by Jeff Wheeler
“They don’t know about the boundaries,” Shion said, his voice growing panicked. “What will happen to them?”
“When it is dark, the Fear Liath will hunt and kill them. Unless they make it out of the woods before nightfall.” She looked up at the sky. “The day is waning already.”
“I must warn them,” Shion said, stuffing the blindfold into his belt.
You did warn them the Seneschal thought, his voice whispering through the aether. Shion stiffened, his eyes widening, hearing it.
“The beast cannot hunt you in Mirrowen,” the Dryad said. “The gate is open to you now. Go.”
The look on Shion’s face tortured Phae. He was racked with indecision. She realized that his failure at the tree years before, losing his mentor, was clouding his thinking. She understood herself how dangerous a Fear Liath was, how vicious they could attack and how impossible they were to defeat.
“This isn’t fair,” Shion protested. “You are saying they will die because of their ignorance? When I have a chance to warn them and stop them, but I should not? A Druidecht protects life. Does the Fear Liath have a weakness?”
The Dryad’s expression turned to misery. “I cannot speak it. I am forbidden to.”
“Why can’t you tell me? What is the purpose of these whispers if they bid us come to our death?”
“No, Isic! It’s not like that. You followed the whispers. They brought you here. Those friends are intruders. They did not pass the test, which you did. It is justice that they perish. Mortals suffer when laws are broken. If you slip from a stone while climbing a mountain, you will surely fall.”
“I cannot go on and let them be destroyed,” Shion said, wringing his hands. “I must warn them. Will my Druidecht magic protect me from the Fear Liath?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Please, Dryad! I beg you to tell me!”
“I cannot. Knowledge must be earned. It is your choice, Isic, but please . . .”
He looked at her, frowning with unhappiness. “I will come back. I will go through the portal to Mirrowen. The Seneschal rewards determination. I will see this through. We will meet again. I promise you.”
He turned and stalked from the woods, marching hard.
Phae stared after him in horror, her stomach twisting with dread and despair. Understanding flooded her, followed by emotional agony. “No,” she whimpered, feeling tears sting her eyes savagely. “Is this where . . . is this when he gets his scars?”
The Seneschal put his arm around her comfortingly. He rested his chin on the top of her head, stroking her hair softly. “Pain is a teacher.”
“When we walk in the forest we see only a fraction of what sees us.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XL
Phae rubbed her hands together, bitterly anxious, watching as Shion dragged himself from the woods of the Scourgelands and then followed the edge until it intersected with a dusty trail that skirted the forest. Weeds and grass grew thickly, but there were ruts from wagon wheels that carved a path through the green. Reaching the road, Shion finally collapsed, having lost so much blood he could no longer master his strength. His face had been slashed by claws and was blackened by the dust mixed with blood. The claw wounds had shredded his front as well. Somehow, through iron determination, he had managed to force himself onward, despite the pain and suffering. But he was leagues away from the nearest settlement.
And he was dying.
“He’s too far,” Phae whimpered, seeing his body crumpled on the road. “Is there anyone who can help him?”
“Watch and wait,” the Seneschal said. They were hidden within the rim of the woods. Flies began buzzing around Shion’s body, drawn to the sickly sweet aroma of death. She cringed, wanting to rush to him, to tend his wounds herself.
“Can we help him?” she begged.
“I’ve already called for help,” he answered.
Soon some birds began to circle above—vultures. She grew ill, thinking about them coming down and goring him with their beaks. Her insides were sick and haunted.
“Look up,” the Seneschal said, nodding to the tree line.
Then she saw him. It was a Bhikhu, gliding along the tips of the trees, floating above. Relief surged inside her. The Vaettir noticed the birds and altered direction, seeing the crumpled man far below. With a rush of breath, the Bhikhu dropped from the sky and ran up to Shion’s body. He was middle-aged, with just a frosting of silver in the stubble on his head. He approached Shion cautiously, his expression twisting with disgust at the grotesque wounds.
Phae clenched the Seneschal’s arm, watching with growing horror. The Bhikhu stared at him, gazing at the half-dead man. Then he knelt and offered a prayer in the Vaettir tongue, which Phae didn’t understand. He looked with pity at Shion and then departed, floating away.
Phae stared at him, wanting to shriek with frustration. “Where is he going? To get help? He didn’t even touch him to see if he was alive!”
The Seneschal shook his head. “The injuries made him squeamish. He realized how much blood he would get on himself attempting to help. Watch and wait.”
The day passed to afternoon. Somehow, it went by more quickly than what she was used to. She could see the arc of the sun in the sky, feeling the world sigh and breathe around her. The shadows stretched and changed. The vultures descended and began poking at the body with their hooked beaks. Shion let out a groan of pain and anger and the birds scattered in fear. They returned again a short while later, bobbing and hopping to get near him again. They started to pick at him again.
The Seneschal waved his fingers at them and the vultures all turned to look at him. One by one, they bowed their necks and then flapped their wings and left.
“They saw you!” Phae said, surprised. “You were here all along? When he suffered?”
“I have been here before and I will come here again,” he said softly. “Many from Mirrowen visit this moment in time. Each one who comes scatters the vultures. That is something he could not do for himself.”
“But surely you can heal him,” Phae said, feeling desperate to do something to help.
“Of course,” the Seneschal replied. “What you must understand, child, is that when I intervene in the world, it is not just to benefit the life of a specific individual. I intervene to stop the chaos from swallowing the world. Suffering is important. It teaches so much in a little bit of time. In much wisdom there is much grief. And those who increase knowledge also increase sorrow. He was given a great gift of knowledge when he visited the Dryad tree. With knowledge comes suffering. They are connected.”
“But what good will it do?”
The Seneschal smiled, a tear in his eye. “What good indeed. Wait and see, child. Wait and see. When your father fled the Scourgelands, he was going to die. Shirikant had unleashed his many hosts seeking to destroy him, to prevent him from success. Merinda Druidecht gave her life to help preserve his, but it was not enough. The hunters would have caught and killed them both. There was a storm that came and drenched their scent, making them invisible.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I commanded a spirit to summon the storm, Phae. Your father always believed it was random luck that had preserved him. He could not hear the whispers then. He was not like Isic.” The Seneschal nodded to the crumpled body.
As Phae turned back, she saw that twilight was upon them. Shion had not stirred or moved at all. He was unconscious, sprawled amidst the grasses like a black stain. She saw a man approaching on the road holding a walking staff. She sighed with relief, seeing the Druidecht approach.
From the belly of the woods, a huge roar sounded. With night drawing near, the Fear Liath had begun to hunt again. One of its victims had escaped. She could feel its anger permeating the aether. Its senses were sharp and the trail of blood was only too easy to follow.
The Druidecht st
iffened at the sound. He saw Shion’s body in the path. Instead of walking toward him, he darted around, casting a nervous look into the dark forest. He hugged his cloak tighter, looking back once at the fallen man, but he didn’t stop.
“No,” Phae said in horror. “He’s a Druidecht! He can summon a spirit to heal. No! Why isn’t he stopping?”
“Fear is a powerful motivator,” the Seneschal replied. “He heard my whisper and responded to it, coming down the road as I bid him to. But the cry of the Fear Liath overwhelmed him. He’ll feel guilty about it later, and then spend the rest of his life wondering whatever happened to the dead man in the road he had walked past. He’ll stop listening to the whispers and eventually forsake his life as a Druidecht. Guilt is a Finder. It hunts and tracks us down, no matter how far we run. His is a sad tale, but you will learn it later. Watch and see.”
Phae felt the night descend like a blanket. Trailers of mist began to creep along the ground from the woods, probing and seeking the fallen man. The moon rose, high and silver, wreathed in frost. The temperature began to plummet, but Phae did not experience the chill. The Fear Liath was getting closer, snuffling along the edge of the woods, tracing Shion’s ragged steps as he had attempted to flee. Phae clenched her fists, experiencing the terror of the beast, even though the Seneschal was near.
Then she heard the creak of wagon wheels. A lone cart rumbled down the road. A man hummed a tune and a swaying lantern hung from a post fastened to the edge of the seat, lighting the path through the hedge maze. The wagon wheels groaned, the axles needing to be oiled. The cart approached the desperate situation and then the driver stopped his tune, giving a sound like chup, chup! The horse stopped, stamping its hooves impatiently. As the wagon master peered around the horse at the dark shape on the ground, he smoothed back some hair and she saw a glittering gold ring fastened there. She stared at him in shock—a Romani!
The Romani leapt from the box seat and unhooked the lantern, bringing it over to gaze at Shion’s body.
“Well, good night!” the man said with a wry voice. He knelt by the body, first examining the injuries at a distance. He sighed heavily. “He’s more to be pitied than laughed at. Do you see this one, Roke, you old beast? Half-dead. Well, it’s as hard to see a bleeding man as it is to see a barefoot duck, but it’s no use boiling your cabbage twice, is it? I wonder what you did wrong, fellow, to be left like this? The silent are often guilty.”
The Fear Liath roared, sending the horse into a tremor of panic.
The Romani stood and calmed the beast, beginning to whistle a tune again. It was a gentle and soothing tune and the whistle became a low song. The horse quieted immediately and the man stroked his nose. The Romani fetched a bag from beneath the seat and went back to Shion and knelt next to him. He set the lantern down nearby and went to work.
Phae stared in amazement as the Romani began treating the wounds with expert hands. He lifted Shion up and turned him over, exposing the most hideous of the wounds. Then unstoppering a vial of pungent olive oil, he began dabbing it across his wounds and then mopping up the blood and oil with rags that he produced from his bag. He hummed a Romani tune all the while, even as the tendrils of mist began to descend.
Phae tightened her grip on the Seneschal’s arm. “Will the Fear Liath harm him?”
The Seneschal shook his head slowly. “He is very wise. He knows how to master himself. He knows how to master fear. The creature cannot threaten him.”
Phae’s eyes widened. “What is the secret then?”
“Do you hear his tune? It’s a love ballad. He sings it to remember his wife while he travels. His love for her is very deep. He bought her and buys her again each time she is ready to earn another ring. He pays handsomely for her, often more than a full year’s worth of his trading pay. She works hard while he is gone and helps him earn the price. Remember the secret, child.”
Perfect love casts out fear
She felt his thought burn inside her heart, searing her with its power and the gift of recollection. The Romani stopped, cocking his head, hand poised on the stopper.
“Aye, master,” the Romani said with a chuckle. “Marriages are all truly happy. It’s having breakfast together that causes all the trouble.” He laughed to himself and began working again on Shion’s wounds. “You’re an awful mess, lad. But it looks like I’ve stopped the bleeding a bit. You’ll need some stitches ere we are done, but this isn’t the place now, is it? A windy day is the wrong one for thatching. Best get you to the village yonder. Are you ready Roke, you old beast? You never plow a field by turning it over in your mind. Best to get back there, even if the casks of salmon spoil. Not worth a man’s life, anyway. I know, Roke, you old beast, everyone lays a burden on the willing horse. That’s your duty tonight. Let me lift him up . . . ugh, he’s a heavy one even without all his blood.”
Shion moaned and the man clucked his tongue. “It’s all right, lad. Worst is over. It’ll be dawn before you know it. Up with you, lad. Let’s set you on the driver’s box. I can walk alongside. Up you go!”
Phae watched him hoist Shion up on the wagon seat. He wrapped him in blankets, gave him small sips of wine and bits of cheese. He used ropes to hold him in place and immobilize him and then turned the cart around and headed back the way he had come, ignoring the mist that hung thickly in the trees, mist that had never descended low enough to dim the man’s lantern.
The Seneschal took Phae next to Stonehollow, back to the castle where she had first laid eyes on Shion. He was wrapped in heavy blankets, sitting on the window seat. Daylight illuminated his face and streaks of water came down outside as the rain lashed against the panes. His face was nearly healed, but she could see the puckered scars still livid and young with tender flesh.
In his lap, he had a book and she could see him sketching on the pages. One was the profile of a girl, a picture he had been working on for some time. As Phae looked at the page, she saw the face, the nose, the calm eyes of the Dryad from the tree. Next to the image, he had fashioned a circle with the Druidecht symbol represented. There was a thick circle in the middle followed by six designs, each with three points that budded from the center circle like a wreath of flowers. Another circle enclosed them all. He stared at the symbol, running his finger on it.
“Why did he draw the Druidecht symbol?” Phae asked the Seneschal.
“He’s inventing it,” came the reply. “Notice that he’s not wearing a talisman. Nor did the Druidecht you saw coming up the road. It’s an idea that came from him. He’s going to work with a blacksmith and forge one before returning to the woods. He wants to be able to focus his thoughts, and having the symbol will help him.”
“So he invented the talisman then?” Phae asked, startled.
“Oh yes. Here is the conversation you must hear. His brother comes.”
There was a gust of wind as the door opened and Shirikant entered the room. He was wearing an elegant tunic with intricate stitch work. It contrasted to Shion’s more humble garb. Even though he was a nobleman himself, Shion looked the part of the Druidecht and seemed uncomfortable being ostentatious. Quite the opposite for his brother. He approached Shion and stood behind him, watching him sketch with the nub of charcoal. The king waited patiently.
Shion blew on the page, staring at the symbol he had drawn. His fingers were smudged black.
“Are you certain you want to go back?” Shirikant said softly, his voice concerned. “I won’t make you, Brother. I will face the dangers alone, if I must. You’ve suffered so much already.”
Shion smoothed the paper. “I must return. I owe that Romani trader a king’s ransom for saving my life, yet he will not accept it. I promised to sing for him and his wife. That was the only compensation he would accept. He has a great voice, Brother.”
“Better than yours?” Shirikant said with a smile. “I don’t believe it.”
“He can tame beasts with his vo
ice. But it’s not his voice that does it.” He leaned his head against the glass. “He loves his wife. Her name is Morganne. What they have between them . . . what they have is stronger than death. It’s stronger than fear. I told you that I heard a voice in a mind while I was nearly dead on the road. Perfect love is more powerful than fear.” He swallowed, staring at the drips of rain. “I love her, Brother.”
Shirikant was silent a moment. “The girl at the tree. The girl who told you about the bridge to Mirrowen.”
“She warned me not to try to save Kishion and the rest. If I had listened to her . . .” He scrunched up his face. “I cannot undo the past. What she told me of the Seneschal. The Gardener. I want to go to Mirrowen, Brother. I want to be welcomed there.” He sighed again and set the book down on the seat. “You shared with me the histories. Of mighty men who wanted to father a new race. You have that desire, Brother. I do not. I want to be welcome in Mirrowen. I want to be able to travel between both worlds. I want to serve the Gardener. He’s a Druidecht, I think. He’s the founder of the Druidecht. I wish to serve him. And if he will let me, I wish to marry his daughter.” He looked down at his hands. “Am I a fool?”
Shirikant rested his hand on Shion’s shoulder, making Phae’s skin crawl. The look in his eyes was genuine, though. She had expected to see a man brooding with evil, but the two were obviously very close and connected. The older brother had different ambitions. But they balanced each other. The respect was mutual.
“I’m not sure what to say, Isic. You could have any girl in Stonehollow, despite the ragged scars.” Shion flinched at the words, but the grip on his shoulder increased. “I don’t jest, Brother. Your survival will be sung about for a thousand years. What you endured seeking the portal to Mirrowen. I am routinely pressured to force you to marry one of your many admirers. Your injuries did not impact your singing. If anything, it made your music even more potent and haunting.”
