“At last! Wake up, boy!”
He jolted, recognizing the sound of his uncle’s voice. Twisting with a sudden desperateness, he whirled and beheld Tyrus kneeling over him. At first, he could not believe his own senses. His uncle, his face, his towering presence. Shock thundered inside him, and then he felt the first swells of anger.
“The sleep affects everyone differently. Your friends may awaken soon or not, but I needed to rouse you first.” He gripped Annon’s shoulder with a strong hand, clenching his tunic. “I may not have much time before the Arch-Rike’s minion finds me again. Give me the blade you snatched from Drosta’s lair. This entire area reeks of it, and the spirits are frightened of you. The blade Iddawc.”
Annon struggled to sit up, but his uncle’s hand kept him down. He was exceptionally strong. His fist was tighter than knots.
“What errand did you send us on, Uncle?” he asked, feeling every emotion fire up in hostility. “A treasure to buy Hettie’s freedom? Was that even your intent?”
Tyrus rifled through Annon’s cloak with his other hand and discovered the blade pouch fastened to his belt. He began untying the knot and Annon grabbed at his hands, trying to stop him. It was like trying to bend iron bars.
“I have precious little time to meddle with you,” Tyrus warned with disapproval. “The one who hunts me would just as soon kill you with his fingers as waste a spare moment wrestling you. Come, boy! Stop fighting me. You are not wise or powerful enough to handle this blade.”
“And you are?” Annon seethed, unsuccessful at stopping his uncle’s fingers from snapping the cords of the pouch and claiming the weapon.
Tyrus rose, towering over the younger man like a boulder. It was then that Annon noticed the soot stains, the tattered hem of his uncle’s cloak. The gash in his sleeve. His face was weather burned.
His uncle snorted. “I know far too much about this blade to ever be its master. It has no master but itself. But it will serve a useful purpose in the Scourgelands. I bid you farewell, nephew. I will likely be dead before we cross paths again. Forgive me for being an unfit uncle if you can. Good-bye.”
Annon surged to his feet, anger exploding in his heart. He shook with rage, his fingers tingling with unspent flames. Why was it that his uncle made him lose himself like this? After all they had been through, he wanted an explanation. He wanted the truth. To be dismissed as an errand boy galled him. “That is all? You abandon us here? Wherever here is?”
There was a grim look in Tyrus’s eye. “Abandon you? It is what I am good at, after all. I come and I go when it suits me. You can have no faith in me. You do not trust me. Believe me, nephew, there is a murderer no doubt flying the aether as we speak to kill me. When he arrives, I must be gone or he may take his vengeance out on you. For your own safety, I must leave you.”
“But why?” Annon demanded. “Have I not earned at least that? Why did you send us there? Why did you deceive us? What about Hettie’s freedom?”
Tyrus arched an eyebrow. He took a step forward, his gaze menacing. “Think, boy! Use those scraps of brains. I turn the question back on you. Why did you not insist on knowing more? Why were you satisfied to go knowing so very little? Why did you assume I would tell you all when you took no thought to even ask me?” He pointed to the woods, at nothing. “Well? Why did you not ask?”
Annon gritted his teeth together, but he would not back down. He stepped closer. “Because I did not think you would tell me, Uncle.”
“A fair statement. A fool’s answer, though. If you only knew the danger…the real danger that just being near me presents to you.” He swallowed a muttering oath. “Let me be candid with you, Annon. I have nothing left to lose. I have lost all except my wits and my will. I believe the Scourgelands is the source of the changing Plague which has decimated the races. It comes in different disguises, but it is still the same Plague. The answer to stopping it is hidden within the Scourgelands. You will not understand this, but I will say it anyway. Some treachery happened long ago. A promise made by a Paracelsus, I believe, but none have ever recorded the memory of what the affront was. I have spent my life piecing together all the clues. I know how to end the Plague. And the Arch-Rike of Kenatos will stop at nothing to prevent me from doing so.”
His eyes blazed. “We have different opinions, he and I. Were I to stop the Plague, he would lose all his power and authority. The last time I attempted this was before you were born. Everyone who went with me into the Scourgelands died. So you see, my young friend, my dear nephew, that you are far better off never having known me or what I am going to do. For your sakes, I bid you both farewell.”
“Uncle.”