by Jeff Wheeler
The pouch was lined with oilskin, making the bag quite thick. It had a fragrant aroma. Paedrin probed the insides with his fingers and felt a sodden pulp inside. Even more curious, he wriggled his hand inside the small opening and scooped it out.
It was a small clump of green moss, with little buds of blue and violet. It smelled earthy and vibrant, and it was dripping wet. The moisture trickled through his fingers. What was it? He stared at the colorful moss, raising it to his nose, and smelled. The scent was intoxicating. He shook his head to clear it. Perhaps it would help ease Baylen’s pain. After dipping the moss back into the pouch, he closed the bag and cinched the strings.
He lacked the tools to bury Khiara properly, so he decided to rake dead leaves to cover her. There was a fallen oak branch nearby, one that had split from the Mother Tree. He slid her body until it pressed against the tree and then set to work. Before long, he was done and mopped the sweat from his brow. He took her white oak staff with him back to Baylen and then set it down nearby.
Baylen’s eyes blinked awake. “Thought . . . I thought you’d finally left. It’s getting dark.”
“I found something while burying Khiara. It looks like moss . . . maybe it’s some sort of salve. I’m going to dress the wound at your head first. It looks like it’s stopped bleeding anyway.”
Baylen sighed and didn’t reply.
Paedrin examined the torn scalp, the matted hair, and open wound. He winced at the sight and hoped the salve would not hurt too much. He opened the drawstrings again and dumped the mass of dripping moss into his hand. As gently as he could, he pressed it against the injury.
The Cruithne’s body arched as soon as the moss touched him. His eyes shot wide with startled surprise, his slack expression filling with indescribable joy. The look on his face was transfixed with pleasure and Paedrin nearly jumped away from him in shock. Paedrin stared at the wound and watched the scalp close, the flesh knit together and heal. Baylen’s body continued the arch, rising off the ground, and his muscles seem to flex and contort on their own. Paedrin heard the bones grinding, mending, snapping back into place.
“Guhhh!” Baylen groaned, his chest expanding to fill with air. He took several deep breaths, which became more rapid and pronounced. Suddenly, inexplicably, the Cruithne sat up.
Paedrin dropped the pouch in surprise, staring at him.
Baylen extended his arms, twisting his wrists, bending his elbows, flexing his fingers. He looked overjoyed, grinning broadly.
Paedrin looked for the moss, watching it shriveling before his eyes. When it was only a little tiny nub, it fell off into the dirty leaves.
“What . . . was . . . that?” Baylen chuffed, patting his chest, then reaching and touching his scalp, running his fingers through the tangle of bloodied hair.
Paedrin stared at him, overwhelmed. “I . . . found it . . . with Khiara.”
Baylen stood, no look of pain or injury on him. In fact, he looked hale enough to sprint. He cast around the grove for his twin broadswords and inserted them into the scabbards on his back.
“You sure this isn’t a dream?” Baylen asked, looking around the deserted woods. “I never saw her use that plant before when she healed someone.”
Paedrin rose, a foolish grin on his own face. “Neither have I, Baylen. But I noticed the pouch just now.” He sighed. “It came when we needed it most. Maybe it is the keramat. Maybe it is ghosts. Either way, we should press on and find the center of this maze. Even if Phae is dead, if we can penetrate the center, it will help Tyrus succeed next time.”
Baylen smirked. “Next time?”
Paedrin nodded, grabbing the Cruithne’s arm. “We’d better get going. I don’t think that Fear Liath is going to stay in his den forever. But I like our chances of climbing a tree much better now.”
Baylen nodded. “Which way?”
Paedrin shrugged, looking around. Then he pointed. “There. And if we happen to run into Kiranrao . . . so much the better.”
“My spirit echoes the mood of the city. It is dusk. Tumult abounds. My heart frets. As we are, such are the times.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXVI
Annon leaned back against the rough bark of the massive, bending oak. He drew the cowl over his head and sat in the stillness, listening to the stuttering clicks from some unknown insects, the sway of the heavy branches, the nearly audible sigh from the earth. The air smelled of acrid smoke from where Tyrus had unleashed the fireblood into the Dryad tree. Brittle leaves and twigs were his only cushions and he sat in fear that another enemy would crash through the woods. His energy was drained and his body ached from dozens of cuts and puckered wounds. He fidgeted with every crack and snap, worried about being attacked again. He shifted his thoughts to the moment, to face the test of will that was about to happen at the tree. Shadows thickened with the twilight, plunging the grove into darkness. He knew the others were nearby, listening for danger. He was not certain how long he would need to wait until the Weir found them.
Memories wafted through his mind, from another time—another tree. He had saved Neodesha’s tree from the ravages of an axe. He had stood against a raiding party of Boeotians. Reeder was dead now. So was Nizeera. Even Neodesha’s life may have been snuffed out. He folded his arms, huddling deeper inside himself, uncomfortable in the presence of such painful memories. Back then, he had waited by the tree until Neodesha had revealed herself. He remembered, with growing dread, how she had tempted him to look at her. If he had succumbed, she would have snatched his memories away and he would have forgotten all knowledge of her or why he had gone to protect that tree. His resistance to her alluring words had earned him the right to know her Dryad name, and with it—the ability to command her, as Tyrus had instructed him to do now. By claiming a Dryad’s obedience, he would be able to learn where to find Poisonwell. Annon had the suspicion that Tyrus had known he would need a Druidecht on the journey for this very reason.
He glanced up at the ancient boughs above him. In his mind, he imagined the oak tree being a giant mushroom and he just a tiny crawler nestled at its base. Thinking of mushrooms reminded him of Mathon’s warning not to eat the mushrooms in the Scourgelands. The thought made a gurgle of bile rise in his throat.
Far in the distance, he heard the fierce howl of a Weir. The sound was answered by another, coming from a different direction. A third joined the chorus, the sound piercing the tree against his back. If he was judging the sound correctly, they were coming in from three different sides. His heart began pounding.
“They know you are here.”
Her voice was so soft, so faint and so sudden that Annon nearly jumped out of his skin. Her voice came from his right and he immediately shielded his eyes, burying his face on his forearm.
“Did you tell them?” Annon asked, hoping his voice wasn’t too muffled to hear.
“Yes, Druidecht. The Weir are swift. You must flee them.”
“I claim my boon,” he answered.
He heard the small crunch of a twig and felt her presence near his side. He could feel the heat radiating from her, could hear the soft breathing. His mind began to go mad with anticipation. He wanted to look at her. Was she like Neodesha? What race would she be?
“Look on me,” she said, her voice beautiful and intoxicating.
“I will not. Give me the boon.”
“What boon do you seek, Druidecht? I know the way out of the woods. With my help, I can free you from the maze.”
“I don’t believe you will help me. What is your name, Dryad? Tell me.”
Her voice became husky. “My name is ancient. It has already been claimed by another. But do not believe I have grown old and am withered. I cannot age. I cannot die. Would you bind yourself to me, Druidecht? Shall I kiss you? Would you like that?”
He felt a spasm of dread and longing rush through his blood. Tyrus
had warned him not to accept a Dryad’s kiss. While it would unlock his memories again, which he craved, it would also bind them together in a way in which she could follow his thoughts, reveal their presence to Shirikant. He kept his head bowed, his cowl to protect his face. He would not let her kiss him.
“I seek your name. I preserved your tree from harm. You must give it to me.”
“It is given to another.”
“And where is he that was supposed to protect you?” Annon challenged. “Why did he not stop the flames?”
“How do you know he isn’t already here?” she whispered wickedly.
A shiver of fear went down his back, bringing on a cold sweat. He realized he was not just speaking to the Dryad. Through her voice, he was confronting Shirikant himself. He quailed at the thought.
“Come, Druidecht. I have no defenses left. What do you really seek? Revenge?” Her hand touched the crown of his head and he flinched. “Companionship?” She stroked the back of his head, gliding her fingers down to his neck. A mad gush of insanity flooded his mind, making him reel with images of what she might look like. She smelled like loam, rich and earthy . . . yet hinting of decay. The urge to look at her was nearly unbearable. Sweat dripped down his cheek.
Another series of howls started, much closer. The Weir were loping through the woods, rushing toward the Dryad tree. He would not have long to outwit her. To outwit them both.
“If I look at you,” Annon said, “would you take my memories? You are a spirit creature, you cannot lie.”
“If you looked at me, you would desire me. Such is the way of men. You are greedy and seek to possess us. I have no defenses against you. You flinch as if you were the prisoner. I am a slave to this tree. I have nothing left. Not even a robe. All is tattered and gone. Have pity on me, Druidecht.” Her hand touched the edge of his cowl. “Look on me.”
There was a feeling in Annon’s heart, a cruel blackness that swelled up like a giant shadow. He felt desire so intense that it nearly drove all thoughts from his mind but the desire to see her, to pledge himself to her, to stand as a guardian in the sickly woods for the rest of his days. One look at her was all it would take. Flames of heat pulsed inside his heart, rending his composure. He started to tremble, unable to keep the shivering from his body, feeling the yearning intensify into sordid and unclean emotions. It was like the blade of Iddawc, a gnawing demand to defile and betray. Somehow she had unleashed a terrible shadow into his being. He felt his will begin to crumble.
“Look on me,” she repeated, her breath brushing against his ear.
“I will not,” Annon answered, nearly choking.
“You will,” she mocked. “No man can resist that part of themselves. All succumb eventually.”
“Even you, Shirikant?” Annon snarled. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her off-balance. She stumbled into the brush, twigs snapping, and exhaled with a gust of surprised breath. Forcing his eyes to remain closed, he felt along her wrist to her fingers and there, fastened to her skin, was a cold iron ring. She began to thrash and pull away, but Annon clamped her arm against the side of his body, shifting so that his back was to her. He grabbed the ring and pulled it off, just as he had freed Paedrin. He released her instantly and hurled the ring into the woods. For a moment, he wondered if the ring would explode, killing them both. He had gambled, though, gambled that a Dryad had not stained herself with murder. She could not remove the ring herself, but another could free her.
Annon stood cautiously, whirling to face her, yet kept his eyes closed. He unfastened his cloak. His heart pounded with heavy thuds. Swallowing, he extended the cloak.
“Take this,” he offered. “Cover yourself.”
He breathed heavily, unnerved by the silence.
More leaves crunched as she rose. Her fingers grazed his and she took the cloak from him. Annon tried to calm his breath, focusing on the task at hand. His heart sorrowed for the girl, wondering what prison she had experienced and how long she had endured it.
“You . . . you freed me?” she asked, her voice wavering.
Annon collapsed against the tree trunk, bending over to calm his rattled nerves. “Yes. That is my purpose for coming. I seek to set you all free. What is your name, Dryad?”
She did not hesitate. “Ruhamah.”
A thrill of success trembled inside his stomach. “I charge you, Ruhamah, to speak the truth. Is your mind your own?”
“Yes, Druidecht. You have severed his thoughts from mine. I am truly free. I did not lie about the Weir. They are coming. He seeks to force you to flee again.”
“I would speak with you first,” Annon said. “But I cannot trust meeting your gaze. May I blindfold you? Then we can speak briefly. I will not tarry long.”
“You may compel me in all things, Master.”
“I am no master,” Annon replied. He knelt and opened his travel pouch, keeping his eyes averted from her, but he saw the hem of his cloak and her toes poking from beneath it. He rummaged through the contents and withdrew a strip of linen for bandages.
“Turn around,” he bid her. “I will be quick.” She obeyed him and he cautiously peered through lidded eyes to be sure. She had long black hair, wavy and clotted with leaves. With care, he wound the linen strip around her eyes.
Another set of howls came and he felt his heart pounding. Time was running short. There was specific information Tyrus had charged him to get. He turned her by her shoulder to face him. Her mouth was drooped in a frown, as if she were experiencing great pain.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I am weary of my life,” she whispered.
“You are free,” Annon said. “You may go where you wish.”
She shook her head gravely. “I am bound to this tree. All is lost, Druidecht. All is lost. Even if you agreed to be my husband, it would not free me from this bondage.” She sagged to her knees and began to weep bitterly.
Annon knelt near her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Why do you cry?”
“What happens to me is no concern of yours, Druidecht. Ask me your questions. Quickly, they come near.”
“Where might I find Poisonwell? It is the heart of this forest—it is the bridge to Mirrowen.”
“Mirrowen is destroyed.”
A rush of gloom went through Annon’s heart. “Why do you say that?”
“I saw it,” she replied mournfully. “The garden is ruined. The walls of the keep are all broken down. It is a myth you seek, Druidecht. A myth that is no more.”
Annon stared at her expression, wrestling with his feelings. “Who told you it was fallen? Was it Shirikant? He is a deceiver.”
“I saw it through his mind, Druidecht. He destroyed it. The bridge must remain closed or the Abyss will flood this world. He keeps the gate shut. He is the Seneschal now. His name is not Shirikant.”
Annon stared at her, perplexed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. But Mirrowen is not fallen. I am a Druidecht from another forest. There are spirits there, Ruhamah. This place is cursed. These woods are cursed. But I am come from far away, where the forest is healthy and there are many gardens.” He pressed his hand against the side of her head. “Where is it? Where is Poisonwell?”
She took his hand between hers, gripping it as if his fingers were a rope and she were drowning. Her mouth frowned even more, stricken. “Is it true?”
“I swear it by the talisman I wear. It was given to me by the spirits of Mirrowen. Feel it—it bears the symbols.”
Her fingers traced over the pattern on his talisman, following the curving lines. She gasped with recognition. “A lie? What he showed me . . . was a lie?”
“He is no longer your master,” Annon said. “Where can I find it? The bridge must be opened again. Where is it?”
“Are you certain? The floods of the Abyss will drown this world if there is no Seneschal at the gat
e. You risk killing everyone, sending all into chaos. Are you certain?”
“I am,” Annon replied, though he felt more uncertain with each passing moment. “Where can I find it?”
“That way,” Ruhamah said, pointing directly with her finger. “It is a league from here. In the middle of the forest, there is a promontory of stone jutting out from the earth. The ruins of a keep are there. But the bridge between the worlds is hidden in caves beneath the promontory. It is a vein to the core of the earth. There are fumes and heat. Be wary. I cannot guide you to it. Only the Mother Tree guards that secret. She guards the secrets of the bridge and knows the word to pass between the worlds.” Her hands clasped Annon’s tightly. “She is mad with suffering and grief, Druidecht. Her daughter was stolen. Long ago. She was stolen and killed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The man who travels with you is not mortal. He is disfigured by scars. He is the one, Druidecht.” Her fingers touched the side of his face. “He is the one who killed her.”
Dread flooded inside Annon.
Shion.
“Where is the Mother Tree?” Annon asked hoarsely. He gripped her shoulder. “On the promontory?”
“No,” she answered. “It is an ancient tree, even more ancient than this one. It no longer bears the shape of a tree. The heaviest branches fell off years ago and new ones have grafted. It’s pockmarked and misshapen, like the soul of the Dryad mother who is bound there. The trunk is split into two legs, forming a small archway, almost like a cave, between them. That is the Mother Tree. Her will is stronger than mine, Druidecht. She knows you are coming. Her roots run deep and touch nearly every tree in the woods. She knows you are here. She will summon all defenses to protect the tree. Hidden there are secrets held since the beginning of time.”
