“We know little of the Empress of Boeotia. No spies have been able to penetrate her domain. All embassies sent to treat with her have been savagely killed and grotesquely displayed on spear tips. They are at war with our society and civilization. They are, I think, the antithesis of what Kenatos was founded to become. And if Kenatos eventually succumbs to the midden heap of history, the Empress will rue her victory.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VII
As the magic of the Tay al-Ard whipped them away, Paedrin’s stomach churned with excitement as well as nausea. They arrived, moments later, and he searched the surroundings immediately, prepared for action, knowing the device would not be able to transport them again until it had regained its powers. They were in a chasm of some sort, in the shadows of a deep ravine with a thin river of light far above. The rock faces were crimson and orange, like fire, and the chasm was wide enough and deep enough to give him the sensation of being very deep inside a pit.
Paedrin inhaled and prepared to rise above, but Tyrus grabbed his arm and shook his head sternly. Instead, the Bhikhu gripped the hilt of the Sword of Winds tightly, searching for the sign of attackers or those who meant them harm. What he saw and smelled he could describe as a graveyard. Bile rose inside his throat.
“Don’t rush off without me,” Hettie whispered in his ear. He glanced at her confident expression, but he could also see the dread and loathing converging in her countenance.
The shadows were thick but they contained movement. The dead were walking.
“We are here,” Mathon announced gruffly. “The colonies do not have names. There are seven in total, mostly zigzagging through these canyons. They are the only permanent dwellings in Boeotia. Remember—leprosaria is not transmitted person to person. Only exposure to the spores from the mushrooms will infect someone with the disease. This way. These people are crippled and harmless. They are merely curious about you.”
Mathon began to shuffle toward one of the rock walls looming overhead. Paedrin craned his neck, staring up at the vast heights of stone wall, as deep and impenetrable as any fortress. He saw several ragged Boeotians staring at him. Some were missing limbs. One man was missing his nose, and the ragged features turned Paedrin’s stomach. They muttered among themselves in a guttural language he did not understand. Khiara’s expression was full of compassion as she gazed from side to side at the suffering people. Aran’s attention was singularly focused on Tyrus while Baylen looked queasy at the various mutilated denizens. Kiranrao’s look was full of open contempt and loathing, his brooding gaze enough of a warning to prevent anyone from approaching.
Hettie kept by Paedrin’s side. “Stop baiting Kiranrao,” she whispered to him.
“This is an interesting moment to begin lecturing me,” Paedrin replied. “Stay focused and attentive. We do not know what we are facing here.”
“As if every other man among us isn’t ready to start spilling blood. We won’t be taken by surprise, Paedrin. Not when we’re all expecting a threat. I just wanted to warn you . . . something isn’t right with Kiranrao. He isn’t acting as he normally does. The loss of his fortune in Havenrook has unbalanced him.”
“He was never balanced, Hettie.”
“True. But you are not helping things. Your insults provoke him. A man who has lost everything is no longer reasonable. Please . . . stay away from him. Stay clear of him.”
He gave her a piercing look. “Why?”
Her pause was poignant, her look intense. “Because of what he may do if provoked too far.”
“This way,” Mathon called, his voice pained.
Paedrin sighed. “I will try. I have no sympathy for his situation.”
“I’m not asking you to show him sympathy. Just don’t let your tongue cut your throat.”
Paedrin nodded, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and he could see the network of caves at the base of the chasm. Some were hollowed out, broken up by picks and hammers, but most seemed a natural interworking maze of warrens. The half-dead victims of leprosaria were everywhere. Small tents and shelters dotted the bleakness, covered in dust so that they looked almost like carved rocks themselves. Paedrin counted at least fifty afflicted with the disease along their walk to the rock wall, and he could not see far enough to judge how many tributaries of the caves went deeper. There were small pools of sluggish water, revealing how the population survived. It seemed to be the remnant of an ancient river, long spent.
“Why did we arrive in the middle of the ravine?” Tyrus asked Mathon, slowing his stride to keep up with his friend.