With that, Tyrus mounted the stirrups of the great beast and swung up onto the huge leather saddle. Four Boeotian drovers had been sent to assist them in caring for the camels and bringing them toward the Scourgelands.

Annon’s heart was afire with emotions and he stood staring at the Empress, unwilling to break the spell she had cast on him. Tyrus had won over his loyalty and trust. But the Empress had captured Annon’s devotion. He stared at her until she looked at him, her eyes curious and thoughtful as she read the expression on his face. It only took a moment. Nodding to the Druidecht with a look of respect and honor, she hooked arms with Mathon and turned away.

Stars twinkled in the vast, cloudless sky, a garment made of countless tiny jewels. A small fire crackled amidst the camp they had set up. Annon stared at the broad expanse above, his mind lost in the magnitude of it. He wondered what those pinpricks of light really were—distant candles? The shroud obscuring Mirrowen from view? He breathed in the cool night air, unable to sleep. Nizeera nestled against him, her eyes open and glinting with the reflections. They had traveled by camel for several days and he knew they were nearing the dreaded forest.

You are restless.

I am, he answered with his thoughts. We face death.

I will protect you. With my last breath.

He scrubbed his fingers into her deep fur. I should hate to lose you, Nizeera. Tell me of Mirrowen.

She was silent, luminous eyes blinking slowly. You would not understand it. When you were Dryad-kissed, you may have endured a glimpse of it. It is too much for a mortal mind to comprehend.

Annon sighed, continuing to stroke her fur softly. A faint purring noise came from her throat. Every Druidecht dreams someday of being welcomed there. I am young still, so I have not expected it. But we travel to the bridge between our worlds. What if we succeed? Would I be able to enter Mirrowen from Poisonwell?

If you survive.

A knot formed in Annon’s stomach. Survive the Scourgelands . . . or survive entering Mirrowen?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that.

Nizeera was thoughtful, her ears lying flat. No more questions, Druidecht. You must earn the privilege of entering Mirrowen on your own merits. A king may not be able to enter, yet a peasant might. Few wealthy men can shrink small enough to enter.

Annon shook his head, baffled. I should have no problem with that. I have nothing.

Her head lifted, her muzzle turning to face him. Possessions matter not. What you bring matters. You bring who you are. Are you worthy to enter Mirrowen? Are you willing to die to test that worthiness?

Annon grimaced.

Nizeera laid her head back down on her paws, her tail beginning to sway like a serpentine thing.

Boots crunching in the sand approached. Annon turned to face Tyrus as he settled down next to the Druidecht.

“How are you feeling?” Tyrus asked him, which was an odd question. Tyrus had never seemed to care how Annon was feeling.

“Does it matter?” he replied. “I am well enough. I meant to thank you earlier . . . for letting me overhear your conversation with the Empress. She’s a remarkable woman.”

“I can see why the Boeotians worship her.” He sighed. “She is deft at manipulating men. I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or pleased that she played us so well.”

Annon’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you trust anyone, Tyrus?”

A reserved smile appeared before the reply. “The Romani have a saying: It is no secret that is known to three. While the Empress told us a great deal about what she wanted us to know, she did not reveal all of her motives. Notice she did not ask for mine either. If she had, I would have lost all trust in her immediately. Sensing this, she did her best to coax me into revealing it voluntarily. I nearly did, so powerful was her persuasion. But I have a duty to all of you, to protect your lives the best that I can. There are some secrets we must not share.” His voice dropped further. “Even from the others.”

Annon watched as Tyrus withdrew, surreptitiously, a ring from his finger. With one hand, he reached out and gripped Annon’s shoulder. As he did so, he dropped the ring into Annon’s lap.

A cold feeling welled up inside Annon’s heart. “What is that?” he whispered.

“A piece of Paracelsus magic,” he replied. He glanced over Annon’s shoulder, his eyes roving the camp. “I fashioned it myself. When you put it on, magic veils it and it cannot be seen, but you will feel it on your hand. It is connected to the Tay al-Ard, Annon. It will summon it into your hand directly. Do you remember when we faced Shion in Prince Aransetis’s manor and I vanished with him?”