“I have precious little time to meddle with you,” Tyrus warned with disapproval. “The one who hunts me would just as soon kill you with his fingers as waste a spare moment wrestling you. Come, boy! Stop fighting me. You are not wise or powerful enough to handle this blade.”

“And you are?” Annon seethed, unsuccessful at stopping his uncle’s fingers from snapping the cords of the pouch and claiming the weapon.

Tyrus rose, towering over the younger man like a boulder. It was then that Annon noticed the soot stains, the tattered hem of his uncle’s cloak. The gash in his sleeve. His face was weather burned.

His uncle snorted. “I know far too much about this blade to ever be its master. It has no master but itself. But it will serve a useful purpose in the Scourgelands. I bid you farewell, nephew. I will likely be dead before we cross paths again. Forgive me for being an unfit uncle if you can. Good-bye.”

Annon surged to his feet, anger exploding in his heart. He shook with rage, his fingers tingling with unspent flames. Why was it that his uncle made him lose himself like this? After all they had been through, he wanted an explanation. He wanted the truth. To be dismissed as an errand boy galled him. “That is all? You abandon us here? Wherever here is?”

There was a grim look in Tyrus’s eye. “Abandon you? It is what I am good at, after all. I come and I go when it suits me. You can have no faith in me. You do not trust me. Believe me, nephew, there is a murderer no doubt flying the aether as we speak to kill me. When he arrives, I must be gone or he may take his vengeance out on you. For your own safety, I must leave you.”

“But why?” Annon demanded. “Have I not earned at least that? Why did you send us there? Why did you deceive us? What about Hettie’s freedom?”

Tyrus arched an eyebrow. He took a step forward, his gaze menacing. “Think, boy! Use those scraps of brains. I turn the question back on you. Why did you not insist on knowing more? Why were you satisfied to go knowing so very little? Why did you assume I would tell you all when you took no thought to even ask me?” He pointed to the woods, at nothing. “Well? Why did you not ask?”

Annon gritted his teeth together, but he would not back down. He stepped closer. “Because I did not think you would tell me, Uncle.”

“A fair statement. A fool’s answer, though. If you only knew the danger…the real danger that just being near me presents to you.” He swallowed a muttering oath. “Let me be candid with you, Annon. I have nothing left to lose. I have lost all except my wits and my will. I believe the Scourgelands is the source of the changing Plague which has decimated the races. It comes in different disguises, but it is still the same Plague. The answer to stopping it is hidden within the Scourgelands. You will not understand this, but I will say it anyway. Some treachery happened long ago. A promise made by a Paracelsus, I believe, but none have ever recorded the memory of what the affront was. I have spent my life piecing together all the clues. I know how to end the Plague. And the Arch-Rike of Kenatos will stop at nothing to prevent me from doing so.”

His eyes blazed. “We have different opinions, he and I. Were I to stop the Plague, he would lose all his power and authority. The last time I attempted this was before you were born. Everyone who went with me into the Scourgelands died. So you see, my young friend, my dear nephew, that you are far better off never having known me or what I am going to do. For your sakes, I bid you both farewell.”

“Uncle.”

It was Hettie. She had risen where she had lain, pretending to be asleep. Her eyes were dark with concern. Her arms were folded defiantly across her chest. “How can we help you?”

He looked at her in surprise. “You are fledglings. All of you. The last group I brought into the Scourgelands were tested and trained. They were the best of their generation. They perished in the nightmares that roam inside.”

“Answer my question, Uncle,” Hettie demanded.

Annon struggled to control his anger. He did not want to help his uncle. He wanted to lash out at him with hateful words and erase the memory of him from his mind. But he could not. Tyrus’s words buzzed inside his head like a hive of angry bees. He remembered Reeder’s warning about the Scourgelands. He could almost imagine his friend’s worried expression.

Annon’s voice was raw. “Do you seek us to join you?”

Tyrus shook his head angrily. “Yours was a good question, Hettie. They typically are. Annon, you are too concerned about trying to understand my motives. You miss something obvious. If I am capable of deceiving the Rikes of Kenatos and their beetle-black rings, then I can surely dupe someone as foolish as you. Annon, you will never understand my motives until you understand me. You will not understand me until you understand what motivates me. And you will not understand that without seeking to do my will. In other words, you must trust me. Remember, I told you that in my tower.”