“My mother was Merinda Druidecht,” Annon said in a hoarse voice. He gazed around the fire at each of them. “For years I believed that Tyrus was my uncle. I thought he abandoned me in Wayland to be taught by a mentor because he was ashamed of me. I’ve learned that he was only trying to protect me, that Kenatos is a prison, and he was a prisoner.” He snorted with disdain. “I am here because the Arch-Rike must be stopped. I seek his downfall. He knows about the Plague and its source. There is a shrine . . . a sanctuary of some kind in the mountains north of the island city. He has stonecutters from Stonehollow working on the outer fa?ade. As we learned from Tyrus this evening, there are Calcatrix in the Scourgelands—these are serpent-like birds that have poisonous claws and can turn you to stone if you look at them. Khiara and I faced them in the Arch-Rike’s secret temple, which he calls Basilides. The doorway inside Basilides leads into the Scourgelands. It may even lead into the heart of it.”
Tyrus held up his hand and made a gesture and Annon quieted. The young man sighed deeply, the expression on his face pained. “The Arch-Rike has struck me quite personally. He destroyed the Druidecht hierarchy. And he took someone from me as well.” His voice hushed as he mastered his emotions. Phae noticed a slight blue glow appear in his hands. “I will do whatever I must to defeat this man.”
The firelight was beginning to dim, but Tyrus did not feed it with another log. He turned his face to the Romani girl, Hettie. She was looking at Annon with softness and compassion.
“Why am I here?” she said with her particular accent. She reached over and took Annon’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “This is my brother, if you did not already know. We are the twins of Merinda Druidecht. I was raised by the Romani.” Her voice did not betray any emotions, but Phae noticed that she had chosen her words with care. “Though now I no longer wear a hoop in my ear. I seek my freedom. I seek a change in the order of things. I am a Bhikhu in training.” She glanced over at Paedrin, giving him a slightly mocking smile, one that shared many memories.
All eyes went to him next, another Vaettir who squatted low on his haunches, his sandaled feet flat against the ground. He looked over at Tyrus and then shrugged. “I do not know why I am here. I think I took the wrong road back in the woods and ended up with all of you by mistake.”
Phae smiled, appreciating the Bhikhu’s sense of humor. She saw the effect on all of them, the lightened mood, except for Kiranrao, who looked disdainful.
“We’re all so serious. I thought it might be best to try levity. I am here to keep all of you from dying. I will do my best.” He looked at Tyrus shrewdly. “I understand your warning about the dangers we face. I am not afraid to kill. I would prefer not to, but if the odds are against us, then I will do what must be done. When this is finished, I intend to return to the Shatalin Temple in the mountains along the coast. I have a promise to fulfill there. It seems the Arch-Rike keeps some of his servants training there.” His eyes went straight to Shion. “It is time they were sent away.” He glanced around the fire ring and then fixed Kiranrao with an evil look. “I do not trust Kiranrao. I don’t care how many nights we spend around the fire holding hands and singing songs. I don’t think that I can ever trust him. Prince Aransetis, maybe we can take turns keeping a watch?”
“Paedrin,” Tyrus warned.
“I’m just getting started,” Paedrin said. “We would be better off without him.”
Tyrus fidgeted angrily, but the Romani was quick to interject. “Let the lad speak his mind,” Kiranrao quipped with an exaggerated yawn. “He’s more to be pitied than laughed at.”
“A goose is still a goose, even if you call it a duck. I made that proverb up myself. I rather like the sound of it compared to all of yours.”
Kiranrao’s eyes narrowed—that was the only indication of his displeasure.
“Paedrin,” Tyrus said, “be silent. If you can.” The Bhikhu bowed his head to Tyrus, but his look was unrepentant. “Kiranrao? Of us all, you bear a grudge against the Arch-Rike. His machinations are destroying Havenrook as we speak.”
The Romani snorted. “That is well known, so I won’t give any flowery speeches. I am here for one simple reason—revenge. Since I escaped the hangman’s noose in Kenatos, the Arch-Rike has repeatedly earned my scorn. His armies attack my people and cripple my city as we sit here mumbling in the shadows. When this is through, I will see him dead. As for a strategy, Tyrus, I see you are overlooking the simplest one. We could end this by tomorrow night.”
Tyrus clenched his teeth. “Kiranrao . . .”
“It will only take but a moment to explain.” The lanky Vaettir was as mercurial as a cat. His hand never strayed far from a dagger belted to his waist. The look of the dagger made a pit inside Phae’s stomach. “Just give me the Tay al-Ard now. I will venture into the Scourgelands alone. None of the beings skulking in there will be a match for me. When I find the Dryad tree in the center of the woods, I will come back to you and we can all enter together. You can all have a little . . . a little picnic while I am gone.” He smirked at Tyrus.
There was a moment of silence. The Tay al-Ard was a device invented by Tyrus of incredible Spirit magic that could transport whoever was holding it to any location he or she had previously been. It was a power Kiranrao hungered for almost as much as his blade.
“It won’t protect you from losing your memories,” Paedrin challenged.
Tyrus leaned forward. “We will see if your plan is wise after we’ve survived our first encounter in the Scourgelands. You may be surprised by the power of our enemies. But even so, they will fear facing you, Kiranrao. The weapon you carry is anathema to them. We will not succeed without you among us.”