Annon turned to face him. “Remember when we were leaving the mountains of Alkire. Remember the Fear Liath when it hunted us?”
Paedrin nodded.
“We escaped through a tree. It was a portal to Mirrowen. That is the realm where the spirits come from. That portal took us to a grove of trees far away. Trees are the portals, you see. And those portals have guardians. The guardians are the Dryads.” Annon stared back at the enormous tree, obviously not disgusted by its misshapen, hunchback look.
Annon turned to the prince. “She is ancient but beautiful.”
Prince Aransetis nodded sternly, his face a mask devoid of emotion. “My family has been her protectors for centuries. The rest of the city of Silvandom does not know she is here. The maze is protected by spirit magic.”
“My staff,” Khiara said, clutching the tapered white-oak weapon, “was made from one of her boughs. It gives me knowledge as well as power.”
Paedrin stared at it hungrily. It was much longer than the kind of staff he was used to, but he had been trained in the long staff since he was a boy.
Annon had a look on his face, almost a flush and a smile. He nodded softly, lost in his thoughts. Then he gazed at them. “She is amazing,” he said, dumbfounded. He turned to the others, straightening his shoulders. “Tyrus shared some information with me that he has not shared with any of you. It is important that this information remain a secret for now. He gave each of us a task to complete that will aid in the journey into the Scourgelands. Do you accept your charge? Will you aid in this quest?”
He looked first to the prince, who nodded and said, “I go to Stonehollow.”
Annon then looked at Khiara and Erasmus. “Will you both go with me to the oracle of Basilides? I could use your help. It is a temple the Arch-Rike has built away from Kenatos, in case the city should ever fall. It is still under construction, hidden in the mountains. But first we must find where it is.”
Khiara cast a furtive glance at the prince, seeking a look from him, but he kept his gaze elsewhere. She nodded, saying nothing.
Erasmus scrunched his face and pondered it a bit. “I have lost every ducat I amassed in my bets. I am likely a wanted man in Havenrook, Kenatos, and probably Alkire if I were being honest. Knowing about the treaty of Wayland, I will probably be wanted there as well.” He pursed his lips, muttering to himself. “The last group that ventured into the Scourgelands all died. I suppose the odds are great that most of us will as well.” He shrugged. “But I could also argue that Tyrus has set the odds in our favor. I’m sure Basilides will give us some useful information about our chances for survival. It is a long gamble. Long odds. I like it.” He smiled. “I’ll go.”
Annon turned next to Paedrin and Hettie.
He knew somehow that they would be last. He had been dreading it.
Before Hettie could speak, Paedrin took a step forward. “The Arch-Rike is my enemy and I will do all within my power to break his influence over the minds of the people. What I have not told you is that when I was locked away in his dungeon, he brought my master to me to disavow me. What my master said to me should have broken my heart, but I could see it in his eyes that he was trying to communicate with me without words. He told me the story of Cruw Reon. He was giving me information which would aid in the journey and hopefully lead to the restoration of the Shatalin temple.” He sighed, nodding with enthusiasm, and said sternly, “I gladly accept the charge, but I will go alone.”
He did not even bother to look at Hettie’s face. He did not want to.
Annon looked at him curiously, but he did not object. He glanced from his sister back to him again, studying the two of them. Paedrin’s ears felt suddenly hot and he prayed he would not start blushing. That would humiliate him.
Annon looked at Hettie once more. “Are you sure?” he asked her.
That caught Paedrin by surprise. He turned and found Hettie standing there defiantly, a look of revenge and malice in her eye. That same haughty look he had seen in the temple when he had tried to impress her.
“Paedrin can go anywhere he wants. I could care less. But Tyrus charged me to steal the blade. I accept.”
He turned and looked at her, his rage beginning to blister the inside of his mind. “Haven’t you stolen enough, Hettie?” he asked her mockingly.
She gave him a look of contempt. “I’m a Romani,” she replied with a gracious bow. “How nice of you to have finally noticed.”
“I am not going with her,” Paedrin said adamantly. “I will do this alone.”