“I know your price, Kiranrao,” Tyrus replied. “And it is not information.” He reached into the folks of his cloak and withdrew a silver blade. It was the blade Iddawc. The moment it emerged, Annon heard its whispers fill the chamber, making him go cold. “If you join us, I will give you this. Even the Arch-Rike fears it.”

Annon recoiled at the notion. The look that filled Kiranrao’s eyes bordered on madness. He was mesmerized by the blade, his eyes suddenly feral.

Multiple emotions flickered across his face. “You tricked me,” Kiranrao uttered with emotion. “You tricked me when I stole that blade for you. You never paid me what it was worth.”

“True,” Tyrus replied. “It is no good in my hand. It requires a special master. One who can tame it.”

The feeling of blackness that washed over Annon made his stomach twist and his insides roil. The blade no longer spoke to him, begging him to take it. All of its efforts were being directed at one man. Giving the blade to Kiranrao was an awful mistake. Whoever held it would certainly go mad. He stared at Kiranrao in disgust and horror, saw the subtle transformation in his face. He wanted that blade. He had wanted it for years. It was just within his grasp if he accepted.

“I will join you,” Kiranrao said in a hushed voice. Not defeated. He was satisfied with the bargain.

A popping noise filled the chamber. The sound was familiar. When Annon last heard it, they had been confronted by the Quiet Kishion seeking to kill Tyrus. This time, it preceded an avalanche of men. Everywhere he looked, there were those of the Paracelsus order, with gleaming necklaces and dark cassocks. Rikes of Seithrall as well. Soldiers wearing hauberks and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with the crest of Kenatos. There was no way to count so many quickly, but there were probably a dozen Paracelsus, holding cylinders, each bringing six or eight with them.

At the far door stood the Kishion, shrouded in an ash-colored cloak, and next to him stood another man, another Rike but taller and with short white hair. He wore the same black cassock as the rest, but his demeanor, the proud look on his face, marked him as a fierce man. It was the Arch-Rike himself.

“Kill them all,” he ordered.

Annon raised his fingers and muttered the words to summon fire.

Paedrin lunged at Tyrus, quick as an arrow.

“There is no possible source of evil except good. It does not occur on its own. Good men become evil.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Paedrin reached Tyrus in an instant. Annon brought up his hands, ready to incinerate him with fire. His heart groaned with pain at the thought of destroying his friend. With the Dryad’s kiss, he remembered every comment, every precept from the Bhikhu about injuring and not killing. How could he kill his friend? He knew that unleashing the fireblood would not harm Tyrus, but Paedrin’s skin would burn. How could he do it?

The hesitation unnerved him. The flames quivered on his fingertips, nearly guttering out.

Paedrin grabbed Tyrus’s wrist, the hand that held the blade Iddawc, and quickly twisted it to force the weapon free. Tyrus’s other hand chopped down and caught Paedrin on the neck, a stunning, forceful blow. He bunched his muscles together and then shoved Paedrin back with a maneuver hauntingly like the Bhikhu. Paedrin went back, but he was not down. He came at Tyrus again and Annon raised his hands to unleash the fire.

Suddenly Hettie was there, knives in hand, blocking the way to Tyrus. “Don’t kill him, Annon. It’s the Arch-Rike’s ring!”

All it took was Hettie’s word and the small ring caught Annon’s attention.

The soldiers of Kenatos let out a battle shout and charged into their midst from every side. There was no time to think, let alone plan. Swords and shields converged around them. Shafts of light from the Paracelsus wove interlocking ribbons of color around the room and into the air, causing a net of energy to trap them inside the room. They were outnumbered and Paedrin was one of them. It was madness.

Kill him, Druidecht. I know he is your friend, but he has betrayed you. That blade will destroy us all. You must kill him! Nizeera shrieked in fury and launched at the nearest soldiers, terrifying them with her scream and slashing claws. Some butted her with shields, trying to protect against the ravaging fury she unleashed.

Kiranrao plunged into the midst of men, vanishing like a vapor of smoke only to reappear elsewhere a moment later, blade plunging into a soldier’s side. The prince stood like a tree rooted in place and deflected attack after attack with his bare hands, crippling elbows and crushing knees. Even the girl Khiara fought back with a long tapered staff made of white oak, whipping it around and clearing the ground around her.