“As the disciples pore over the records as well, they begin to steal snippets. They are covert. Sometimes they painstakingly copy a page or corrupt the text, changing the meaning of words. These deeds were done in secret, but the Empress Kosonin had them watched and observed. When she learned what was happening, rather than challenge the visitor, she began to study what the changes were and what things were being erased. Can you guess, Tyrus Paracelsus? Can you guess what information was being destroyed?”
Annon was growing more and more restless. The air felt tinged with dread and some lurking danger. He felt power emanating from the boulder behind the Empress, whispers in a language he could not comprehend. The hair on his arms pricked. He made a subtle signal to Tyrus, but the man’s eyes were locked on hers.
“Information about the Scourgelands and its history,” Tyrus said in a hushed tone. “Knowledge of Mirrowen.”
“Of course. The Empress was wise and realized that the man was an interloper. She began to hide the records, one by one, to keep them safe. She prepared her servants to slay the man and his disciples for their treachery. But she was wise. She did not act rashly. She saw that the man was winning over the hearts of her people. Then his behavior changed, rather suddenly. Rather than seeking knowledge, he began seeking her affections. It did not matter that she already had a consort. His moods shifted. His information seemed limitless. She suspected that he was no longer the man who had arrived in Boeotia. He was an imposter, though he looked and sounded the same. She tested his knowledge, seeking to confound him with information, but although his responses were delayed, his information was accurate . . . as if he still had access to the mind of his victim.”
She shifted uncomfortably in the dirt, her expression wary and full of loathing, and folded her arms imperiously. The purple tattoo on her face twitched with repressed anger. “Suspecting treachery, she summoned him to her chambers, bringing her most subtle skills. She tried to poison him. He did not die. She arranged for an accident where he was pushed from a height that would have broken any man.” She shook her head. “When that failed, she suspected that he could not be killed. He retaliated, of course. He began to speak of holy signs, began to warn of the coming of the Plague. He predicted that it would strike the heart of Boeotia. His words caused a black fear through the people. He had seen the signs in other lands. He recognized them anew in our kingdom.”
A low rumble of chanting began to swell. It was in the language of the Boeotians. The hair on the back of Annon’s neck spiked up. It was a guttural, hissing sound, the chant of a war-like people. It slithered in the air like the snakes of Basilides. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of the Druidecht’s face. Phae was trembling, her eyes wide like a child’s.
“Say on,” Tyrus prompted, leaning forward, seeming oblivious to the dangerous sounds bubbling up around them.
Annon noticed the carving of the face on the boulder—its eyes started to glow orange.
“Her consort was found dead. There was no mark on his body indicating how he had died. But fear began to crack the kingdom. Like an egg gripped too hard, it collapsed suddenly, all yolk and pus. The Plague struck with its devastation and fury. She sent her most trusted man to kill Shirikant. He returned, wounded, with a tale only a fool would believe. No knife could pierce the man. No fire could burn him. The Empress took her faithful servant, two books from her vast library, and fled. The Boeotian kingdom fell asunder. Her once-proud city was turned into a field of bones.”
She reached and took Tyrus by the wrist with her right hand—right hand to right hand. “I am the seventy-second Empress of Boeotia. What I told you of occurred almost a thousand years ago. We have watched this pattern repeat over and over. The same pattern struck the Vaettir’s homeland across the sea. The same pattern struck the Cruithne. There are races lost and forgotten, wiped clean as a sandstorm erases footprints. Beautiful races. Clever people. All of these have fallen to Shirikant.”
The chanting grew louder. Annon saw Paedrin and the others were all standing, watching Tyrus to see what he would do. They gripped weapons nervously, feeling the tension in the air without understanding it. Annon shook his head, trying to steel himself against the dreadful emotions churning inside of him. Something was coming. A presence was awakening inside the boulder. His hand, uncontrollably, was trembling.
“The Plague has struck each kingdom in turn,” Tyrus said sternly, ignoring the commotion around him. He pressed her for more, his eyes locked on hers. “Slowly they have been coalescing together, banding ever closer together to hold off the Plague. His goal is not to rule over us then. It’s to destroy us.”
She nodded solemnly. “There are times . . . occasions . . . when he has toppled the ruler and planted himself. The Plague does not come yet. The people unite under his rule, becoming his slaves. But in every case, over time, his oppression is finally unbearable and the people revolt and seek his overthrow. And when that happens, the Plague strikes again.”
“Tell me of the Scourgelands,” Tyrus said.
“You know more about that place than any other living person, save my husband.”