The more they walked, the less the gravelly ground and shrubs bothered him. It was dusty, to be sure, and the air was dry and made his throat parched, but he found a strange beauty in the land, especially the shape of the rugged mountains deep to the north. There were no signs of dwellings, but he understood that the Boeotians lived in movable tents. They were wanderers and did not plant or harvest crops. They lived off the land and raided the kingdoms to the south when they needed more. Theirs was a guttural language and he recalled, having faced Boeotians twice in his wanderings, that they were not to be reasoned with. Their warriors were quick to attack and assume danger. Annon did not expect that he would be able to cross their kingdom without stumbling across their clans.

Nizeera, do you smell anything on the wind? Any trace at all?

She growled softly. Nothing but our own scent. The wind comes from all sides. I will smell something if it approaches us.

Annon wondered how far they had penetrated into the Boeotian lands. The day was long and hot and his legs throbbed from the pace of the walk. He glanced back repeatedly to make sure he was not outdistancing the others. He saw several talking amongst themselves as they traveled, but he felt no desire for companionship. Perhaps Tyrus knew his heart couldn’t bear it, that it was one of the reasons he had been chosen to lead the way.

A bird fluttered in the gray-blue sky, soaring overhead. He heard its thoughts come down to him as it passed. Your band is being followed, Druidecht. Others are summoned to join the pursuit. They will come at night when you cannot see them in the distance. Be warned, Druidecht. They will come at night.

Annon felt his heart constrict and stopped, holding up his hand as a warning. He did not know how many were in pursuit, but he got the sense from the bird-spirit that it was a sizable host. He looked ahead, seeing nothing but unending plains with sharp brown rocks and tumbleweeds. Pausing, he stopped and inhaled the air, tasting the dirt on his tongue. He could hear the crunch of boots as the rest of Tyrus’s band approached him.

It was hardly past noon and the Boeotians had found them already.

“As iron is eaten away by rust, so the envious are consumed by their own passion. I heard it said once, and this by a wealthy man in Kenatos, that what he needed most was to love and to be loved. Happily he wrapped those painful bonds around himself, and, sure enough, he would be lashed with the red-hot pokers of jealousy, by suspicions and by fear, by bursts of anger and quarrels. Some fools cannot discern the difference between love and jealousy.”

- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

IV

Studying emotions at a drab and colorless monastery, with all its cracks in the cobbles and moldering stone walls, had not truly prepared Paedrin for the rest of his life. He had been taught by Master Shivu that emotions could be controlled, directed, and would ultimately provide a calm assurance and peace that would persevere until the stubble of black hair on the dome of his head had frosted over. Always Master Shivu had a quirk of a smile on his face as he waggled his fingers at his young pupils, warning them not to be caught in the snares of the heart. Men murdered for love. Fools bargained with Preachán for tastes of it.

But there was something about seeing Hettie walking side by side with Kiranrao that made Paedrin forget all of Shivu’s cautions.

The young Bhikhu sighed deeply, wrestling against his surging feelings. How could he describe it? The tranquility Master Shivu promised was still there, woven link by link like the chain he had fastened to his wrist and now used as a weapon—a series of conscious choices that had purified his body and his mind and allowed him to perform feats of great discipline and grace. Tranquility was as subtle and sweet as a juicy grape. But at the same time, he experienced the red-hot burning on his tongue brought by a mouthful of fiery peppers—hate, jealousy, revenge, contempt. These were powerful emotions, and their presence nearly drowned out the calmer ones completely. He realized that it was difficult to be patient and wise when his mouth was blistering with unspoken insults.

What galled Paedrin even more was that Tyrus would not address his concerns or explain his reasons for allowing Kiranrao to join the expedition. It was like bringing along a snake and trusting it not to bite you. Tyrus would offer no reason. He only said it would become very clear once they entered the Scourgelands.

The walk through an area like Boeotia normally would have required his concentration, but with such vast open plains and rolling, scrub-packed hills, there was little that could advance on them unawares. No fearsome Boeotian warrior could possibly be squatting behind such stunted weeds or barren brush. Paedrin wanted to fight. He wanted to challenge Kiranrao right at that moment. He recognized his own tempestuousness, but recognition didn’t help him cope.