“You know more about that place than any other living person, save my husband.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“It has always been a forbidden place,” she said. “Even in the records that have been handed down to me. It was forbidden even before Shirikant. It is the gateway to Mirrowen. There is the place called the Well of Plagues. To pass that place and go beyond is to seek eternal life. I surmise that Shirikant wishes to brook no rival. He has posted his sentinels to guard that twisted wood. He has corrupted the defenders to keep all others out. That is why you are his greatest threat, Tyrus Paracelsus. And our greatest hope of deliverance.”

Tyrus’s muscles were clenched, his eyes narrowed with stormy thoughts. “So what you are telling me is the man I thought betrayed me . . . the man who loved my sister . . . may still be alive? Our enemy is not truly Band-Imas?”

Mathon coughed fitfully and nodded in strong agreement. He was trembling as well, as if the power emanating from the rock unsettled him too. “Before we left for the Scourgelands, the Arch-Rike . . . Shirikant, to be clear . . . gave me a ring to wear. It was one of the Kishion rings. He said it would help keep communication with him while we were in the woods. He said that I could relay information back to him, which would be written down by the Archivists. I was not to tell you this, of course. Once I put the ring on my finger, he totally consumed my mind. I was trapped in my own body, unable to warn you. He used me to make you doubt yourself. That is his greatest weapon, Tyrus. That is how he gains power over someone. He put me there to poison your thoughts, because he knew that you trusted me, that we were friends. I can’t tell you how it feels to be free of him. He is a monster, Tyrus. He seeks the death of everyone. It is my belief—”

“Our belief,” she interrupted, releasing Tyrus’s arm and reaching and taking Mathon’s hand, squeezing it.

“Our belief,” he agreed, “that he is drawing all kingdoms together. That he is pulling the remnants of all civilizations into a single place so that we’ll be easier to exterminate with the Plague. I do not know if this is true, but what I have learned here these many years has convinced me. This may well be the last Plague, Tyrus. You must succeed. What we don’t understand is how you will do it.”

“My spies in Canton Vaud were not among the Thirteen,” the Empress said. “We did not hear your conversation, but only saw the aftermath of it. This is part of Shirikant’s pattern. He overthrows kingdoms, principalities, and powers. He seeks no one to rule but himself, yet he cannot rule wisely and destroys those he lures into obeying him. The pattern is sickening to watch. So I ask you, Tyrus, how do you plan to defeat him?”

Shifting, stumbling men emerged from the caves, surrounding them on all sides. Some carried crooked walking staves. Some carried spears. Wave after wave began to emerge.

“Tyrus,” Prince Aransetis called in warning.

The Empress’s mouth flattened into a firm line. “I am sorry, Tyrus. I have held them off as long as I could. I said that no one would attack you without express permission. Unfortunately, I will be killed shortly and my power to protect you will be gone. I have done what I could to aid your arrival. Food and water have been gathered for your travels. They are packed with camels at the top of the ridge beyond this chasm. There I have guides who will bring you as close to the Scourgelands as they dare go. You are on your own now. Farewell.”

Tyrus seized her wrist like a snake strike. “Who seeks to overpower you?”

She did not fight his grip. Her eyes turned hard like flint. “His name is Tasvir Virk. He is a Druidecht, though one of the Black. He has corrupted the spirits with his madness, or perhaps they corrupted him. He has the fireblood too, so your powers will not harm him. He lost his right arm in a battle in Silvandom recently and came here to convalesce. When he saw the truth of things, he overcame his fear of the disease. He understood that I have no true power, only what my courage gives me. So he summoned his war band and he will unite the tribes under himself. The line of Empresses is ending.”

Her words made Annon nearly choke with fear. Images flashed in his mind, of flaming torches whose smoke killed the spirits of Mirrowen. In his mind he heard the bite of an axe against Neodesha’s tree. A gaunt man had arrived, speaking the Boeotian language, insisting that they hack down the tree and destroy the Dryad trapped inside. His goal was to purge the woods of all Dryad trees. Annon had fought him, wrestling with him by the oak tree. He remembered the sickening blow of the axe that had finally ended their struggle. He could still picture the severed arm amidst the smoke and ashes.