Palmanter stood next in front of three Cruithne. They were all dark skinned but one was an exceptionally big-boned woman. “Rajas of Alkire,” Palmanter said, motioning to her. She looked at them imperiously, as if she were a queen, her eyes glinting with condescension. She dipped her chin to them, but looked as if she would prefer summoning a tornado to destroy them all.
Next to her was an older man, the oldest of them all, with thick streaks of gray in his beard. He rubbed his bottom lip, staring at all of them as if they were diseased. “Bryont, also of Alkire. And next to him, Obie of Alkire. She is the newest member of the Thirteen. These three are our experts on the Paracelsus order.” Obie had darker skin than the other two Cruithne and did not share their girth. She was looking at Phae with sympathy, her expression troubled.
Annon looked at the next three, for all were Preachán and smaller than the rest. The first was a woman, with chestnut brown hair. She was slight but wore a variety of necklaces and jewelry. The cut of her tunic was very fashionable. She was probably fifty. “Kepniss of Havenrook. Next to her are Koth and Moolien. They both speak the Romani tongue fluently and are experts in the trade disputes going on between Alkire, Havenrook, and Wayland. They have heavy accents and are sometimes difficult to understand.”
“You malign us,” Moolien said. He was bald and bearded and gestured with annoyance at Palmanter. “I will have you know we have memorized each line of the agreement scrolls and can cite them by annotation as well as by age of the parchment.” He was a small man, very feisty and energetic. “Where is the Preachán you had with you previously, Tyrus? Where is Erasmus?”
“Dead,” Tyrus said flatly, his eyes piercing the smaller man whose eyes filled with shock.
The other Preachán looked injured. He was Koth and his hair was well silvered. “He was a brilliant man.”
“We are in agreement on that at least,” Tyrus replied gravely. He nodded to the three Preachán solemnly.
“Deaths have already begun even before your departure,” Stoern pointed out snidely. “How unfortunate.”
Palmanter waved her silent and then introduced the final two. The first was a woman with gold hair flecked with slivers of steel. She was a handsome woman, elegantly dressed in form-fitting robes with elegant needlework patterns. “Mitrisin of Wayland. The king’s cousin.” She nodded respectfully to them and reached out and patted Koth on the arm, as if comforting him.
“And Psowen, also of Wayland.” He was a turtle of a man, his hair receding and he had bulging eyes that gave him almost a frog-like look. His hair was well silvered too and he looked as if he’d enjoyed too many pastries over his life. But despite his looks, he stared at them with keenness and scrutiny.
Annon recounted their names once more in his mind, fixing their features and looks. He did not know the process of being chosen as one of the Thirteen. Each one of them wore a talisman that had a different look than his did. Theirs seemed more ancient, as if it had been passed down for many generations.
Palmanter took his seat, his big arms folding imperiously. “Who would ask the first question?”
“How did Erasmus die?” Moolien asked, his jaw quivering with emotion. He leaned forward in his chair.
Tyrus held up his hand and took a step forward. “You have summoned me here to answer questions. Rather than submit to them, I propose an alternative. Let me explain what I am doing here, what these friends are doing here with me, and what our intentions are. Then I have a few questions of my own to ask the Thirteen. Are we agreed?”
Zannich snorted. “We summoned you, Tyrus. Not the other way around.”
“I came here willingly, as a friend of Canton Vaud. I understand there are some suspicions regarding my recent activities. It is probably best if I address them directly.”
“You may try,” Zannich muttered darkly.
Tyrus seemed to focus on him first. “We are countrymen, Zannich. I understand your skepticism. Let me speak freely then, if you are agreeable?”
Palmanter looked at the frog-eyed man, Psowen, who nodded, his face impassive.
“Thank you. I do not wish to claim all of your time. My motives remain as they have always been. I seek to banish the Plagues. I know how this may be done. These, along with a few others, have agreed to journey with me into the Scourgelands. Our intent is to depart immediately and face the horrors there once again.” It was clear some of them were going to interrupt by the way they shifted in their chairs, but Tyrus waved them silent. “Please, I must beg your indulgence further. Hear me out. I will be brief.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “As we gathered in Prince Aransetis’s manor house in Silvandom, we were viciously attacked by the soldiers and Paracelsus and by the Arch-Rike of Kenatos himself. We were outnumbered, caught by surprise. We defended ourselves and many of the Arch-Rike’s servants were killed in the battle. I admit this freely. There was no offer to treat with us. To put it plainly, they tried to destroy my quest before it could even begin.” He gestured broadly. “These are the witnesses, including two of the Arch-Rike’s servants who have since changed sides. This is my evidence. I have been hunted and attacked nearly every day since I fled the prison city of Kenatos. The Arch-Rike seeks my life. He wishes to stop me.”