The Empress took them to a fire pit with logs blazing with assorted blankets and cushions. “Your friends may stay here. We will meet over there, by that stone. Within sight of each other, as I said. Agreed?”

Tyrus nodded, and Annon and Phae joined the Empress and Mathon at the base of a rugged boulder. There were markings on it—a face, actually. Annon stared at it, for the face had been worn nearly smooth. The nose had been chiseled off, it seemed. Strange runes adorned it. He felt his heart fill with warning as they approached. He touched Tyrus’s wrist and nodded to the stone. He did not get a verbal response, but Tyrus did blink once before sitting down.

The Empress’s face was very expressive. “I am pleased you chose to trust me. Observe those bringing food to your friends. Mathon will tell you the significance of which hand they are served with.”

Annon turned so he could notice.

Mathon’s voice was thick and wheezing from the walk. “There are many subtleties in Boeotian culture. If you are served food from the left hand, you must assume it may have been poisoned. There are certain rituals of honor in this land. It’s considered perfectly just to murder a man who does not follow the culture. The left hand is used to . . . I’ll put this delicately . . . cleanse the body after performing certain purging functions. It is the shameful hand. You greet a man with your right hand only. If someone does not observe that they are served with the left, then it is suitable to kill them through poison. Much is left to a person’s ability to notice what goes on around them and interpret it.”

“I see,” Tyrus said. “And you lost your right hand along with the Arch-Rike’s ring on it. You can only eat or greet someone with the shameful hand.”

The Empress’s eyes glittered with delight. “He is quick, Mathon. You did not underestimate him. We may survive this yet.”

Tyrus cocked his eyebrow at her curious comment.

“Who you chose to accompany you is critical. You did not pick your most ruthless fighters. You did not pick your wisest Vaettir. You chose a Druidecht to aid you in some aspects of spirit culture you could not know or have been trained in. And you brought your daughter because you care for her safety above all others.”

“You knew she was my daughter?”

“I have spies in Canton Vaud. Yes.”

“Then would a father do any less?” Tyrus offered with a smile.

“My invitation to come here was not strictly duplicitous, Tyrus. When I learned you were in my lands, it gave me a glimmer of hope. I will soon be deposed. Not in all the years the Empresses have ruled Boeotia has a warlord gained the courage to unite all the factions and challenge one of us. Until now. Your arrival is timely. I do have information you desperately need and knowledge that should not be confined any longer to these forgotten lands. It is knowledge relating to our mutual enemy, the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”

Tyrus leaned forward. “Who challenges your rule?”

“That is not important right now. Let me deliver the knowledge I promised first. You don’t understand what a treasure this is to speak to someone like you. In these lands, learning is despised. Knowledge is rarely sought. It is like that for a reason, and it is also why I fell in love with Mathon. I knew him before the sickness disfigured him. Outward appearances are deceptive. Sometimes the most beautiful people are the most shallow, corruptible, and feckless. Beauty conceals one’s inner worth, the value of a heart and mind. Such is the case with leprosaria and Kenatos. The purpose of Kenatos is not to preserve knowledge.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “That is a lie. They destroy knowledge. They mask the truth. It happens slowly and subtly. It has been happening even before Kenatos was founded. Instead of building libraries, we in Boeotia have built a culture that would preserve the most important knowledge we sought to maintain.”

The Empress folded her hands in her lap, leaning forward, and studied Tyrus closely. “We live by a culture of honor. My ancestors found that it was the only way to preserve the knowledge of our enemy and to combat him. We have crafted this culture deliberately and its fruit has grown rather wild. In a culture such as ours, the smallest thing can give rise to mortal offense. The passions of this people run deep. They love deeply and they hate deeply. Enmity is the key emotion we foster here. Revenge is the butter to our bread. Again, this was done deliberately.”

“Long term it seems an impractical strategy,” Tyrus observed.

“On the contrary,” she said, shaking her head. “Enmity is the only thing that endures. What you need to understand, Tyrus, is that the enemy you face is not the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. That is only the mask that he currently wears.”