“Will they be deceived by the surrender?” Aran asked.
“Not Shirikant. But if I can confuse the guards posted on the promontory, that will be well enough. Shirikant can’t be everywhere at once. He has set his forces in motion and they will respond without him. He’s dependent on living beings doing his bidding. Any other thoughts? Quickly!”
Shion frowned. “Once we separate, it will be difficult finding each other.”
“True. More difficult to find us as well. We know our goal and must act with the best knowledge that we have.” Tyrus looked deep into Annon’s eyes, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. “We are truly a mastermind. You know my goal. Get Phae to the Mother Tree at all costs. That tree has the knowledge we need. If dividing will improve our odds of success, even slightly, we must do what must be done.” His hand gave a subtle squeeze on Annon’s shoulder, unseen by the others.
Annon stared into his eyes, realizing what Tyrus intended. If he had to, Tyrus was prepared to unleash the full power of the fireblood and invoke his own madness to save them. He had given Annon a ring that would summon the Tay al-Ard into his hand, to stop Tyrus from using it while enraged. A sickening feeling crept into Annon’s stomach.
Hettie approached, only she looked exactly like Phae now, her magic providing an exact duplicate of the Dryad-born’s appearance. “Let’s go, Tyrus. Before my courage melts.”
Annon looked at her, feeling the urge to hug her. His pulse quickened with dread. “Watch yourself,” he said hoarsely.
She gave him a quick hug, planting a kiss on his cheek followed by a pat.
Tyrus looked at the real Phae, his expression heartbreakingly tender. He seemed unable to speak, nodding to her in farewell. Phae shook her head, unwilling to accept that, and gave him a fierce hug, burying her face in his chest. His expression shifted from pain to sadness to ferocious determination.
As the Weir howled again, even closer, Annon watched the two leave the shelter of the trees and approach the promontory.
“I think I should limp,” Hettie murmured, suddenly clutching Tyrus’s arm and feigning injury. Her heart was pounding with fear at their exposed position. The calls from the Weir were drawing closer and she knew it would not be long before they bounded after them from the screen of trees.
“Good thinking,” Tyrus said, fidgeting with his collar. She noticed a small strand of leather around his neck and he freed it, withdrawing a small leather pouch, very small and slender, as if it contained a single leaf.
“What is that pouch?” she asked, seeing him free it but letting it dangle over his shirt. “More Paracelsus magic?”
The sky seemed to be boiling, the clouds coming down like a blacksmith’s hammer on an awaiting anvil. How fitting a storm was threatening to break on such a moment as this. The wind whipped up, blowing her hair in front of her face, and she brushed it back.
“Not magic,” Tyrus replied.
“What is it then?” she asked, always curious, not willing to let him be evasive in such a moment. She saw the Tay al-Ard in his left hand, gripped tightly. The veins on his fingers were pronounced. He exuded a calm self-assurance, but she could see the tension in the crinkled skin around his eyes. He stared up at the massive bulwark with defiance.
“Romani poison. Monkshood.”
Her heart went cold at the words. “Why?” she gasped.
He refused to look at her. “If this ends badly, Hettie, I’m determined it will end. I told Annon earlier that I was willing to sacrifice my mind to succeed. What I did not tell him was that I had no intention of spending the rest of my days insane. I picked a poison that would kill me relatively quickly, but allow me to do some damage to them first. I make this sacrifice willingly, Hettie. Your mother spared my life so that I could save you. Allow me, after all these years, to do what I can to save yours.”
Her throat became thick. “Do you think we’ll fail?”
He stared ahead at the promontory. “I didn’t come here to succeed. I came here so that Phae would.”
They were halfway to the promontory, two figures in the midst of a broken clearing. Hettie’s heart raced with dread and anticipation. She looked up again, seeing the small figures of soldiers lined up along the fragments of the battlement walls. Some held spears and others had long bows. A few carried torches.
Tyrus put his arm around Hettie’s shoulder and stopped, staring up. Were they in range of the archers? Probably. None of them had raised their bows to fire yet and no one had shouted a challenge down at them either.
Tyrus stooped slightly, and then lifted up his chin. He called out in a clear, firm voice. “I am Tyrus of Kenatos and this is my daughter. We surrender!”