“Where did you bring us?” Kiranrao demanded coldly. “Where are we?” He was pacing restlessly, his expression toward them full of contempt. “Is this the Scourgelands? Where are the trees?”

Tyrus held up his hand warningly. “This was always a risk,” he muttered. “One cannot play such stakes as these without risking everything you hold dear.” He winced with pain. “I knew Band-Imas might do this.”

“How did he?” Paedrin asked, stepping forward. Khiara had healed his injuries already and he gave Annon a look of sadness. “I recognized the Arch-Rike the moment he arrived. I know the magic he used, for Hettie has the same charm that provides the disguise. How did he slip in amongst us?”

Annon looked at him, his heart melting with pain. Pain was a teacher. What a terrible lesson to learn. “It is my fault,” Annon said miserably. “We revived Lukias after the battle in Silvandom. He was a corpse. I saw him revived with my own eyes. But when Erasmus tied him up, we left him and went into Basilides.” He shook his head with self-loathing. “Then he appeared to rescue us. It was Band-Imas, of course.”

“Ah,” Paedrin said sympathetically. “He can speak in your mind. Yes, that makes it clear. He helped you escape Basilides. Because he wanted to see where you would take him.”

“And the Tay al-Ard,” Tyrus continued, “can only take you to a place you have been before. He knew about the Dryad tree in the Paracelsus Towers. He knew about Annon’s tree but did not know exactly where it was.”

The pain was unbearable. “I failed her. It’s my fault.”

Hettie squeezed his hand.

“Yes, you did,” Kiranrao said derisively. “Look at them, Tyrus. Look at the heroes you’ve summoned.” He scanned the group with contempt. “Send the striplings away. They will only hinder us. I would fight alongside the Kishion. A Shaliah is always helpful. But really, we don’t need any of the others. Leave them behind.”

Paedrin bristled at that. “And where would we return to, I ask you? Where would we find shelter from the Arch-Rike now? Tyrus, I know you desire to end the Plague, but we must end the Arch-Rike’s rule as well. He murders the innocent. Silvandom must be told of his treachery. The Bhikhu shield him unwittingly.”

Tyrus frowned and shook his head. “No one will believe us. But I will not be distracted, not even by such a loss as this.” He approached Annon and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I feel your hurt, lad. Believe me that I do. But we must go on. We must face the Scourgelands. All of us.” The last comment was said with a sidelong look at the Romani.

“Where are we, Tyrus?” Kiranrao asked again, an edge in his voice. “Answer me.”

Annon saw the big man swallow, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Where not even the Arch-Rike will dare follow us. We are on the borders of Boeotia.”

The small fire crackled, providing a cone of warmth to those sitting nearby. Paedrin and Hettie were hidden in the shadows beneath a giant shade tree, their backs against its trunk, their shoulders touching. Their camp was being guarded by spirits, it was said, but Paedrin was more concerned about some of the people inside the camp than by the threats lurking outside it.

“Poor Annon,” Hettie whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Paedrin saw the Druidecht sitting by the fire, his hands playing with the flames—unburned. It was eerie how he could do that. But probably no more eerie than a Vaettir being able to float.

“Yes, he is a poor man. I pity him.”

“Love develops differently for different people. For some, love comes softly. But the Romani people have a saying. Whilst kicking and biting, love develops.”

“Ah, how very true,” Paedrin said with a chuckle. “Though I would prefer another kiss to a bite. I recall Master Shivu having a different sentiment. He said”—using his best imitation of Shivu’s voice—“ ‘Marriages are all happy; it’s having breakfast together that causes all the trouble.’ ”

Hettie shook her head and offered a silver-threaded laugh. She was quiet for several long moments. “What I see between Prince Aran and Khiara is painful too, though in a different way. She loves him. You can see it in her eyes. But he loves no one. He rejects her with his very politeness. I pity her too.”

“It is strange to watch,” Paedrin agreed. “But I know why it is.”

“You do?”

He nodded vigorously. “He expects to die in the Scourgelands. He is preparing himself for it. He is preparing her for it. He will make no emotional attachments until the Plagues are banished forever. He is simple that way.”