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Paedrin stared at Mathon in shock. As Khiara removed her hands, another man’s face was revealed. Not a puffy, pockmarked apparition, but a man—clearly Aeduan with a slightly bulbous nose, unkempt dark hair flecked with gray, and a look of complete shock and thrall over his face. As Khiara dropped her hands tiredly into her lap, Mathon stared at his hand, his left hand, and saw that it, too, was free of scab and taint. He still had the stump on his right wrist, but the haggard, wheezing apparition had been replaced by a hale man who looked to be Tyrus’s own age.
Tyrus and Mathon stared at each other, in clear recognition of each other now, and they both rose and embraced fiercely. Paedrin felt his throat tighten into a knot and could not swallow if he tried. The look of gratitude on Mathon’s face—it was beyond Paedrin’s ability to describe. The Empress herself had risen, her hand stifling her own mouth as she stared at her consort and saw the man who had been stolen by the disease long before.
Paedrin felt a tear trickle down his cheek, the moisture surprising him. As he cast his look around, he saw tears in all their eyes . . . except for two. Shion, who bore a look of profound admiration. And Kiranrao, who was not staring at the two forgotten friends, but whose eyes burned into Khiara with a look that was almost unholy in its unbridled greed.
Paedrin, Hettie, and Annon sat together around the flickering coals of the cookfire. The embers were low but cast a dim glow across each of their faces. Nearby, Phae and the Kishion were talking softly together. Tyrus consulted with the Prince and Khiara well out of earshot. Baylen was snoring against a cushion, his big chest heaving with each breath. Nizeera lay next to Annon, her head resting against her front paws dreamily. Kiranrao paced further away, always on the fringe of the group, always restless as if he were ready to kill someone. The Empress and Mathon had left already, disappearing into one of the side tunnels.
“Remember the campfire we shared in the Alkire?” Annon said softly, poking one of the coals with his finger. It always unnerved Paedrin when he did that and was not burned. “When we were so curious about Tyrus’s motives?”
“That was long ago,” Hettie murmured. “We were all sitting there . . . with Erasmus, of course.”
“Who can forget Erasmus,” Paedrin said. He changed his voice to match the Preachán’s. “There is a one-in-sixteen chance it will rain underground.”
Annon stared into the fires, his expression haunted. “I think he understood. At the end of his life, I think he understood what the Arch-Rike really was. He penetrated the illusion.”
“He was always making predictions,” Paedrin said with a chuckle. “My favorites were the odds of surviving the night. He was not an optimistic man.”
“He was realistic,” Annon said. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. “There are these tombs in Basilides. Each was carved with a name . . . the name of a living ruler. It makes sense to me now. Perhaps the rulers are still alive, trapped in those dark sarcophagi until they die of old age.” He snorted in disgust. “That is how Lukias deceived us so well. I remember seeing the Arch-Rike marching toward the lair of Basilides . . . and that was with Lukias at my side. It was all part of the deception, his attempt to win my trust and bring him to Canton Vaud and the Dryad tree.”
“Sshhh,” Hettie said, silencing him. “Do not speak of that here. Remember where we are.”
He looked at her and then nodded. “You’re right. Thank you.” He patted her on the leg. “It is so strange to have forgotten so much. I wish I could remember everything Erasmus said.”
Hettie covered his hand with her own. “You did the best you could, Annon.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he replied. He sighed deeply. “I suppose I should not be terribly hurt that I was deceived by someone like Shirikant.” He looked up into their eyes, each in turn. “We must bring him down, though. We must end this cycle of deception and lies. We must win. Think of how many he has murdered over the centuries. Over thousands of years. It is almost more than I can comprehend. How do you defeat a man who cannot be killed?”
Paedrin glanced over at Shion. “Maybe we don’t kill him. But if we can subdue him, strip away his Tay al-Ard, hunt him down like he hunted Tyrus—”
“Have you thought about what our journey means?” Hettie asked. “We are going to the place that protects the portal to Mirrowen. Annon, what can you say about it? What can you tell us?”
He shook his head slowly. “There is no knowledge of the portal that was shared with me. Our lore is secret, though, and can only be shared by someone else in training. I will say what I can. It is a sister-world to ours. It is like a mirror to our own . . . which I believe is why it was named Mirrowen. In that world, beings communicate through thoughts only. With this talisman that I wear, I can hear them while you cannot. Even though the thoughts are not spoken, like we are speaking right now, it is much like hearing . . . whispers. Sometimes you can make out the words. Sometimes you can’t, but you get a sense of the sentiments, the feelings. When we came into these tunnels, I felt the presence of the Greilich. I did not know what it was at the time, but once Tyrus named it, I understood and recalled learning about them in my studies. They are malevolent spirits, thrust out of Mirrowen. Those who will not obey the laws of Mirrowen cannot dwell there.”
