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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.”
Kiranrao seemed mollified by this and said nothing in reply.
Tyrus turned to Shion and gestured.
Phae sat next to Shion, feeling the coolness of the night air settling into her bones now that the fire was nearly burned out. Up close, she could see the faint scars on his cheek, scars that seemed to be a matching set to the ones on Tyrus’s face. Shion was the Arch-Rike’s most ruthless servant, the Quiet Kishion, a man without a name and without a past. Somehow the mystery surrounding him was shrouded in the lore of the Scourgelands. His scars, his lack of memory, his invulnerability. She had watched him plunge his hand into a swarming beehive without a single sting and then plummet from the roofline of a house and walk away as if it were nothing. The Arch-Rike had sent him to capture her. He had succeeded, but somehow her father had persuaded him to join the quest. She was afraid of him, but she was also afraid of not being near him. His very presence was a source of comfort, a man beyond the reach of death.
