“Khiara?” Annon asked.
She knelt by him, placing her hand on his broken chest. He was already dead, his eyes fixed blankly at the domed ceiling. A strange jeweled ornament was fashioned around his neck, offset with two deep blue gems. It almost looked like a necklace except it did not connect in a full circle. She looked up at Annon and then nodded toward the other interior doors. “We do not have much time. We know the Arch-Rike can send people quickly through the aether. We should enter Basilides now.”
Annon nodded and motioned for them to follow. The doors they had entered began to groan shut. In a panic, the three charged back to the doors, but they closed solidly behind them. The crossbar landed in place.
Erasmus cursed colorfully and scanned the room. Smoke from incense hung in the air, giving it a charred, unhealthy smell.
“Nizeera?” Annon called, searching the room for her. She emerged from behind a set of pillars, all hunched with hackles.
I am ashamed.
He looked at her, saw the whipped countenance. What happened?
He wears a torc. It is anathema to me. I could not approach him nor attack him. It causes terror in animals. The Cockatrice could not have harmed him. No wild creature could.
Do not be ashamed, Nizeera.
She growled. I failed to protect you.
Annon stared at her and shook his head. His heart was still settling after the near encounter with death. He stared at the individual biers, counting twelve in all. One was marked with the name of Wayland. Another with runes written in Vaettir. Each was from a different kingdom, each representing a fallen ruler from the past.
“Erasmus,” he said, looking at the Preachán hopefully. “Study the room. See what you can learn. Khiara, come with me.”
“How will we get out of here?” she asked him.
“First, we seek the oracle. Over there.” As they approached the doors, Annon noticed something unusual. It was Erasmus’s observation all over again. The crossbar was on their side of the door. It made him pause.
“What is it?” Khiara asked.
He stared at the door, at the great carved letters above it: BASILIDES. The crossbar held the stone doors shut. It was there to keep something out. His mind jumbled the pieces together. Two sets of doors, both facing the same direction.
It made him think of a castle fortification, multiple barriers to provide a defense. A defense from what? What were the doors meant to hold back? Were they there to protect the Rikes? From what? From Basilides itself?
He stared at the doors, at the carved text. The massive stone doors. Strong enough to hold off battering rams. Sturdy enough to wall them inside to die. It came as a flash of insight. Annon took an involuntary step backward.
“What?” Khiara whispered, gripping the staff defensively.
“I know where that door leads,” Annon said numbly. “We’ve been traveling into the mountains, north of Kenatos. These tunnels go underneath the mountains. What is on the other side of the mountains, Khiara? What do these mountains protect us from?”
She stared at him, the dawning horror spreading across her smooth face. “The Scourgelands.”
He nodded. “This is a doorway into the Scourgelands.”
“It must be so,” Erasmus said, muttering to himself. “Annon, Khiara! Look at this! Look! It is the only explanation that makes sense. By the fates, I cannot believe it!”
Annon turned to the Preachán. “What did you find?”
“Look at these!” he said, waving his arms at the various biers. “Alkire. Havenrook. Silvandom. Lydi. Boeotia. Kenatos. Wayland.” He gasped with some vision inside his head. “These are not crypts for the dead. Look—the one that broke over there. No bones inside. Just folded clothes and weapons and jewelry. Coins from the past. These are not crypts, Annon. These are not the remains of the dead.” Erasmus started to pace, his hands gesticulating broadly. “These are masks.”
“What are you saying?” Annon demanded impatiently. “Erasmus, help us understand your thoughts! You are going too fast!”
The Preachán trembled with emotions, his face seeming to shrink with the massive weight of the thought he was experiencing. His lips contorted. “The race immune to the Plague. Yes, that must be it. The missing race. The nameless race. The persecuted blood. He’s part of it, Annon. The Arch-Rike is not who we think he is. He masquerades as one, but look—look!” He rushed over to one of the biers. “This one—Kenatos. The name on the crypt is Band-Imas. It is the name of the current Arch-Rike, not a dead one. Look at that one—Wayland. It bears the king’s name and he is alive.” Erasmus struck his forehead with his hand. “The Arch-Rike…this is his illusion.”
Annon could not comprehend what Erasmus was raving about. “I don’t understand, Erasmus. What do you mean? The Arch-Rike isn’t a man?”
Beware! Nizeera growled. They come from the walls!