“Is that really all the chance I have?” Annon asked wryly.
“I was feeling generous. You’re a stripling. At least with the rings we’ve taken, we’ll know if he is lying to us.”
Khiara nodded to the old man, patting his shoulder affectionately, and looked over at them. She nodded that all was ready.
Erasmus retreated to the shadows of the room. He wore the black cassock as well, but his eyes were peculiar enough that he felt it unwise to be too near, lest they give him away. Annon sent Nizeera to join Erasmus in the alcove. She enjoyed tormenting Erasmus and licked his hand as if preparing to take a bite.
Annon rested his palms on the table, breathing deeply to calm himself. He was the only Waylander among the group, an Aeduan, and they all felt that provided him the best chance to deceive the Rike. The task that Tyrus had given him was to learn the location of the Arch-Rike’s secret temple, the oracle of Basilides. It would be heavily guarded and possibly contain information on when the next Plague would strike.
The old man smiled at Annon and then raised a trembling hand over the dead man’s chest. He began murmuring softly in the Vaettir tongue. It had a lilting quality to it, almost a melody. Annon stared at the face of the Rike. He waited, knowing that even Druidecht magic took time to manifest.
The body convulsed. It jerked once, then again, spasms rocking through it. Then slowly the chest swelled with an intake of breath. Annon glanced at the old man, who was breathing in deeply. The two bodies were in rhythm together. The old man winced and his hand trembled even more. Khiara clutched him, holding him upright as he continued the ceremony. Another deep breath. Then another. Annon watched the throat of the dead man swallow.
His eyes fluttered open.
Suddenly, he was gasping and choking, sitting up quickly, hand clutching his chest as if in great pain. Annon grabbed his shoulders.
“You made it back,” Annon said. “You’ve been dead for two days. Another day and we’d have lost you forever.”
The Rike coughed ferociously against his own forearm. He shook and trembled, his body twitching and convulsing. “I was dead,” he said hoarsely. “The light. The pain. I still remember it.”
“You have information the Arch-Rike needs,” Annon said, swallowing his nervousness. He needed to be sure he phrased his words so that the ring would not alert the Rike of a lie. “What happened in Silvandom?”
The Rike shook his head, as if his neck muscles were suddenly twitching. “Where am I?”
“You’re still in Silvandom. We arranged for a healer to revive you. How do you feel?”
“How do you think it feels to be dead?” the man snapped impatiently. “My muscles are tingling. The blood is sluggish. I’m lightheaded.” He lay back down quickly. He stared up at Annon, his eyes suddenly confused. “Nausea. A bitter taste in my mouth. Are you writing this down? This is important to record for the Archives. Blasted fool. I cannot move my legs yet. Ugh, the pain of blood circulating. I have no memory of what happened after my death. I cannot recall anything about the afterworld. I probably was not there yet. Two days, you say? Interesting. Did any of the Paracelsus survive?”
“None of them,” Annon answered. “All were killed.”
“Even the Kishion?” the other asked doubtfully. “That cannot be.” He held up his hand with the ring.
“No, of course he wasn’t killed,” Annon replied. He stared down at him. “Do you know of the place called Basilides?”
The man swung his head around sideways, staring at Annon, aghast. “How do you know of Basilides? You are no more than twenty, if that. How could you know of it?”
“I don’t know exactly what it is,” Annon replied carefully. “Only that it is spoken of in hushed tones. A Paracelsus told me it’s an oracle.”
“You dare to even speak of it?” the man said warily.
“I see,” Annon said, nodding apologetically. “Then you do not know where it is. We were ordered to go there, but lack the information to carry out the request.”
“Why would you be ordered to go there?” he demanded. He twisted slightly, easing himself up on his arm. His eyes began darting throughout the room, gazing at Khiara and the old Shaliah healer and then at Erasmus in the corner.
He looked at Annon suddenly, his gaze intense. “Who are you?”
“You wouldn’t know my name. I’m from Wayland originally,” he answered, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He was losing the man’s trust by the mere mention of Basilides. He cursed himself for asking about it so soon.
“Where did you say you were from?” he asked, his expression suddenly perplexed. His eyebrows twisted with confusion and his face grimaced as if he were experiencing great pain. He tried to lean closer to Annon.