Annon’s heart turned cold with fear. “They deceived me then.”

He nodded curtly. “In a way. This is the way of the spirits in Boeotia. They are subtle. Many are cruel. Some would lead you to a scorpion’s nest if you sought meat. Mortal pain amuses them.”

Tyrus cleared his throat. “That is not much help in convincing us to accept the Empress’s hospitality.”

“Did she send you here to poison us with your disease?” Kiranrao challenged. “Shall I dispatch him? I can kill him from here.”

Mathon began to cough again. After several alarming moments, it calmed. “The disease I suffer from is not contagious. You know my training, Tyrus. I was a healer first of all. I learned to my shock and horror that this particular illness comes from the mushrooms inside the Scourgelands. I was hopelessly lost and wandered for days without food, managing to elude the beasts sent to kill the rest of you. I think the Arch-Rike didn’t care whether or not I survived. He used me to discourage you, to make you doubt yourself. I was helpless against his power, I assure you of that.”

The ravaged face twisted with emotions, impossible to discern due to the craggy flesh. “In my absolute misery and hunger, I chose to eat some mushrooms to stay alive. Somehow I managed to wander out far to the north and west. There are fewer defenders along that side, but the terrain is more rugged and difficult to cross. I managed to escape the tricks and illusions that sought to contain me and I walked alone into Boeotia. I noticed the rash at first on my breast as my clothes were in tatters. The rash eventually deadened my skin. It is a fearful affliction, Tyrus. When I was discovered, half-dead, by the Boeotians, they would not kill me. They call it leprosaria. Men and women who are afflicted with it are pitied here, and they are feared. There are colonies of the weak and dying, hidden deep in canyons in the hinterlands. The Boeotians avoid the Scourgelands at all cost for fear of contracting this disease. Sometimes the winds blow the mushroom spores . . . but that doesn’t matter right now. I must convince you. I must tell you as much as I can before that Vaettir killer next to you decides to separate my larynx from my esophagus.”

“You will not be harmed,” Prince Aransetis said, giving a baleful look at Kiranrao. “I will not allow it. You came peacefully.”

“Of course you would believe this wild tale,” the Romani said with a snort. “Let’s be done with him.”

Prince Aransetis turned to Kiranrao, his look stern and ripe with foreboding. The two looked as if they would strike each other. There was an unspoken challenge between them, a mounting threat.

Annon chewed on his lip, feeling compassion begin to mingle with the disgust.

Tyrus’s expression was hard and interested, but he looked equal parts skeptical as well. “I will not try to prove your identity verbally. It seems the Arch-Rike can mimic even the memories of men we trust. So it would help your cause if you explained the Empress’s invitation. You cannot think we would willingly enter the heart of her domain.”

Mathon chuckled without humor. “She does believe you will, actually. You must come, Tyrus.”

“I can think of a number of compelling reasons why that would be unwise. I do not wish to delay our quest. I do appreciate the warning about the mushrooms, but we had no intention of eating anything in that cursed place.”

“The entire forest is poisoned. But I must persuade you. Let me try. I was taken by the Boeotians to one of their colonies for those with leprosaria. That is her court, Tyrus. She is not an Empress like the Arch-Rike, with servants and valets and Rikes to do her bidding. She serves the weak and the dying. She is unafraid of contracting the illness. Her courage and fearlessness is what bind the Boeotians to her. She does not control them. She cannot give orders and expect to be obeyed. She rules through influence, and because none of the warlords in this place have the courage to face her in her stronghold for power. Their fear of the disease and her lack of fear are what give her power. When there is a dispute, fighting warlords will seek her wisdom and abide by her decisions. But they mostly leave her alone and she goes from colony to colony, serving those who are weak and dying. That is how I met her. I was one of the weak and dying.”

Annon stared at the man in surprise. This was totally beyond anything he expected. He knew the Boeotians were cruel and merciless. He could hardly comprehend that their feared Empress was a woman who treated those afflicted with a disfiguring disease.

“You were taken to one of these colonies. Eventually she came. Go on.” Tyrus continued to look doubtful.

“We became friends, Tyrus. She is a little older than us, a compassionate and educated woman. The history of their people is verbal, handed down like the Druidecht lore. While I was wearing the ring, the Arch-Rike continued to control me. He helped me gain her trust. He’s quite good at that. I was to learn everything I could about her defenses. I was blindfolded when taken there, so I did not know where it was. The Boeotians treat her whereabouts as their greatest secret. Most do not know where she is at all. She leaves on camel when she travels between the colonies.” Annon looked at him quizzically and he saw that others did as well. “The name for the beast I rode on. They are like horses of the desert and can go great distances without water. The Cruithne brought them from their original homeland before settling the Alkire. There are horses here as well, horses bred for stamina and strength. The customs here—I could spend days explaining the nuances to you. It is a savage land. They are cruel and desperate. But there is also beauty in these vast caverns and wastes. But I neglect to finish my tale.”