“Master!” hissed a chorus of Raekni in unison.

Phae saw the shadow in the curtain of silk and watched with horror as the Arch-Rike stepped through the gauzy mesh as if it were nothing more than air. She recognized him from Canton Vaud, when she had last seen him following the murder of the Thirteen. His eyes were cold and relentless, his lips pulled back with exertion and a bitter grimace, which suddenly turned to a smile when he saw her lying on the ground. He was about the same height as her father, though there was very little hair on his scalp, just a dusting of gray stubble. His complexion was like uncooked dough, but it was his eyes that terrified her. He glanced at her face, not her eyes, and then looked away and observed the scene.

“I wasn’t totally certain,” the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—muttered. “Some trick perhaps? Another feint? Well, it was a merry chase to the last, Tyrus. A bold effort. You’ve come closer than any man ever has. However did you persuade the Empress to throw all her forces against me? I’m almost tempted to let you live . . . just to hear the tale. But alas, I warned you. And I will keep my promise.”

Phae struggled to her feet, dagger gripped in her hand. Her heart thundered inside her chest. Who was she to face such a man all alone? If she could meet his gaze, she was certain she would win. If she could force him, somehow, to look at her.

“It’s quite a story,” Tyrus said in a muffled voice. “Before I die, tell me one thing. Is Band-Imas still alive? Is he trapped in one of the sarcophagi in Basilides?”

“I am Band-Imas,” the Arch-Rike said blackly, his face curling with disdain.

“Even in victory, you cannot utter the truth. Why is it you fear the truth so much?”

“What is truth?” the Arch-Rike replied, chuckling with malice. “Your efforts here are wasted, Tyrus. Even now I’m preparing to unleash the Plague inside Kenatos. The Boeotians will fall and it will spread to every kingdom. They will all die. Nothing will stop it this time.”

One of the Raekni hissed at Phae, sending a streamer of webbing at her. She jumped and rolled, landing closer to Shion. As she came to her feet, she looked hard at the Raekni’s eyes and blinked, snatching her memories too. The creature’s eyes went blank and then she began to scuttle around in a continuous circle.

“Stop that!” the Arch-Rike commanded. “Don’t look at her eyes! Depart!”

“You fear the truth,” Phae said, walking toward him, chin jutting as the Raekni began scuttling back into the trees. She felt a presence brush against her mind.

Sister?

It was the Dryad from the tree nearby.

Help us, Phae begged.

Will you free me from the Master?

I will, Phae thought with hard certainty. It is why I came here.

Suddenly the strand holding Shion up snapped and he came tumbling to the ground.

“No!” the Arch-Rike snarled in fury. He charged at Phae, gripping the Tay al-Ard in his hand. He groped to reach her, but she spun away. He missed her, but had already turned and lunged for her again.

“Shion!” Phae called, watching him thrash against his bonds, trying to free himself from the strands.

There was a ripping sound and Hettie tumbled out of her cocoon, landing a short distance from Phae. The girl’s face was smudged with bruises and flushed red from hanging upside down, but she launched herself at the Arch-Rike, dagger poised in her hand.

The Arch-Rike looked at her with disgust and dodged as her dagger spun end over end toward his head. Only, Hettie was not aiming at his head. The dagger severed another line, freeing Tyrus as well, who began thrashing through the loosened threads to free himself.

Phae watched the Arch-Rike’s hands catch fire, his face contorted with rage and hatred. His eyes were wild with madness, his mouth gnashing as he lunged at Phae again, trying to seize her. She ducked and dodged, twisting around to keep the Arch-Rike at bay.

Then Shion was there, colliding into the Arch-Rike like a battering ram. A spasm of glee shot through Phae as she watched them both smash into a tree. Then both were heaving and fighting, legs and arms a tangle of kicks and blocks.

“Hold him, Shion!” Tyrus yelled in desperation, his eyes blazing with triumph.

Suddenly the Arch-Rike vanished in a plume of smoke and Shion landed on the ground, startled. He lifted his head, looking around.

The Arch-Rike appeared again, his shadow-self materializing, away from them all, well out of arm’s reach. His face was twisted with displeasure. “You cannot bind me or trap me,” he snarled. “I invented the Uddhava! I have more ways of escape than you can ever imagine. I taught the first Paracelsus my ways. I trained the first Kishion in the art of murder. I am death. I am the Plague. You will not escape these woods.”