“I must first ask you a question,” Tyrus replied. “One that only Lukias would know. We met in my study about four years ago. You sought information from me. What about?”
Lukias rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A good question. That was quite a while ago.”
Tyrus said nothing, only staring at the man.
“If I recall the occasion…as I am sure that you do…we discussed the vulnerabilities of the Romani trading system in Havenrook. You were of the opinion, I believe, that to topple the Preachán it was best to invest heavily in trade with them. You said it would collapse all on its own.”
There was a whisper of a breeze through the grove, the faint rustle of branches.
“You satisfy me,” Tyrus replied. “Now that I know who I am speaking with, I ask you another question. Why should I trust you?”
Lukias smiled warily. “You should not, naturally. That is the only proper answer in a circumstance such as this. There is nothing I could say that would establish your confidence in me. However, I do have knowledge that would benefit you. Prove its worth by keeping me alive. Let me vindicate the trust over time. We are both of us too clever to deceive each other properly. Let me be blunt. When this is finished, I perceive that the Arch-Rike will fall. There will be a power struggle after that. You stand the best chance to succeed him. You will reward those who had faith in your vision, in your quest. I stand much more to gain by siding with you now.”
“You also stand much to lose,” Tyrus said after a scrutinizing look. “Those who ventured into the Scourgelands with me last time all perished.”
“I have already perished once facing you, Tyrus Paracelsus. You struck down one of the Arch-Rike’s most trained cohorts with a single word. You’ve claimed the loyalty of the Arch-Rike’s most feared minion. I like your chances. If you send me away, I will skulk in the woods until word comes back of your success. Clearly returning to Kenatos is no longer an option I have.”
Tyrus stroked his beard, observing the other man keenly. “What can you tell me that will injure the Arch-Rike most?”
He responded with a curious look. “How do you mean?”
“Give me information that will harm him. A vulnerability he has.”
“You seek to kill him yourself then?”
Tyrus shook his head. “Toppling his power does not require his death.”
Lukias smiled knowingly. “A horse resists the reins but submits because of the bridle. The Arch-Rike does not use a bridle or a bit. Instead, he shapes the path he wants the horse to travel on. Where does his path lead now, Tyrus? Do you see it?”
Annon felt a wrinkle of worry at Lukias’s words. Somehow Erasmus had discerned the pattern of the Arch-Rike’s strategy. But the Preachán’s words had been a jumble of phrases, all disconnected.
The race immune to the Plague. Yes, that must be it. The missing race. The nameless race. The persecuted blood. He’s part of it, Annon. The Arch-Rike is not who we think he is. He masquerades as one of these, but look—look! This one—Kenatos. The name on the crypt is Band-Imas. It is the name of the current Arch-Rike, not a dead one. Look at that one—Wayland. It bears the king’s name and he is alive. The Arch-Rike we face is an illusion.
Tyrus interrupted Annon’s thoughts. “I’m more interested in what you know and how you can help us.”
Lukias nodded sagely. “Of course. You already know that it is the Arch-Rike’s stated goal to preserve all knowledge. That tradition began long before his reign.”
Tyrus nodded.
“What most do not realize is that he plots to overthrow every kingdom. Havenrook is only the first to fall. So will Wayland, Alkire, and Silvandom. Lydi is already his. Even the Boeotians will be forced to submit. Stonehollow will be the last. Stonehollow is his goal. Even now he has been plotting to overthrow it, finding another way to invade your home country. His home country. He began paying Romani to seek alternate paths inside to circumvent the tunnels.”
Annon noticed Phae and the Kishion turn and look at each other.
“Thank you,” Tyrus said simply. “You’ve answered my question.”
Streamers of dust began to flit through the air, zigzagging with color and radiance. Annon felt the surge from the arrival of spirit beings from Mirrowen, a thick onslaught of them arriving with chiming noises and spectral streamers of magic. Their voices were rushed and urgent.
They come. They summon you.
Druidecht, they come. Be ready.
Annon tensed, feeling the suppressed giddiness of the voices. Khiara got to her feet, gripping her staff. The lights were dazzling as they infiltrated the glen.