“I knew you were somewhere in the room,” Tyrus said menacingly, grimacing in pain. “I felt…your voice coming from many mouths, Band-Imas.” He looked around the debris of the room, the shattered furniture. The lumps of ash. Phae’s stomach sickened. “You…you killed them. All of them!”
“And you will suffer the blame of it,” the Arch-Rike replied evenly. “Those exploding orbs you invented are so useful, aren’t they? This is my final offer, Tyrus. There will be no safe haven for you after this. No kingdom will ever trust you again. Assume you survive the Scourgelands. Assume you prevail. Who will you tell? You see, Tyrus, I know your heart. You crave the glory of defeating the Plague. That is your deepest desire. Only I can give it to you now. I will not unleash it this generation. We will invent a sickness, a pox maybe, and you will cure it. Everyone will know it was you who stopped the pox from spreading. It will even be written in the Archives. Why, I’ll have Possidius scribe it himself. There—you will have it. Everything you have desired. Another generation from now and no one will remember what was done. Nor will they care. But you will have what you have always craved most. The glory of it.” His mouth spread into a sickening smile. “This is my final offer, Tyrus. You will have a chance to live out your life.”
His attention turned to Phae and she shrank, recoiling from his gaze. “You have a daughter. She can remain with you. If she does not bond with a Dryad tree soon, she won’t be able to. The magic will pass and she will be just an ordinary girl.” He looked at her with that same lurid smile. “Or perhaps she would prefer to go back to Stonehollow. Would you like that lass? With Trasen, hmmm?” Then his eyes sought out the others. “One by one, I will restore what you have lost. Think, Annon. After what was done here, you are now a Black Druidecht. You murdered the Thirteen of Canton Vaud! All of you did!” He smiled savagely. “You thought you could outmaneuver me. Many have tried over the years. All have failed. There is no place you will find refuge. There is no place that will be your home. But I can protect you from even this in Kenatos.”
Tyrus was on his feet now, swaying slightly, a rivulet of blood going down from a cut in his temple. His voice was raw with emotion. “We must be very close to success if you would risk such a scene as this. Kishion, take him!”
Phae’s heart lurched as she watched the Kishion fly at the Arch-Rike, dagger poised. There was a look of unbridled fear in the Arch-Rike’s eyes just before he vanished.
The Kishion landed in the emptiness, his face contorted with rage. He stalked back to Phae, standing over her protectively. He looked savage as a beast, his expression showing a welling of absolute hatred.
“Gather round me. Quickly!” Tyrus snapped. He held out the Tay al-Ard, holding it in front of him as if it were a rod of iron that would steady him. They all had injuries, but Khiara was healing them. One by one, they clasped an arm to his. Phae looked into her father’s eyes, seeing the torment there. His mouth was transforming into a snarl of rage.
Spirits began to swirl around inside the pavilion, coming in streamers from all directions.
“Quickly!” Tyrus barked again.
Phae touched his arm, looking pleadingly into his eyes. Shion rested his hand on top of hers, his face grim and determined, his mouth twitching.
Were they going into the Scourgelands? Her heart shuddered with fear. How could they? The blast had nearly killed them all. The Arch-Rike had deceived them and destroyed the Thirteen. They would be blamed for it.
Annon’s hand covered next, his fingers like talons. His face was shocked, his mouth gaping. “Tyrus, the tree! He’s at the tree right now! You must take us there! I must defend her!”
“We are already too late,” Tyrus muttered darkly, his countenance hardening.
“No!” Annon begged. “Please!”
Paedrin and the others quickly gathered around, adding their hands to the mix. There was nothing but death all around them. Ash and smoke drifted in the breezes that came through the slashed vents.
Annon began to wail, his eyes going wide with horror.
In some deep part of Phae’s blood, she felt two Dryad trees explode.
She squeezed her father’s arm, stifling a choking sob. Streamers of magic began to swirl around them. There were cries of warning from outside the tattered pavilion. Phae shut her eyes, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to even feel. Would they all die?
Her stomach felt the familiar unease and suddenly they were swept away, flung from the pockmarked graveyard of Canton Vaud.
“One cannot overestimate the power of persistence. It is persistence that guides a stonemason’s hands and causes mighty castles and temples to be built. It is persistence that persuades a Bhikhu to practice his forms to perfection. It is persistence that allows a Paracelsus to discover new and interesting uses of ancient magics. It is persistence that allows the Rikes to cure diseases. It is persistence that provides a sailor the hope of arriving at a destination. In truth, there is no force in this world as enduring as persistence.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos