Phae felt a prickle of unease.
The stranger’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. “Yes, we were friends once.” With one hand, he began unwinding the cloth around his head, revealing a face hideously pockmarked and bulging with sacks and crusty skin. One of his eyes was milky white. The lesions on his face were grotesque, great putrid bulges of diseased flesh. His other eye was normal and looked at them with great intensity.
“Gather round me,” Tyrus murmured softly, his hand grasping the Tay al-Ard.
“If my throat were not so parched, perhaps you would recognize my voice. You clearly do not recognize my face. I cannot blame you for that. We knew each other well as boys. I remember you . . . remember you humbling Sanbiorn Paracelsus when he visited the orphanage. I am still your friend, Tyrus. Even though you left me to die in the Scourgelands long ago.”
“Revenge is a terrible tool, a dagger where the hilt is as sharp as the blade. I have heard the Arch-Rike wisely describe revenge another way. In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior. I thought he was the author of the saying, but have since found it written by one of the ancient scholars of Silvandom: To refrain from imitation is truly the best revenge.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VI
Annon recoiled in horror at seeing the man’s ravaged face. The pustules were oozing, flecked with dirt, dust, and crusted blood. It was clearly a fatal disease, one that caused a wheezing rasp in his breath. All were silent following his announcement. All except Tyrus.
“Mathon?”
The cracked lips twisted into a smile. “You recognized me at last?”
“Not your voice, but the memory you described. Forgive me if I do not trust you. We have often been deceived by our enemy and even a man who looks like a friend turns traitor. The dead at Canton Vaud are testament of that.”
“Ah, yes. Word of that has already spread to Boeotia, Tyrus. The Boeotians trust the Druidecht and so you have no small reputation in these lands at the moment.” He doubled over and coughed fitfully against the ragged sleeve. Annon saw blood in the spittle. He felt Nizeera coiling next to his leg, her wariness mirroring his own.
“I did not harm anyone there,” Tyrus said. “None of my company did.”
“I know that,” Mathon said, struggling to catch his breath. He wheezed, leaning back against the beast he had ridden on and hung his head. “I know you are innocent. I know this because I understand the full ruthlessness of the Arch-Rike we once respected and faithfully served. I wore a black ring on my hand. It gave the Arch-Rike access to my thoughts and it allowed him to control me. But I am talking too quickly. My message first.” He took several deep breaths, steadying himself. “The Empress of Boeotia bids me invite you to her palace. Such as it is. I was dispatched three days ago and was guided by a vulture to this place where the spirit creatures of Mirrowen led you.” He turned his gaze to Annon, his milky eye a disgusting sight. “You must understand that the spirits in this realm obey the Empress before anyone else. You were guided to a place of safety, as promised, but they guided you here where I could find you.”
Annon’s heart turned cold with fear. “They deceived me then.”
He nodded curtly. “In a way. This is the way of the spirits in Boeotia. They are subtle. Many are cruel. Some would lead you to a scorpion’s nest if you sought meat. Mortal pain amuses them.”
Tyrus cleared his throat. “That is not much help in convincing us to accept the Empress’s hospitality.”
“Did she send you here to poison us with your disease?” Kiranrao challenged. “Shall I dispatch him? I can kill him from here.”