Dryad-Born (Whispers From Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Oy!” he called to another Romani, dragging her to the man’s horse. The rider reached for her and grabbed her by the arm. She struck him again and again, beating against his arm, trying to hit his face. The horse shied, but the rider was expert and controlled it. Fresh terror rose inside. The Kishion was boxed in by other riders. He could not see her.

  “Lift her higher!” the Romani snarled. “This one is a wildcat!”

  “It’s for her own good that the cat purrs!” the one holding her said. “We’ll tame you, lass. Cinder-headed or no, we will.”

  Phae struggled, her fear turning into anger. He had called her cinder-haired. Cinder—a word about fire. Her fingers began to tingle. The words came to her mind. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

  The man grabbing her arms yelped when those very arms burst into flame. His cloak caught fire and the horse screamed in terror and bolted. All animals dreaded flame. Phae reached down and grabbed the man’s arms that were crushing her middle. Though protected by leather bracers, the leather blackened and hissed and the man’s skin blistered. With a howl of pain, he released her, scrambling to get back from her.

  Phae turned and faced him, her hands wreathed in blue-violet swirls. Her anger seared her heart, fanning the power that flooded into her. Gone were the feelings of helplessness. Gone was the timidity and flinching. The power inside her surged like a fountain and she held up her hands, unleashing a storm of flames at the man who was tripping over his ankles trying to get away from her. He vanished into a plume of ash. It felt frighteningly delicious.

  Horses shrieked in terror and bolted. In the distance, she could hear the groan of the gate as the Romani inside desperately pulled it closed. Phae stood in a half-crouch, staring at the fire licking the grass where the man had stood. Yellow tongues rippled with heat and charred the grass, spreading with the wind and causing billowy black smoke to rise in the air.

  One of the horses was not running. The leader’s mount was caught by the reins, the Kishion gripping it with iron, forcing it to remain.

  “Over here!” the Kishion barked at her. He beckoned for her to come to him and swung up on the saddle. She noticed the Romani leader sprawled on the grass, his neck at a crooked angle. The feelings swelled inside of her. Part of her wanted to unleash the magic in her blood against the Kishion. Another part of her cringed at the thought. Surely if a hundred bee-stings could not harm him, neither would fire. But it was not just the logic of the thought. She cringed at the thought of harming him, of betraying him again.

  Phae ran to him and let the flames die down inside her. He reached down for her and she reached up to him, grabbing his arm. He pulled her effortlessly up and she swung her leg around the saddle behind him.

  “Hold tight to me,” he said to her. The flames began to roar inside the grassland, licking through the dried grasses and blazing into the sky. Stamping the flanks, the Kishion jerked the reins the other way and started the beast at a gallop. Phae pressed against his back, holding around his middle as tightly as she could. They raced against the flames spreading out through the meadow. The ride was thrilling. She found herself smiling, even when she remembered the man she had just killed. It frightened her how easily she had done it, how powerful it had made her feel.

  The euphoria did not last long.

  Phae knelt by the stream and cupped water in both hands, gulping it down. Her stomach was in knots with anguish. She had killed a man. Yes, he was a Romani. Yes, he probably deserved to die. But she was sixteen years old and it horrified her. She had summoned flames with her hands as a child and had been taught to control her emotions and to control the flames with the Vaettir words of power. She had never desired nor even thought to turn them against a living person before. She swallowed the water and bowed her head, grief-stricken with how easily she had done it and how giddy it had made her feel. Phae loathed herself.

  The horse drank deeply from the stream, resting its lathered body for some time. The Kishion crouched by the stream and filled his leather flask. He glanced at her and she tried to look away from him so that he wouldn’t see the tears on her lashes.

  “The first death is always the hardest,” he said. “It will fade.”

  She wiped her lips. “Coming from you, that is not very comforting,” she answered, glowering at him. “I do not want to be like you.”

  He snorted. “No one would wish it.” He straightened, adjusting the saddle straps and patting down the beast. “The Romani have a saying. If you don’t know the way, walk slowly. They should have heeded their own wisdom this morning.”

  Phae stared down at her reflection in the stream. She wiped her nose, feeling miserable. They had covered quite a bit of ground so far. The day was not all spent yet, but she could see the hills looming ahead of them, jagged with clefts of rock and stunted pine. The hills looked as if they had a stain, but she knew it was just the colors of the stone in the shadows. The valley was encircled by those hills, which provided a natural barricade from the other kingdoms. By nightfall they would reach the road that was carved into the mountain, leaving Stonehollow and joining with Fowlrox. They would probably reach Fowlrox before midnight.

  She rubbed her legs and stood. The Kishion examined the contents of the saddle bags. There were some rations there—dried beef, fruit, nuts, figs, and cheese. An old heel of bread was removed as well. He tossed these to her, though kept some of the figs for himself.

  “Do you even need to eat?” she asked him, tearing a hunk from the bread.

  He shook his head no. “I enjoy the taste of food. But I will not starve to death or die of thirst.”

  She sat down by the edge of the stream, taking a nibble from the cheese. It was sharp but full of flavor. “You truly cannot die then?”

  He nodded. “I do not know the magic the Arch-Rike uses to give me this invulnerability. I have vague memories. I know about the Vaettir, the Preachán, the Cruithne. I am Aeduan, as you can tell on your own. I believe I have even visited all of the kingdoms. But I do not recall my past.”

  Phae sighed deeply. “I am sorry I was rude to you.”

  He gave her a curious look, pausing in his examination of the saddle bags. “You are a strange girl. I do not deserve your apology.”

  “That may be true, but I offer it still. I do not hate you, Kishion.” She sighed again. “I wish you had a name, though. I do not like calling you that. It doesn’t…feel right. When you have finished your task, I do want you to go find your true name. When you have, come and tell it to me. This is assuming my life is useful to the Arch-Rike in some small way.”

  A haunted smile passed over his mouth. “I doubt I will remember your request for very long. Now that you’ve killed a man, can you see why losing the memory is better? The guilt is crushing you.”

  Phae shook her head angrily. “No, I never want to forget what I did. I never want to do that again. I want to remember how it felt.” She wiped her face, sighing again. “Is there anything else in the bags then?”

  He poked inside the next one. “Ducats, mostly. Ah, here we are. A map.” He withdrew a leather-bound parchment scroll. He uncapped the ends and slowly opened it, his expression keen.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “What is it?” Phae asked, getting to her feet quickly. She glanced at the scroll and saw a representation of the kingdoms. There was Stonehollow, featured prominently. She saw the city as well as the road to Fowlrox. There were other trails marked though, roads that were unfamiliar to her.

  “They are looking for a new road into Stonehollow,” the Kishion surmised. He pointed at the lines and the mountains. “See, they are drawing the different passes and marking each one they have tried with an ‘X’. This is the gate where they were hiding. These are probably scouts, looking for a safe haven, another way of transporting stone and timber away from Stonehollow. Away from the only road in or out of the kingdom.”

  Phae looked at him curiously. “Why would they do that?”

  “Because the strength
of Stonehollow comes from its defenses. You cannot attack this kingdom because the only way in is through one of the mountain passes where they have carved a road through several enormous boulders. An army cannot cross those mountains except through that road. It is easily defended. It also means they can control all the stone and timber they sell, because they can tax what goes out through the road. If the Romani find another way to leave the valley, it will give them a way of manipulating the trading here. The Arch-Rike will wish to hear of this.”

  “I heard from my…friend that the Romani may not control the trade routes in the future. Is that true?”

  The Kishion nodded. “Yes. There is a treaty with Wayland. This is useful information to have.” He secured the saddle bags again and then climbed up on the saddle. Phae stared up at his face, feeling the mounting dread. Perhaps the Arch-Rike was not a person to fear. She had the sense that her life was about to change. If she embraced the change, perhaps her fate would not be as horrible as she thought.

  He reached for her again and she clasped his arm and mounted behind him again. When she had first seen him, the scars on his face had frightened her but now she hardly noticed them. His eyes had seemed dead. They no longer did. There was something inside his eyes now, a longing for his past. But she also remembered quite vividly how quickly his mood could change and how dangerous he truly was. It made her shudder.

  With a tap from his boots, the horse plunged into the shallow stream and emerged on the other side in moments. They managed an even pace to preserve the animal’s strength. In the distance behind them, the haze from the brushfire could still be seen. She wondered what Master Winemiller was doing. Had he gone into Stonehollow to seek information? Was he traveling to the cabin at that moment? What of the Vaettir prince? Where was he? So many questions flitted through her mind.

  “What do you know about my blood?” Phae asked him after they had been traveling awhile.

  “You are Dryad-born,” he said. “You also have the fireblood. I do not think there has ever been someone like you before.”

  “But do you know what a Dryad is? Do you know what makes that important? I do not understand what my father was hoping to accomplish.”

  “It does not matter,” the Kishion replied. “His plan failed.”

  “Yes, but what was it? Do you know what he wanted to do with me? Why he sent someone to find me?”

  He was silent for a while, and she did not know why. She did know that saying nothing would probably be best. Patience, she told herself. Let him decide he can trust you.

  “He was going to take you into the Scourgelands.”

  Even Phae had heard of that place. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. “But—nothing survives there. There is no kingdom even near it because no one can tame that forest. It is older than the world. In Stonehollow we teach that our valley was chosen as a way to protect us from the evil of that place.”

  The Kishion said nothing. She sensed a reticence falling over him.

  “Have you…been there?” she asked softly. “Do you remember something?”

  He shrugged. “I earned these claw marks somehow. I do not remember when I got them. I believe I have had them for a long time. It may have…something to do with that place. Your father had claw marks too.”

  Phae swallowed and pressed her cheek against the Kishion’s shoulder. The hills began to rise and swell and soon they saw massive stone formations crowning the hills amidst the bristlecone pine and bur oak. The ridges were rugged country, impossible for a horse to cross. The sun began to set, turning the sky a fiery hue as it mingled amidst a bank of storm clouds. The wind swept through the lowland prairie, bringing the temperature down. In the distance came the rumble of thunder. The beauty of the land swelled inside Phae’s heart. She still did not want to leave Stonehollow, but she could not think of a way to avoid that fate. Perhaps a storm would force them to shelter amidst the trees or inside a cave?

  The horse was weary from the long ride that day and carrying two riders. But it was a stubborn beast and it continued to plod ahead, determined to carry them to the brink of the country. Phae nestled against the Kishion’s back, drowsy with the swaying motion. She could feel the tension in his muscles, hear the heart beating inside him. He was a living creature. But he could not die.

  “I hope you will remember me—when this is over,” she said, stifling a yawn. “If I saw you again, I would be…sad if you did not remember me.”

  He was silent and the wind rustled the long valley grass. She swallowed, her eyes closing. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “The strange thing is that I feel I already know you. Somehow. I cannot explain it.”

  Phae straightened. “We have never met, Kishion.”

  “Then why are you so familiar to me?” he wondered aloud. He sighed. “I feel as if I should know you. As if I should recognize you. The locket. The music. Your hair. Something speaks to me from the past.” He sighed deeply. “There is the road.”

  Phae saw it too and her heart turned into stone. It was closer than she had believed. They had followed the valley to the northeast, cutting across the abandoned farmlands to reach the mountains and finally the road. They left the long grass to the finely packed dirt road leading up into the mountains. The constant trampling of oxen hooves and wagon wheels had made it impossible for anything to grow on the road. Markers carved from stone appeared on the road ahead, designating the distance to Fowlrox. They would reach it long before midnight.

  As the horse climbed into the hills toward the mountains, the shadows thickened as the sun went down. Looming boulders flanked the road, making it impossible to leave the trail by horseback. This was the easiest path to leave the valley. It had the gentlest slope for the oxen to pull the massive granite rocks quarried from the valley and transported beyond. Each clop of the hooves made Phae mourn her past. She had a sickening feeling that she would never return.

  Ahead, Phae saw the first tunnel. It was a square hole ponderously carved amidst an enormous boulder the size of a large cottage. The tunnel hole was wide and tall enough for a single wagon to ride through. It was also very deep, but she could see the dim light coming from the far end. The tunnel had been carved from living rock centuries before. She knew there were two more like it farther ahead. She had never passed its boundaries before.

  Trees gathered thick around the edges of the tunnel boulder. Smaller fragments of broken rock were littered nearby. Phae was starting to drowse again when the Kishion stiffened in the saddle, jerking the reins so hard, it startled her. Shapes emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Two men approached them. One was tall and broad-shouldered and walked with a slight limp. The other was shorter and walked to keep pace with the taller man. As they emerged from the tunnel facing them, Phae gasped. One was dressed like a Rike of Seithrall, though he was Vaettir.

  It was Prince Aran.

  The other man was taller, wearing a stained tunic and cloak and held a strange metal shape in his hand. Not a sword, but a device of some kind. He had reddish hair, cinder-colored, just like hers. His beard and temples were streaked with gray. His eyes were intense and stared at the Kishion deliberately. Phae sensed something about him, something familiar. Her heart started to hammer in her chest. He looked familiar, like a reflection in a dream.

  The Kishion stared. “I killed you,” he said in a low voice, as if he could not believe his senses.

  There was the hint of a smile amidst the bearded man’s face. “And I wanted you to think that, Kishion,” came the reply. “I’ve come for my daughter.”

  “I once observed the Arch-Rike of Kenatos calm a quarrel between two very strong-willed merchants in the city. He invited both to a feast he had prepared for some prominent individuals. He told me this with a sly voice: ‘If you wish to play peacemaker, seat adversaries next to each other where they must begin by being civil.’ True it is, we only hate those whom we do not know.”

  —Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos


  Flee, Druidecht. They are coming.

  Annon awoke with a start, hearing the voices in his mind. Nizeera was already pacing the edge of their makeshift camp, her tail lashing back and forth restlessly. Several spirits flitted about her ears, which swatted at them as if they were flies. Annon rolled to his knees and crawled over to Khiara and shook her awake. She roused instantly, her expression tightening with concern.

  “Danger?” she whispered.

  “Yes. We camped too near Boeotia,” Annon answered. He listened to the trilling whispers from Mirrowen. “Wake Erasmus. I’ll rouse Lukias.”

  She nodded and grabbed her blanket, folding it swiftly and plunging it into her pack. Annon scuttled over to Lukias, who slept soundly, his breath coming in and out like short curt breezes. He shook the man’s shoulders firmly.

  Lukias’s eyes widened with terror, staring up at Annon for a moment. “What is it?”

  “The Boeotians are near,” Annon whispered. “We must go.” Nizeera, can you hear them yet?

  Not yet. But I can smell them. They have smoking torches. The same kind as before.

  Annon whistled softly, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh run up his arms and make him shiver. He had nearly died protecting Neodesha’s tree from the attack of Boeotians and the Black Druidecht. The thought of ever facing such people again made him sick with fear for the spirit would be unable to help him amidst the deadly smoke. He also remembered that the Black Druidecht had lost his arm and managed to escape.

  “Come,” Annon beckoned, pulling his cloak around his neck and starting to the east under a sky full of diamond stars. Erasmus hastily pulled on his boots and managed to catch up quickly.

  Lukias fell in beside Annon. “I do not need to remind you that we are all dressed as Rikes of Seithrall, which would mean instant death if the barbarians catch us. We should have made for Brookshier as I told you.”

  Annon shook his head and scowled with impatience. “Brookshier is the last outpost north of Kenatos. It’s under the Arch-Rike’s control. We wouldn’t be any safer there.”