Paedrin studied the Empress as he dipped his fingers into the bowl of mashed grain and scooped it into his mouth. The flavor of the mush was interesting and heavily flavored with a variety of ground spices. It was nothing he had enjoyed in Kenatos, and he found the dried fruit and figs sweet and pleasant to the taste. The Empress offered a steaming dish of some sort of sliced cactus to Hettie, who wrinkled her nose slightly and motioned that she was full. The Empress served each of them herself, bringing an assortment of trays and offering varieties, explaining what it was first before setting the remains in the center of the circle for all to enjoy.
He was impressed with her attitude of service. There was no throne she ruled from. There were no courtiers or banners or vats of spiced wine. She lived amidst a legion of suffering souls, and yet she tended to each of Tyrus’s band personally, offering her thanks and gratitude one by one.
Paedrin was impressed, his experience here vying with the training he had received and his own encounter with the ruthless Boeotian horde. Deep in a flame-lit cavern in the bowels of the earth, he saw a leader more humble than a Bhikhu. And that was saying something.
The mushy grain was new to him. She had called it orkair and the taste was pleasing. There was little flesh with the meal, which was mostly an arrangement of things that could be preserved—olives, apricots, pickles, and an array of nuts and cooked beans. They were all subtly salted or dusted with sweet powder. It was delicious.
He ate silently, watching her serve, until the last tray was done before she seated herself next to Tyrus and Mathon. With her right hand only, she took some figs and began to enjoy the meal herself, the last to eat.
“How do you keep track of the time down in the caverns?” Tyrus asked, anxious to continue the conversation.
She shook her head. “We sleep when we feel like sleeping. Awake when it feels appropriate. There is no time in Boeotia. There are no crops to grow or tend. What we eat grows wild and replenishes itself. The seasons come and go, and the greater part of our people move from one place to another. What is time, Tyrus, truly?”
The Empress’s gaze swept around the circle. “These are your accommodations. There are no palaces to sleep in. You can leave by Tay al-Ard if you desire, but I encourage you to ride the camels to the borders of the Scourgelands. As a caravan, you will least likely be disturbed. My word is not always obeyed outside this place. I prepared for you what I could.”
“You are generous,” Prince Aran said. He looked at her with grave respect. “My people have long fought against yours. Trust that I will remedy that when I return to Silvandom. We have never sought to kill, but I can see that it has given us the impression of weakness, instead of strength. Perhaps one day there will be peace between us.”
The Empress bowed her head. “I thank you, wise Prince.”
Tyrus left the food and turned to face her. “You mentioned that the culture of Boeotia was created to foster the remembrance of our mutual enemy. Help me understand.”
Paedrin had a feeling that Tyrus already understood it, but that he was seeking to draw her out more, to explain some facets of her culture so the rest could be aware of it.
“We are all ruled by emotions. One of the most powerful is a state called enmity, which I spoke of earlier. It is irrational, deeply rooted, and can endure generations. It is fostered by a lack of trust in anyone outside our own culture. When there is enmity, we tend to see only the faults in others, and our own virtues. My ancestors realized that the knowledge they possessed about our enemy could eventually, over time, be compromised. Empress Kosonin saw one of the enemy’s tactics was to mistranslate books, to deliberately cause errors in understanding or destroy knowledge to prevent it from being shared. She saw this in the pattern I mentioned to you, how he and his followers sought out any references to himself and eliminated them. References to Mirrowen were also destroyed to prevent those from seeking that place. One cannot seek it if one does not know it even exists.”
Annon—the true Annon, Paedrin realized with chagrin—looked up at this and nodded. “The Druidecht do not inscribe our lore. It must be memorized and passed down verbally.”
“Precisely,” she replied with a tone of approval. “Well said.”
Paedrin saw how Annon flushed with pride at her praise and realized she had done so on purpose. Even her tone of voice was calculated for effect. She was a charming woman, but he wondered if they were seeing her true self or an image she wanted them to see.
“To be clear then,” Tyrus went on, “your aim is not to destroy Kenatos or its books?”
She nodded sagely. “Our aim has been to liberate its imprisoned people, including the spirit-kind trapped into service by the Paracelsus order. While I disagree with the philosophy behind harnessing spirit magic, I am grateful your knowledge helped liberate us from the influence of the Greilich. You can begin to imagine how tiresome it is having a being perpetually trying to influence your thinking.” She grinned at him.
“A tiresome thing indeed. We have been doing that to each other since we met.” He returned her shrewd smile with one of his own. “Thank you for your hospitality. While I do feel you manipulated me into helping you, it was deftly done and I was not coerced. You are wiser than any of the rulers in the kingdoms I have met thus far.”