“I’m warning you—”
Tyrus interrupted. “Kiranrao, you must accept my leadership in this quest, or we cannot go on with you.” He stepped even closer to the Romani, his voice pitching lower. “Don’t be offended that I didn’t send you against Tasvir Virk. You could have slaughtered the man in an instant. But that blade draws in the strengths of those it kills. Would you want your mind tainted by his madness? Think! You are the crucial part of this. There are dangers in the Scourgelands that only you will be fierce enough to confront. I count on that. Don’t be petty. You are worth your price . . . worth the reward you will gain. You will redeem your people if you stay true to me. Believe in that.”
Kiranrao’s face was mottled with fury, but Tyrus’s words were starting to assuage him. The look of murder in his eyes had softened. Phae believed that Tyrus was manipulating his emotions, trying to play the right chords to calm him.
Snorting with disgust, the Romani whirled and stalked away, his face twisted with displeasure. Phae approached Tyrus and only then saw his fist unclench. His hand trembled with emotions. She had never seen her father betray any sign like that before.
“Father?” she asked, drawing nearer to him. She sidled up next to him, grateful that he was still alive and worried that the Romani’s wrath would snap like a taut bowstring.
“Thank you, Shion,” Tyrus said in a low voice.
He was answered with a brief nod. Prince Aran’s expression was black with distrust.
Paedrin approached them as well, his expression firm and mixed with anger. “Why do you suffer that man to be with us?” he whispered to Tyrus, his voice thick with rage. “He almost killed you, Tyrus. I swear he almost did.”
Tyrus shook his head. “You exaggerate, Paedrin.”
“You know that I do not. He is not as he was in Havenrook. His grip on sanity is precarious. Tyrus, this is not wise.”
“We need him, Paedrin,” Tyrus said with finality. “You will understand when we reach the Scourgelands. When we face the dangers there, it will become very clear to you.”
“Will he even last that long?” Paedrin said with a puffed breath. “My instincts warn me that he cannot be trusted. He will betray us, Tyrus. He will bide his time—”
“Hush,” Tyrus interrupted. His eyes were dark and stormy. “We play an elegant dance, he and I. Do not interfere with the timing.”
Paedrin looked at Phae and then at Shion. “This is a mistake, Tyrus. It would be better if we left him behind.”
Tyrus’s expression began to smolder with anger. “Trust me, Bhikhu. It is likely that many of us will be left behind as corpses as we go on from here. Friendship is a driving emotion and is a powerful one. But against the threats that we face, it is not enough—as you have seen with my friend Mathon. It was not enough then and it is not enough now. Duty drives me, not friendship. This may be the last chance we have to stop the next Plague. Our way forward is dangerous beyond your imagination. You will see the wisdom of choosing Kiranrao later.”
Paedrin’s scowl was deep and distrustful. “You misjudge your allies as well as your enemies, Tyrus. I would not be doing my part if I did not warn you.”
“I understand, Paedrin. Master Shivu was preparing you to join me on this quest. It was a tacit understanding, never spoken out loud. He never told you this. There is much you still do not know about the ways of men and ambition. This is the Uddhava. I learned it from the Arch-Rike. It is only a matter of deduction where he learned it from.” Tyrus squeezed Phae’s shoulder. “Get some sleep. We go in the morning.”
“It was said long ago that the desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man. All the great ones have ambition and all desire recognition for their efforts. More than most people, I knew Tyrus Paracelsus of Kenatos to be a man of deep ambition, which he cloaked with worthy goals. It has been said he’s turned traitor and will unleash the barbarian hordes of Boeotia against us. I am saddened but not surprised. How are the mighty fallen.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XII