“There is none. The madness is irreversible. Even Tasvir Virk. His memories were taken away fully, but he’s a babbling lunatic still. I do not wish that for myself, Annon. I saw what it did to my sister. I saw what it did to your mother. You must have Shion do it. It isn’t murder. It’s my will. Promise me.”
Annon knew he could not escape Tyrus’s implacable will. He felt the other’s strength of mind bearing down on him. Annon could see he had already given this great thought, that he had delayed burdening Annon with the task until the last possible moment.
He sat shuddering under the starry sky, overwhelmed by the thought of ordering Tyrus’s death. His own mother had faced that madness to save his and Hettie’s life. Tyrus promised to do the same. Perhaps he had realized already that he would not return to Kenatos to seek fame for what he had done. Annon wished he had thought of this earlier.
“Promise me,” Tyrus insisted, gripping his shoulder once more.
Annon stared down at his lap, looking at the round eye of the ring. He scooped it up and slid it on his finger.
“It pains me,” Annon said, his voice choking, “but I will.”
The look of relief on Tyrus’s face made it hurt all the worse. He stared at Tyrus—a man who he thought was his uncle most of his life—and realized he could never be like him. A man of secrets. A man plotting to overthrow the strongest power throughout the kingdoms. He looked across the sheltered campsite, the kneeling camels and sleeping bundles. They were amidst a vast plain full of scrub and stones. The air smelled of dust and camel scat. Shion was also awake on the other side of the camp, staring up at the vast, starlit sky. What a pitiful few straining at the lever to overturn such a huge boulder. Would it even be enough?
“Thank you,” Tyrus whispered. He squeezed Annon’s shoulder and rose, slipping away into the shadows.
Annon stared down at his hand. The ring was gone, though he felt it still.
“One of the ancients once said that the face is the mirror of the mind, and the eyes—without speaking—confess the secrets of the heart. I think this is true of most people. But there are some who so carefully guard themselves and their emotions that you cannot imagine the deep inner workings of their souls, let alone feel justified in characterizing it in some shallow way. The Arch-Rike of Kenatos is such a man. The occasional sparkle of temper may casually reveal itself at times. But those times are rare.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XIII
Paedrin refused to ride one of the camels. The thought of perching atop a swaying saddle, strapped to a cud-chewing beast, filled him with deep disgust. He had no trouble keeping pace with the others—the fact was that he was faster afoot and with the Sword of Winds than any ride. He was grateful for the food and water skins, and he made himself useful by scouting the land ahead of the four Boeotian drovers who led them away from the maze-like canyons and toward the dark, haunted woods of the Scourgelands. It was from his lofty position, gliding through the sky, that he saw the danger coming behind them.
“What is that?” he muttered to himself.
It was the third day since leaving the Empress, and the drovers had led them in a northeast direction through the hills and scrub of their forsaken lands. The drovers were all suffering from the early stages of the disease and rarely spoke to them, for they spoke little Aeduan themselves, and were good as the Empress had promised, caring for the beasts and setting up the spacious tent each night for them to sleep in.
From his position above the others, Paedrin saw a wall of dark clouds and swirling dust approaching from the southwest. It was enormous, like a storm cloud that scudded across the desert, too swollen to rise into the sky. He swooped down immediately, using the blade to bring him straight to Tyrus.
“There is something a league or so off,” he warned worriedly. “Some fog bank or storm. It will overtake us within the hour.”
Tyrus chirped a command to the beast he rode and twisted in the saddle. Already the edges of the storm could be seen. Tyrus motioned for the drover near him and gesticulated toward the approaching front.
The drover stood tall, shielding his eyes, and then began barking orders to his fellows. “Make camp,” he said urgently. “Make camp. Ata! Ata vancou! Haboub!”
The group quickly dismounted the camels and the drovers began to scramble to pitch the tent. Paedrin joined them and Baylen followed suit, for they had both watched the drovers before and knew the order for assembling the tent.
“What is coming?” Prince Aransetis asked.