The Last Dryad: The Complex

by Sarah M. Cradit

  How could anyone turn that down? For many, this was enough currency for the rest of their lives. For those accustomed to a more privileged lifestyle, it was at least a few years with more of said privilege.

  And so, unfortunate, forgotten Lorn became this haven the Complex built upon a barren land but protected from it by an intricate system of life support and self-sustaining measures. At the epicenter of the small world stood Main City, a metropolitan central of commerce and entertainment. At each compass point was a housing dome, with quarters both lavish and not; even here, they were not exempt from the perks and downfalls of class differences. Beyond that, farming areas intended for both employment and further means of sustaining the ecosystem of the Complex.

  A hundred thousand S-Co would change Wezlei’s entire life. More importantly, his mother’s. There had been no question he would sign up for the opportunity. When else would this much money be handed to him, for so little in return? What were less than three years of change compared to a lifetime of breathing easier? Of seeing his mother twirl in a brand new dress, every day, for months on end?

  At twenty-five, other than his waiting mother, he had no ties to the wide world outside. He had only one goodbye to say when he released his mother from the longest hug of his life and boarded the jetter set for the Complex on January 1, 4 AS.

  Six months in, and he had few complaints. His business was profitable, and the work satisfying. He found socialization, and even companionship, in the many pubs and common houses of Main City, on the occasions he desired it. Wezlei slept in quarters slightly better than the worst, but more than he could ever need. As a child, he’d grown up in a room where the bed touched three of the four walls. Life was good.

  His mother was unhappy with his decision (she didn’t need anything more, she said, not knowing what more felt like), but she wasn’t angry. She would have been had she known Wezlei’s second, secret motivation.

  Tariq.

  That Dhampir despot had terrorized many, many societies on Raxu. A pirate, too, though his particular form of robbery involved hostile takeovers and enslaving the innocent. His followers were responsible for the near extinction of one of the most beloved races in the universe, the peaceful Dryad.

  Wezlei knew very little about the Dryad—as was true of his knowledge with many of the Meta races—until he saw the beautiful creature in chains on the bridge of Tariq’s ship. Her cobalt eyes, a color unlike anything he’d ever seen, burned bright but her figure sagged from abuses, the nature of which Wezlei had guessed very quickly. He couldn’t help her then, surrounded by Tariq’s followers. But Wezlei’s mission soon grew beyond aiding the poor to assist this particular unique being who had no one else to count on. No one to fight for her.

  He didn’t even know her name. But when he learned Tariq had enrolled them in the Complex project, Wezlei signed up the very next day.

  Wezlei thought, maybe, he’d spotted her a few times in the six months they’d all been on this planet, but he was never quite sure. He couldn’t seek her out when her husband was around; the circumstances would be no more improved than the time he’d witnessed her on the bridge. But she would eventually cross his path, and when she did… when she did…

  Well, he didn’t quite know, did he?

  But he would.

  And then she appeared, moments after he’d arrived back at his shop to treat the plants he’d gathered from his farming plot. Her head was covered by a deeply hooded cloak, but her glow was undeniable, even if it was much reduced from the last time he’d seen her. She stopped across from Uni Flora Obscura, before a fruit stand, and examined the starfruit in an offhand, distant manner.

  I will kill Tariq, thought Wezlei. And then I will take back everything he has stolen from this world.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Dryad turned his way. Their eyes locked moments longer than was socially appropriate. The shock registered on her face immediately, and her mouth parted.

  Before he could gather his courage to go talk to her, she rushed off, leaving him wondering what had startled her.

  Did she recognize him from the ship? Did she think he was aligned with her husband? One of his many lackeys?

  Wezlei shook off the doubts and the fears designed to keep him from helping her. The answers didn’t matter, only that she got the right ones from him.

  Whatever she thought, it would either bring her closer to speaking with him or further away.

  He only hoped it didn’t take another six months.

  IV- Tariq

  June 6, 4 AS

  How Tariq missed the days of physical money. There was something erotic in the perfume of sweat and old thread, of the hundreds or thousands of hands that had held it, using it to fund their trite hopes and dreams. The delightful sound when you dragged a bill across the one behind it, counting wealth in the most real and tangible way. This was especially wonderful when someone who owed him money came up short. He so loved watching their fear rise when each bill dropped into the pile, both of them knowing the outcome before the dance even began.

  A scanner just wasn’t the same.

  Tariq was old enough to remember other nuances of the “olden days,” where their lives were not tethered to the digital world that enveloped them with conveniences that only sought to pull them further from their roots of blood and sweat. Of the palpable.

  He was not sentimental, though. No one had ever accused Tariq of the Black Sea of being anything of the sort. He simply preferred a more rugged pull to the world where he’d drawn his wealth and power.

  Pride or arrogance, or both, had thrust him into the position he now found himself, a big fish in a small pond but working his way toward growing that pond into a kingdom. Piracy was an unusual career choice for most Dhampir due to their nocturnal lifestyles, but he saw this trait as an advantage over his rivals. While they slept, he enacted his reign of terror, entering cities and villages without resistance.

  He always walked away with more gold than he could count, but also his fill of the blood power. It mattered not to him that he didn’t require the blood. He desired it, and that mattered more. His crew was sated with gold alone, but that had never been enough for Tariq. Even in his youth, he craved what it meant to take, rather than the taking itself.

  Aerwen was a physical manifestation of the pinnacle of this thirst. In the game of piracy, there were many victims, and he was the eager villain of their nightmares, arriving once a year, or perhaps twice, to rape them of both their wealth and peace of mind. But Aerwen… ahh, Aerwen. To take from her was to grow stronger every single time. To watch others take from her—and he always watched, always, unless they were willing to pay double to be rid of him—was ever more satisfying as the architect of her misery. The money was delightful. The power was immeasurable in value. If he could find and enslave a thousand Aerwens, he would never want for anything ever again.

  Tariq laughed. As if he could ever truly be satisfied.

  Night crept in. Although his room was devoid of light, his other senses were acute in compensation. Aerwen was still out, which was unusual, and Tariq did not like or appreciate the unusual. He knew of her walks through Main City, of course, and he was not concerned. Her transient happiness, such as it was, was of no consequence. If anything, it made her nightly unraveling even more enjoyable when he watched the thread of hope fray and snap.

  But he required her to be ready before the Metas arrived. First, a lavender bath to restore the natural Dryad scent (the aroma had faded when they moved into the Complex, but he was nothing if not resourceful when presented with a problem), and then dressed in the garb of her people. Half the experience was showmanship, and Tariq would not disappoint his clientele by simply handing them a depressed-looking Dryad and expecting that to suffice.

  Across the suite, a door opened and closed. She was home. He hoped her day was positively splendid because she was in for an even more full night than what he’d delivered the evening prior. He shivered to think of the light
dying in her eyes as he took, took, took. A vampire, through and through.

  Tariq grinned in the darkness.

  V- Aerwen

  June 7, 4 AS

  Aerwen often thought to herself that her husband’s cruelty must have limits, and yet, he consistently tested this theory, again and again.

  Last night’s “entertainment,” this time five, had taken all she had. It was not the physical drain that worried her as much as the loss of herself and her soul driving the fear. Dryads were nothing without their connection to the world, and she was losing hers. Until now, she’d considered her slow death as a future consequence of Tariq’s terror, but that future was upon her, and this pulled her into a great despair.

  She had no energy to move, but walking was the last thing that was truly hers, and so, with great pain, Aerwen pulled on her shawl and made her way to Main City.

  When Aerwen passed through the arches leading from the Forest Dome to the bustling Main City, a small burst of energy rippled through her. Somehow, this sparkling metropolis of eclectic shops and richly scented foods felt like stepping into another world, one where she was not in constant peril.

  The city was vast and seemingly unending. During the six months they’d been in the Complex, she still had not explored every corner. Silver, gleaming like a gem, surrounded every experience, reminding her of its vastness. Not dozens, but hundreds, of establishments. A country, not a city.

  She passed shops and restaurants; art galleries, pubs, banks. All with their own unique names, but bearing one unifying symbol: Each began with Uni. Uni Staley’s Pub. Uni Seldova Grocer. Uni Veela Brown Art. Uni had built the Complex, and every last thing in it, so their stamp was embossed on everything.

  As she neared a section of the city she enjoyed, where the Complex’s farmers’ shops and stands were located, she remembered something unusual from her walk the day before. She’d forgotten until then, which was unlike her, but her memory had failed along with the rest of her.

  That young Human who ran the apothecary had stared right at her. Not through her, or past her. He was not daydreaming in her direction. He had seen her, tilted his head, regarded her.

  Which was, simply, impossible.

  Humans had never possessed the vision or the innate “specialness” of Metas required to see a Dryad. She could walk amongst a thousand Humans and never so much as be detected.

  Maybe he wasn’t Human. Maybe he was a Meta who shared similar traits with Humans, and she’d misinterpreted the situation in her shock. Witches and Warlocks especially, could pass for Human and often did. It would be no great surprise to find a Warlock running an apothecary of deadly vegetation.

  Still, she had to know for certain. Curiosity was a Dryad trait through and through, and, when she was young and still living with her parents, it had thrown her into all sorts of mischief. She was so far removed from that creature now that she could not even recall what it felt like to engage this side of her, and perhaps, more than anything else, it was what propelled her in the direction of Uni Flora Obscura.

  Uniformity of the shops in Main City meant the proprietors had to be extra creative to make theirs stand out. She had seen Uni Flora Obscura before, because the skulls, hearts, and healing hands in the window caught her eye. The owner was nothing if not direct in his marketing.

  The store was in her sights now, but before she could take another step, her energy left her. She sagged into a pole, a decorative piece rather than functional, and closed her eyes. Back home, she would draw the power of nature into her and let it seep through every pore until she was restored.

  Here, she had nothing. No one.

  When she opened her eyes, the start was so great, she nearly passed out. The Human stood before her. Yes, he was Human, of that she was now certain. His eyes were wide and sad, and he hadn’t waited for an invitation; his arms slipped around her lower back as he guided her in the direction of his store before she could protest.

  Relief was what she felt when caution should have prevailed. Had he not come when he did, she might have collapsed on the street and drawn a crowd, which would have been horrifying. Intra would have swarmed and taken her right back to Tariq, who would have relished in her misery. Instead, this Human gave her the dignity to fall down in the presence of a single stranger versus many.

  Inside Flora Obscura, the Human drew the shutter and flipped his sign to Closed. He then hobbled the two of them past the jars and ointments, past the hanging dried plants and vines and into a dark, back room.

  The door closed, and everything went black.

  Aerwen awoke lying supine on a firm wooden table. The florid scents of elderberry and evening primrose filled the small room with light steam. Footsteps sounded across the room, coming toward her.

  The Human handed her a mug steaming with the scents that had woken her. She sat and accepted it, understanding at once that his aim was to heal her. She didn’t tell him it would do nothing for her. A Dryad only benefited from flora still living and connected to its life roots.

  “I’m Wezlei,” he said with a shy smile.

  Aerwen sipped the steaming liquid. While benign to her, it was still soothing as the warmth traveled down her throat and into her belly. “You’re Human,” she said, but it came out like an accusation.

  His laugh was nervous. “Last I checked, yes.”

  “And you can see me.” Silly. Of course, he could. That fact had been established in what seemed like an eternity ago on the street.

  “Are you a ghost?” Wezlei replied, a hint of playfulness wisping his words. “I can pretend I didn’t see you, if you’d like.”

  Aerwen set the mug aside, and his eyes followed. The implant in his ear blocked her from reading his mind, but she didn’t need to. He worried she wasn’t drinking his concoction fast enough and might pass out again. “You shouldn’t be able to see me, Wezlei. No Humans can see a Dryad. Not unless they, too, possess the blood of the Dryads.”

  Wezlei frowned. “I didn’t know that, but you aren’t the first Dryad I’ve seen… what is your name?

  “Aerwen.” The way he looked at her, as if he might take the burden of her rescue upon his soul, she almost didn’t tell him. But she couldn’t deceive any creature who had shown her kindness.

  And, oh, how long that had been.

  “Aerwen.” He rolled the name over his tongue. She had never heard the word said with such lyricism. Such poetry. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. A half-truth… she was certainly better than she’d been standing on the corner. How, though, was a mystery. His concoction did nothing. But she could not deny a slow but powerful restoration sweeping over her. One she hadn’t felt since giving up the old life for the Complex.

  “I can make more of that, to take with you,” he offered.

  “Thank you, but I am much better now.” She watched him. For a Human, he was lovely. Very dark hair, almost the color of the raven kings from the forest of Arda. His eyes also called back to the rich green of the vast and unending foliage. He had not lived a very long life as yet, but he had the appearance of a man who had seen a lifetime of wonders and pain.

  He regarded her closely, searching for signs of anything amiss. She didn’t want to have him keep fawning over her like a caretaker, so she mustered her strength—which was growing by the minute, how strange and wonderful! Aerwen smiled a broad smile that was entirely foreign to her nowadays. “I’m happy to hear it,” he replied, nodding. “I can make anything you like, anytime you need it, Aerwen. I’m here seven days a week. Just me.”

  “You work hard.”

  Wezlei shrugged. He cast his eyes to the corner. “What else is there to do?”

  Aerwen had laughed before she realized she’d made the sound. “There’s much to do here!”

  “Well, sure, but don’t you get tired of it?”

  I might, had I the energy and desire to experience it. “I understand. The world here has everything but is still smaller than what we left behind.”
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  “My world was smaller back home, I think,” Wezlei said, and she detected a great sadness. He’d left someone behind. Someone very dear to him. “But it was mine. You know?”

  Oh, yes, she knew. How she knew! Arda was small but vast, and it was never-ending to her uninhibited heart. “Were you a botanist back home?”

  “That was my mother’s trade, but I learned it because it was only the two of us. Humans came from all over Raxu to purchase her salves and tonics and get advice on various matters. It seemed silly to me when I was younger, but as I grew up and was never ill, I realized she was doing important work.”

  “Raxu. I’ve not been.”

  “Where’s home for you?”

  Arda. “Creda.” She didn’t want to pursue this further, so she said, “Your mother sounds lovely. You must miss her a great deal. And your father, where is he?”

  Wezlei again looked away. He jumped off the counter and took her mug from the table and carried it to the sink. “No one knows. He left us with nothing.”

  Her aura pulsed with empathy. The experience startled her, as it hadn’t happened in a great while. “I’m sorry, Wezlei.”

  He stood at the sink, his back to her. “Don’t be. We did just fine without him.”

  Even as he spoke the words, a sting of bold red resentment passed over his own aura. Humans had auras, something most weren’t even aware of, because they couldn’t see them. But Dryads could. “Thank you for what you did. I know it must be weird for you to have a Meta in your shop…”

  Wezlei turned, leaning back on his elbows. “That’s right, we’re supposed to hate each other, yeah? Except, not in the Complex. Everyone does anyway.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t have the stomach for war and feuds that don’t involve me. You’re always welcome here, Aerwen. I mean that.”