Tyrus gave her a probing look. “We must go. Our journey will be difficult. We will leave you. Gather around me,” he said urgently. “All of you.”
“You cannot leave!” Zannich said fiercely. “You’ve leveled accusations against the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. You must stand behind those accusations. We will summon him to Canton Vaud. If he refuses to come, then it proves the validity of your words. If you leave now, it puts everything you said before in doubt.”
“You and Stoern already doubt every word I have uttered,” Tyrus said. “My intention is not to topple the Arch-Rike. It is what I declared it to be in the beginning. I will stop this Plague from ravaging the lands. We cannot delay.”
“You must delay,” Kepniss said. “There is a war raging between Wayland and Havenrook. The whole world is in turmoil. Only delay a fortnight, that is all that we ask.”
“We will not,” Tyrus said flatly. The others began to gather around him. Annon saw the Tay al-Ard in his hand, clutched just out of sight of the Thirteen. Annon stood by him, staring down the Druidecht, those to whom he owed his allegiance.
“Annon of Wayland,” Psowen said thickly. “You will not go! You are not strong enough to face the dangers.”
“I choose it willingly,” Annon replied simply. “My mother followed him. So do I.”
Skogen had not spoken much, but he did now. “I will not attempt to dissuade you, Tyrus. You have your own mind. But remember that the last group you brought were much older, better equipped. This is a bold force, I’ll grant you that. But they are untested.”
“Enough words,” Tyrus said. “I do not seek your permission. Solve the problems as you see best. We are going. Lukias?”
Annon noticed that the Rike had not closed the circle with them. His eyes were shifting back and forth, from the Thirteen and back to Tyrus, as if trying to decide something.
Something passed between their eyes.
An explosion ripped through the pavilion.
To Phae, it felt like daggers had jammed inside her ears. The noise was so loud and so close, she felt excruciating pain from both her ears. Shards of glass sliced through her skin and clothes, stinging sharply, but it was insignificant compared to the thrumming ache in her ears. For several moments, she was too stunned to even think. In her mind, she was back in Stonehollow, her ear ripped by a thorn after Shion had chased her down. Panic and fear rose inside of her and she felt herself buried alive. She fought and kicked, trying to free herself from the smothering cocoon only to realize it was Shion, his body pressed on top of hers, shielding her from the worst damage of the explosion.
He rose, staring into her face in concern, his eyes searching hers for signs of life. He touched her throat, feeling her heart pounding, then dropped his head in relief. Then he rose and whirled, daggers in his hands, and went after Lukias.
Only it was no longer Lukias.
The man standing amidst the debris of the tattered pavilion was no man she had ever seen before. His stubbly hair was ash gray, but he was not old. His eyes were so pale they were nearly white, except for the piercing black pupils. He stood triumphantly, holding a Tay al-Ard in his own hand, mirroring the one in Tyrus’s, his expression full of delight.
“Please, Kishion,” he muttered. “I will be gone before you can touch me. I have an offer to make all of you. You must decide now whether to accept it.”
Phae tried to push herself up, but her limbs were quivering from the immensity of the blast. Annon was limp, his face ashen, Nizeera snuffling against his cheek. Was he dead? The Bhikhu were already on their feet, but each of them had sustained terrible wounds, of gashes and burn marks. Khiara ran to Annon, touching his head with her hand and summoning her magic to save him. His eyes flashed open, blinking rapidly.