by Jeff Wheeler
She wished now that she had gone with Prince Aran and not put Trasen’s life in danger. She did not know the Prince’s abilities, but he was obviously someone her father had trusted with her safety. It was the nature of those from Stonehollow to be wary of strangers. Master Winemiller had not trusted him either, but she knew he was even more wary than most. Her feelings were conflicted. If she could just make it back to the homestead, perhaps she would find them both there and determine what to do next.
A loud crack of a branch sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder but could not see anyone, but the sound was nearby. The feelings inside her fanned even more, driving her faster. She started to run. Her throat was parched, but she dared not scoop up some water from the creek. Her head buzzed with fatigue. There was no path through the woods and she found herself slogging through thick brush and maneuvering around twisted bristlecone somehow growing from cracks in enormous boulders.
The creek continued to snake its way down, her alongside it, until at last she reached a pond, choked with scum and moss. The water there would be undrinkable, so she knelt by the brook’s edge before it spilled there and gulped down some water quickly. It made her dizzy but the water was delicious.
Stopping even that short amount of time caused a wave of panic inside her. She splashed through the pond and crossed it. If her bearings were right, she was heading back toward the valley of Stonehollow. Her leg muscles burned. Relentlessly, she continued. After crossing a small meadow, she saw that there were fewer bristlecone now and more bur oak trees offering shade and more cover. Phae left the meadow behind and entered the shady woods. It felt better. Her heart began to calm. The green of the oddly-shaped leaves was inviting, causing dappled patterns on the forest floor.
She ran her hands along the rough, ridged bark of the oak trees, noticing the strange acorns with their furry caps. Ahead, a dazzlingly big blue jay squawked at her from a branch of an enormous tree. The noise caught her attention. It was as if the bird was speaking to her. She glanced backward and felt a surge of terror. Looking back at the tree, she felt safe. Phae approached it cautiously but quickly. The trunk was huge and wide enough to conceal her entire body. She gazed up at the gnarled branches and velvety green leaves. A butterfly zoomed by her ear, fluttering its wings. It was too beautiful to swat.
She was drawn to the tree in an inexplicable way. Its very presence was a comfort and that puzzled her. Staring up at the branches, she noticed thick bunches of mistletoe crowding around some leaves. She finished circling the trunk and then gazed back at the direction she had come.
The stranger was in the grove with her.
Phae froze instantly, clutching the bark with shock. He was not staring at her but at the tree. She saw him rooted in place, an enemy. She began to shiver with dread, knowing he was too close. He had not seen her yet. Slowly, she pulled back and slid down the trunk until she sat. She tried to make herself as tiny as she could. Even her breath was barely a whisper, despite the hard journey.
Twigs snapped and crunched. He was moving closer.
One thought came to her. If she could look into his eyes, those soulless eyes, she could steal his memory of her. It had not worked before because he was too far away. She hoped that was the reason it had not worked. If she held perfectly still and waited until he found her, she could stare into his eyes and blink, just as she had as a child in the wine barrel. She was not totally sure it would work, but it was the only thing she could try, knowing that even Trasen’s aim with a bow had not stopped him.
Drawing in little breaths, Phae listened to the sound of him approaching from the far side. She twisted some strands of hair away from her face and tried to calm the trembling. There were dead leaves all around the tree, creating a crackling carpet as he approached. She heard silence as he paused.
He appeared around the corner of the oak, so close she could see the scars on his face. He had a rugged look, sun-browned skin from a life out of doors, and scars across his face as if some terrible beast had clawed him savagely. Up close, he seemed a little younger than he had from afar. He stared at the tree, not down at her, his gloved fingers touching each ripple of bark. There were twin daggers sheathed in his belt. She could not believe he had not noticed her cowering in front of him. His lips pursed and he paused again, sniffing the air. He came closer, his boots nearly striking her. Phae tugged her legs against her body. Was he blind? How could he not see her?
An expression came over his face, a clouded look. He shook his head, as if he smelled something bad. Then he proceeded to circumnavigate the trunk. His boot collided with the tip of hers. He was right over her. She stared up at his scarred face, willing him to look at her. But he did not glance down.
Phae let out a slow breath of relief when he finished his circuit of the tree and then tromped off into the woods, never looking back. She did not understand it, but she was grateful. Hugging her knees with both arms, she pressed her face against the bark and felt tears of relief well up in her eyes. Perhaps, he would not find her after all. After resting, she could retrace her way back to the cabin and see what had become of Trasen. Exhausted, she dozed, pressed against the oak.
A hand shook Phae’s shoulder to wake her. She started. Kneeling by the oak tree she encountered a man with a gray beard and snowy white hair. He had a stern look on his face. She saw a Druidecht talisman hanging from his neck and a surge of relief immediately quelled the panic.
His beard was cropped and she noticed he was short. He glanced back at the woods the direction her pursuer had gone. “You are safe for now,” he said in a whisper. “But your pursuer is nearby.”
Phae nodded vigorously. “He may have killed my friend up on the ridge. How did you find me?”
He gave her a curt smile. “My wife led me to you. She saw you running from that man. How she called me is a Druidecht secret. But you are safe as long as you stay near this tree.”
“I can’t stay here,” Phae said, shaking her head. “I need to go back up the mountain and search for my friend. Can you guide me?”
He shook his head angrily. “You do not understand who is chasing you. It is one of the Arch-Rike’s minions. Who are you, child, and why does he hunt you?”
“I don’t know you,” she answered, immediately distrustful.
“I am a Druidecht, girl. You can trust me.”
She said nothing.
“For pity’s sake,” he grumbled.
“Where is your wife?” Phae asked, looking around.
His grizzled beard quivered with frustration. “You are a troublesome girl.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t understand how that man passed by me without even seeing me. It was as if he could not see me.”
“Well, he couldn’t!” the old man said, annoyed.
“How could that be?” Phae said desperately.
He ground his teeth. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. He turned to the tree. “Well? Am I supposed to explain it to her all by myself?”
Phae suddenly had the feeling the old man might very well be insane. “You are talking to…the tree?”
He put his face in his hand and shook his head in frustration. “You know I don’t like talking to people. Maybe you should tell her.”
Phae swallowed. “Who should tell me? Who are you talking to?”
“To my wife,” he answered. “She’s here with us.” He looked up at Phae. “You don’t know what you are, do you?”
He was talking about her fireblood. He saw a girl with red hair. A man was hunting her in the woods. The Plague had been reported in Havenrook. The protection her blood provided would be valuable. She understood now.
“Yes,” Phae said at last. “I know what I am.” She slowly stood. “Not even the Druidecht intervene when we are taken. You are like the rest of them.”
His eyebrows crinkled. “No, I don’t think you understand. Do you know how rare you are? Who…who was your mother? Where is your mother? Haven’t you been taught about Mirrowen?
Do you know…?” He ground his teeth in frustration again. “I shouldn’t be the one telling her!”
Phae backed away from him slowly. “I don’t have the fireblood,” she lied. “Not everyone with red hair does have it. I’m Aeduan, just like you. The man hunting me thinks I have it. He’ll murder me. If you are a Druidecht, then use your magic to stop him.”
The Druidecht shook his head. “Druidecht magic won’t help against him. Come back to the tree, girl. Now.”
Phae shook her head. “No.”
He turned to the tree with an expression of helplessness and aggravation. “Show her! She thinks I am crazy. Please!”
Phae was ready to run when a girl stepped around the side of the tree. She was no older than herself, young and pretty, wearing a fine gown from a dressmaker in Stonehollow. The designs on the sleeve and the ruff at the trim marked it as such. Her eyes were as green as the oak leaves. Phae stared at the old man and then at the much younger girl. The girl was barefoot and had a bracelet fashioned into the shape of a twisting serpent around one ankle.
“Hello,” the girl said timidly. “This must be very strange to you. But I can sense what you are. You are not bound yet.”
Phae stared down at the ground. She had felt a strange feeling of intimacy after glancing at the girl’s eyes. Phae knew that the other girl could steal her memories, that they shared the same power.
“Tell her!” the old Druidecht implored. “She doesn’t know!”
“This is your wife?” Phae said, still looking at the ground. Her stomach filled with revulsion. An old man and a young girl. It was disgusting.
“Well…yes, but you don’t understand. Are you going to tell her?”
“Listen to me,” said the girl. “Listen to my words if you will not look into my eyes. You must know the truth. You have great power. And there is great danger. You must listen.”
Phae shook her head and backed away. “Stay away from me.”
“You are Dryad-born,” the girl said. “And you have the fireblood. There has never been such a combination of powers. You must stay here and learn. You must let me teach you about your heritage. I have never heard of another like you. You are powerful. And dangerous. To yourself as well as to others of our kind. You must stay and let me teach you. I can guard you from the man chasing you. You are part of Mirrowen, child. It is in your blood. If you do not choose it soon, you will forever lose your magic. Please, child. Look at me. Let me share my memories with you. Let me help you understand.”
Phae did not look at her, only at the bracelet around her ankle. Why a serpent? Was there significance to the tail and how it forked? She was so confused and afraid.
“I am a Dryad?” Phae asked. She had never heard that word before. “Is that a race? What is it?”
“Look into my eyes.”
“No,” Phae insisted. “You can steal my memories if I look at you.”
“True. But I can share mine with you as well,” she answered. “I can teach you how to control the magic. You must go soon to Mirrowen, child. You must visit the garden and eat of the fruit. I need someone who can care for this tree. I need you, child.”
Phae continued to back away. “I don’t want any of that.”
“He’s coming!” the Druidecht warned, his eyes tracking the erratic flight of a moth nearby. “He’s coming back this way!”
Phae whirled and ran, fear pounding in her heart. She heard the Druidecht calling after her. She did not care. That forest glen was a trap. The luring words were meant to harm her.
She ran as hard as she could, sprinting through the dead leaves that crackled and split as she passed over them. She ran farther, passing mammoth boulders and dwarf bristlecone. She ran hard until her legs and hips finally revolted and she collapsed in the woods, lost and sobbing.
Exhaustion robbed her completely. Her lungs burned with fire. Her chest heaved and she choked. There was no strength left. She had pushed herself too far. The forest floor seemed to pinwheel beneath her. Dizziness. Somehow, it felt as if she were flying, even though she knew she was not. Spots danced in front of her vision. Her fingers clenched around twigs and leaves.
She wept softly, hearing the crunch of boots approach from behind. Her muscles throbbed and ached. She could not move.
Phae waited, her ears ringing and legs twitching. She heard him stop nearby and waited in anguish to die. The fear, hunger, and fatigue stole away the last of her strength and she fainted.
When she revived, it was dark. The moon had just risen, bathing the world in silver light.
The scar-faced stranger sat by a boulder, staring at her.
“In Silvandom, there is a form of magic, though they do not use that word to describe it. In that kingdom, it is called keramat—a Vaettir word that can be translated into our tongue as ‘miracle.’ They are more open in discussing their beliefs than the Druidecht are. I have come to learn that there are various powers of keramat. Some can heal by touch. Others are known to travel great distances in a short time. One might even say that the Vaettir’s ability to float in the air is keramat. But the greatest gift they possess is the power to revive the dead. It is an awesome power but it comes at a dreadful cost.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon of Wayland was only eighteen. He stared out the smooth glass window into the sculpted gardens. He was despairing, wondering how it would ever be possible that he, a young Druidecht, would be able to outthink and outmaneuver the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. His uncle, Tyrus of Kenatos, had vanished with the man the Arch-Rike sent to kill him. Logic insisted that he consider Tyrus dead.
In a bizarre twist in his life, the man who had pretended for years to be his uncle, who had abandoned him as a baby to be raised by Druidecht, had endowed Annon with a quest to destroy the Plagues that threatened the kingdoms. It was a quest Tyrus had failed to fulfill. How could Annon be expected to succeed?
He sighed deeply, trying to contain his conflicted feelings. In the days since Tyrus’s disappearance with the Kishion, his confidence had begun to wane. The task he had been given felt beyond daunting. Yet he was not alone in the struggle. He had powerful allies now. He thought about them, one by one.
Prince Aransetis was the greatest ally. He was a Vaettir prince from Silvandom. He had the wealth and connections to assist. He was like no prince that Annon could imagine. He wore the black cassock of a Rike of Seithrall in order to better understand the thinking of his enemy. Annon glanced down at his own clothing, taken from a dead Rike of Seithrall just days ago. It was a peculiar feeling, but Aransetis was wise. Just wearing the robes and the ring made him feel different. It changed, however subtly, his way of thinking. Clothing was a symbol and a powerful one.
Another ally was the Prince’s cousin, a girl named Khiara Shaliah. In Silvandom she was a healer with a notable reputation. She was a meek girl, with long black hair and fine Vaettir features, sloping eyes and dark skin. There was some unspoken angst between her and her cousin. Annon felt it in the way she looked at him. It had never been spoken of, though, and Annon knew too little about customs in Silvandom to risk prying.
Then there was Erasmus. Annon glanced at the Preachán and nearly chuckled. He was the smartest man Annon had ever met, his memory and ability to calculate were freakish. He was from Havenrook, a detestable land that Annon hoped he would never need to trespass again. Erasmus looked like a common man of his race, except his eyes were not exactly aligned and it was not easy to determine what he was looking at. He also had the annoying habit of pronouncing predictions. Still, his skills would be invaluable.
Annon turned back to the window, thinking next of others who were far away. His sister Hettie, for example. He missed her already. They were twins at birth, she the firstborn. The midwife was a Romani and had stolen her. Hettie had been raised by the Romani and had been sold at the age of eight to a Finder with a single earring to mark her. Ten years had passed and it was time for her to be sold again. But an elaborate ploy had been us
ed by the Romani to bargain her freedom for a weapon of deadly magic that Tyrus had cleverly hidden. In the end, Tyrus had offered her freedom to live in Silvandom, the only Romani to be granted that privilege. Annon did not doubt for a moment that her freedom would be contested.
His thoughts turned darkly to Kiranrao. If a black widow spider could also be a man, he would exist as Kiranrao. Both were deadly and silent. Kiranrao was a little of everything. He was Vaettir-born, like Khiara and Aransetis. But he was the secret master of Havenrook and controlled the caravans and goods transferring between kingdoms. It was said his wealth rivaled the Arch-Rike’s. Years before, Tyrus had tricked him into stealing the blade Iddawc from the Arch-Rike, a deadly weapon that caged an evil spirit for a thousand years. Tyrus had finally given Kiranrao the blade in the final encounter with the Arch-Rike’s minions and the man had simply vanished away with it, a gleeful look in his eye, realizing that the rest would probably die without him. Had Tyrus done it deliberately? Had he set loose a monster to distract the Arch-Rike? Or had the panic of the moment caused him to misjudge Kiranrao’s motives? Annon did not know.
While Annon did not trust Kiranrao, he knew that Paedrin hated the Romani. Paedrin was an orphan from Kenatos who had been raised at the Bhikhu temple. He could fight with a staff, a piece of rope, or with his own hands and feet. Annon was more than impressed with his abilities and grateful to have someone like him as an ally. Even better, his sense of humor made him pleasant to travel with. He and Hettie had battled constantly during their travels together, and Annon secretly felt the two were growing in favor with one another, until it was revealed that Hettie had betrayed them. Annon hoped they would learn to trust each other again. They were both very stubborn, though, and he did not know whether it would even be possible.
