Annon nodded. “I must speak with my uncle.”
Palmanter pursed his lips. “I thought you might. Your Preachán friend is with him.” He put his meaty hand on Annon’s shoulder. “He sought asylum here, lad, but we cannot grant it. He bears something of great evil. A blade that speaks to the mind. We cannot permit it to remain longer in Canton Vaud. There are many Druidecht suffering from its effects. Will you leave with him?”
Annon stared at the older man. He was not sure of the answer. Palmanter sensed his hesitation. His eyes narrowed. “Be wary, Annon. There are stories about your uncle. Be careful.”
“I will.”
Palmanter gestured to another pavilion, a smaller one. Several Bhikhu guarded it.
“He is your prisoner?” Annon demanded.
The older man shook his head. “They are there to protect him from the Kishion. At his request.”
Wise of him, Nizeera thought.
Annon stroked Nizeera’s head and then walked over to the small tent. He could hear voices inside. The Bhikhu stared at him, studying his features, and then nodded; they opened the flap.
Tyrus was inside, sharing a morning meal with Erasmus. Both were seated on large cushions, eating a variety of gathered fruit.
“I estimated you would arrive this morning,” Erasmus said smugly to Annon. “I should have wagered a few ducats on the outcome. Your uncle offered that you would breakfast in the city of Silvandom and not here. I was a fool not to take the wager.”
Tyrus looked up at Annon. “Have you eaten yet?”
Annon shook his head. His jaw muscles felt as hard as iron. He kept his emotions in check and stared at Tyrus’s face for any sign of resemblance. There were the tiny scars, as if claws had ravaged his face long ago.
“There is a place in Silvandom,” Tyrus said. “A bridge on the outskirts of the city proper. Not many know of it because it connects to the city amidst the mountains at a higher elevation. A waterfall is nearby. It’s impressive. There are shops on the bridge. A place for weary travelers to rest before entering the city. A place to eat. It is called Shearwater.”
Tyrus rose to his full height. He withdrew the long cylindrical object that Annon had last seen him holding. Holding it in his fist, he extended his arm toward Annon.
“If we had made that wager this would be cheating,” Erasmus said as he gobbled another piece of fruit and hurriedly stood. He rested his hand on Tyrus’s arm.
Annon stared at the jeweled object. There were stones set into cunningly worked gold. The stones sparkled in the lamplight. The device was extended to him—an offer. An invitation.
“You are not my uncle,” Annon said, unwilling to move. His anger started to rekindle. He shoved it back violently.
“I know,” Tyrus answered simply. “Come with me. Learn the truth. I promised you in my tower that you would.”
Annon hesitated. A part of him whispered a warning. Another part of him was too curious to resist. This was the invitation to learn Tyrus’s secrets. He knew it would only be offered once. He had to make a decision. One choice was to stay at Canton Vaud and learn more of the Druidecht ways. The other was to accompany Tyrus and eventually face the Scourgelands.
He reached out and gripped the open end of the cylinder.
“Have a hold on your cat,” Tyrus said, a pleased glint in his eye. As Annon grabbed the ruff of Nizeera’s neck, he heard the angelic song of spirits shudder as the device made everything go black.
In a moment, the blink of an eye, they were leagues away. The air was frigid and sharp. It smelled of fir trees and juniper. The land was choked with snow. They stood on a stone bridge, wide enough for a single wagon to cross. On the other side was a stone house with works of timber for a roof and faded red tiles. The roof had a curious slant to the corners, which were pointed like an ox’s horns. Instead of a straight edge, it sagged, creating little dips and sways that gave it a distinguished appearance. There were three levels to the building—a large main section of house and then two narrower levels forming a second and third floor, each with their own slanted rooflines and pointed corners.
The strange house was built into the rock itself, and it was difficult to see where the walls began and the mountainside ended. The air was frightfully cold, and Annon hugged himself immediately.
“Look,” Tyrus said, pointing at the edge of the bridge down into a lush valley below.
Annon stared in amazement. The valley was teardrop shaped and full of majestic trees and enormous stone structures, each with the same shape and design of the home ahead of them—only grander and more impressive. The structures below existed with the trees and were shaped and defined in open spaces. It seemed that no tree had been felled to clear the way, but that the structures had been built amidst the trees deliberately.