merinda Druidecht.” He paused deliberately, his hand cupped toward Annon.
“She died during your last foray,” one of the Thirteen muttered darkly.
Tyrus was as hard as flint. He did not respond to the comment. “Khiara Shaliah of the royal house of Silvandom. Friend of Canton Vaud.” There were nods in respect to her. Annon saw her bearing as aloof. She gripped her long, tapered staff, almost leaning on it. Her knuckles still bore the scars of their troubles in the mountains. Tyrus motioned next to the Rike. “Lukias of Kenatos. Provost-Rike.” There were murmurs at that, some looking at each other askance. He then gestured at the Kishion. “This man is known to many of you, in rumors if not by name. He is one of the Arch-Rike’s Kishion. He aids in our quest.”
“Your quest,” one of the Thirteen muttered, a man.
Tyrus then motioned to Phae. “This is my daughter, Phae of Stonehollow. She is Dryad-Born.”
Annon saw the ripple of shock go through their faces. The looks varied from shock, resentment, fury, and disgust—the blend conjured made Annon doubt whether Tyrus should have mentioned the last part. The girl herself seemed to shrink at the sudden hostility in their gazes.
“Impossible…”
“A cruel trick?”
“This cannot be condoned…”
“Patience,” Palmanter interrupted, motioning for the others. “The time for questions will come in due course. Be silent, Stoern. Kepniss, hush. I will introduce us, as there are many faces here that are strangers to you all.” Palmanter rose, a tall man himself, of the same height as Tyrus. He looked older, but only because his hair was silver. He paced slowly in front of the others, his head bowed low in thought. He started at the far end of the semicircle of chairs.
“Stoern of Stonehollow,” he said, gesturing toward the bird-like woman who had met them in the woods. She was very distrustful, her expression one of open contempt and wariness. She had auburn hair and Annon wondered if she possessed the fireblood. As each name was spoken, he felt the gift of the Dryad kiss working and he was able to memorize instantly each of their names as well as the kingdoms from which they hailed.
The man sitting next to her was tall and bluff, his face square. He had black hair that was fringed with gray along the temples. His skin was dark and he had the look of a man who could wield a hammer and chisel. A small smirk curled the corner of his mouth. He whispered something to Stoern. His robes were rumpled and dusty. “Zannich of Stonehollow,” Palmanter said.
The next was another woman, a Vaettir who wore the talisman. She was not a Bhikhu or a Shaliah. Her hair was cut short in a bob and she had an intense look. Not one of judgment but of great curiosity. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes taking them in. “This is Jinna of Kenatos. The only Vaettir among the Thirteen. She was an Archivist in the past.” Annon noticed Tyrus’s sudden interest in the woman.