“A Preachán?” Kiranrao said with a smirk, earning an aghast look from Hettie. Phae observed how the Romani girl was always watching him, covertly, but still Phae noticed the subtle deference. Paedrin’s frown was a sullen curl at the remark.
Tyrus ignored it.
Prince Aransetis leaned forward. “You replaced a Rike gifted at dispensing healing magic with a Shaliah, whose power is innate.”
Tyrus nodded, but Phae could tell it was not the answer her father sought. “No. What we lack is a single word. Trust.” He gazed at each one of them. “They were each tested and loyal, or so I thought. Looking back now, I think my friend Mathon was sent by the Arch-Rike to poison my thoughts. I’ve learned since then that our enemy is quite adept at such arts. It is probably his key power of influence—the ability to sow doubt. It was right at that moment, with Declan Brin dying before my eyes, that Mathon’s words affected me so much. I failed because I chose, at that moment, to surrender to my doubts. We disbanded, each going our own way. I was hunted and chased and later stumbled upon Merinda, which is when I learned she was pregnant.” He shook his head, frowning with determination. “I have since learned that trust is essential to an endeavor such as this. If we cannot trust one another, then we will fail. I’ve shared with you this story to show you my trust. It was trust that won Phae’s protector from the Arch-Rike’s service. Trust is a powerful motivator.”
Tyrus set down the stick, setting the smoking end amidst the coals. “Trust is where it begins. I would like each of you to describe why you are here. Before you decide whether to accompany me on this suicidal quest, you must know what you can about each other and then make your choice to stick with us or leave.” His gaze shifted to the Cruithne. “Baylen. Why are you here?”
Phae rubbed her chin with the back of her hand as she stared at the giant Cruithne. He was easily three times the size of anyone else there, his skin shadowy in the night. Streaks of gray swept through his hair along his temples, but the rest was a lustrous brown. He had big jowls and an expression of sardonic amusement. “You chose me first because you trust me the least?” he asked, and then waved it off as a joke. He sighed and then stared at the fire, his meaty fingers tugging absently at the prairie grass. “I observe people. It’s what I was paid to do at the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos. I observed those coming in and going out. I judged the threat that each individual presented in their countenance. I wasn’t only hired for my ability to see people, though. I’m pretty good in a fight. Maybe not as tough as Glebbon, but I learned something of street fighting from a fellow named Aboujaoude who rescued me from a scrape I couldn’t win. I suppose I have always felt indebted to that Bhikhu. I’ve spent most of my life fighting one thing or another.”
He tossed a clump of prairie grass into the fire pit. The pieces flamed brightly for a few moments. “I suspected that you were planning another trip to the Scourgelands, Tyrus. You never said it in your words, but I could see the intent in your eyes. Part of me wanted you to ask me to join you. When you vanished in a cloud of dust and rubble, I thought my chance to join you might have passed. Seems now like I was just in time.”
Tyrus nodded slowly, giving the big man an appraising look. “Are you in league with the Arch-Rike of Kenatos?”
The Cruithne’s expression went flat. His eyes glittered. “No.”
Tyrus nodded again. “I don’t have one of those rings the Rikes wear, Baylen. I’ve learned that it isn’t wise to trust a man by his words alone. I was just asking.” Then turning his look to Prince Aransetis, the Vaettir lord, he nodded deferentially. Aransetis wore the black cassock of a Rike, which gave him an incongruous appearance amidst them, especially in light of her father’s last question. Though Tyrus said nothing, the Prince understood his meaning.
“My name is Aransetis,” he said in a distinctly formal tone. Phae had first met him in the barn at the Winemiller orphanage in Stonehollow where he had tracked her down. He had warned her that her life was in danger and had tried to persuade Master Winemiller to let her accompany him to safety. The natural distrust of those from Stonehollow had thwarted his effort, and she had managed to sneak away that night. She shook her head with the memories that followed, glancing at Shion, who stared fixedly at the Prince.
“I am from one of the noble houses of Silvandom and my family has been allies of Tyrus for many years. We sent three Bhikhu with Tyrus the last time, one of them being my brother. I was a young man myself at the time and believed in the quest to rid the world of plague. I was not allowed to go and grieved when I learned what happened. I decided at that moment that I would train to kill that I might be useful if a second attempt was made.”