by Jeff Wheeler
Phae shivered uncontrollably. Her heart raced with fear and panic. “But if I bond with a tree in the Scourgelands, will I be trapped there for the rest of my life? You said the bond is with a specific tree. That land is dangerous and evil.” She felt the panic begin to surge inside her. She wanted to run for the ladder and flee out the trapdoor.
Tyrus nodded, his expression stiffening. She could sense he was very good at controlling his emotions, of hardening himself for unpleasant realities. “I cannot withhold the truth from you, child. Yes, you could be trapped there. But it is my understanding that the Dryads dwell primarily in Mirrowen. It is a place of peace and great beauty. They only come to the mortal world when someone approaches their tree. They are the guardians of the portals to Mirrowen. Phae, you must understand this. The process of bonding to a tree grants the Dryad immortality.”
He looked at her imploringly. “I know what I am asking of you isn’t fair. I imagine it is not your wish to be separated from Stonehollow and those you consider family. If there was another possible way to end the Plague, I would gladly take it. But all the evidence points to this. Something happened to the Dryads of the Scourgelands centuries ago. They are feared by their sisters. They are as ancient as the world. They have the knowledge that we need. They may be unwilling to give it to you without an oath to replace them. You can set one of them free by agreeing to take her place. A Dryad is not expected to remain bonded to a tree for all eternity. Only until their charge is fulfilled and they have given birth to a child to replace her.”
Phae’s mind whirled with confusion. She pressed her hands against the side of her head. She found herself gasping for breath. “How do I know,” she asked in a quavering voice, “that you are even telling me the truth?”
Tyrus leaned forward. “What would convince you?”
Phae shook her head, trying to sort out her scrambled thoughts. “This is almost too much to believe,” she said. “Yet, I know from my experience that some of it is true. I do have the ability to steal memories. I do have the fireblood. I feel that same power in you, strangely. When I was fleeing from…the Kishion, I came upon a Dryad tree in the woods. It felt…safe to me. A Druidecht was there.”
Tyrus’s eyes bulged with surprise. “Amazing.”
She went on, her heart revolting at the memory. “He said that he was married to a Dryad. She was so young, but he was old and so…gray.” Her face screwed up in distaste.
“Did she have a bracelet around her ankle?” Tyrus asked pointedly.
Phae thought a moment. “She did.”
“He was her husband then. Your mother wears one. It is fashioned in the shape of a serpent. It is coiled around the ankle. She is his wife.”
Phae looked at him in disgust. “She is sixteen?”
He shook his head. “The Druidecht is a lad compared to her. Dryads are often hundreds of years old, Phae. She is immortal and wiser than any youth. You must understand that time is very different in Mirrowen than it is here. What happened in the Scourgelands must have happened thousands of years ago. There are no records of it surviving. Believe me, I have inquired of the head Archivist of Kenatos, and he has read more than any other man. Not even rumors or legends. Nothing. It is deliberately so. To the Dryads of the Scourgelands, it may feel like it happened a fortnight ago. There is no sense of time. A husband is a fleeting thing to them.”
Her stomach was sick with worry. “This is all too…new. How can I make an obligation such as that? I don’t want to be trapped in a tree. I don’t want to fall in love with a man and watch him shrivel like…like…like raisins while I stay young. The very thought is horrible.”
Tyrus nodded sympathetically, but his resolve was iron. “Of course you feel this way. It is only natural that you do. You were raised in a vineyard in Stonehollow. You know what it is to see a family and to work with your hands, to stamp grapes into wine. You only know your world, the one you were raised to know. Imagine, if you will, that you were born to a Dryad and were raised as a child traveling back and forth between here and Mirrowen. What if you grew up expecting to live for hundreds of years? If you expected to love and lose and love again over time.” His look was sad but compelling. “If you had been raised that way and I told you to leave the tree and go to Stonehollow, you would resist me and say it is unnatural.” His voice dropped lower. “I know this is difficult for you. I know this isn’t fair. I am asking you, child, to help save this forsaken world. It cannot save itself.”
The words caused a spasm of emotion to surge through her. Her father had given up his life in pursuit of this dream, this goal, this compulsion to end the Plague. He had sacrificed everything to achieve it. He was not asking her to do something he was unwilling to do himself. He was asking her to do something he could not do himself.
Her breath came in quavering. “I don’t know,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “How can you ask this?” It meant she would never have a homestead of her own. She would never have a normal family. She would be parted from Stonehollow forever. A sick feeling of dread washed over her. Tears filled her eyes.
Tyrus shifted in the dirt and sat next to her. His arm came around her and pulled her close. His voice was thick with emotion. “If you knew how much it pains me to ask it of you…”
She drew up her knees, clutching them with her arms, and stared at the lamplight, tears trickling down her cheeks. “This is cruel,” she whispered bitterly.
“It is,” Tyrus agreed firmly. “But I must ask it of you still.”
Phae sought for a way to escape. She resisted the words. Part of her refused to submit. A deep stubborn core inside her swelled. “The problem, though,” she said, gaining a crumb of courage, “is that you sent me to live in Stonehollow. I need evidence that what you said is true. I cannot make my decision with just your word. I don’t truly know you. I don’t know if I should trust you.”
Tyrus nodded sagely. “That is fair. I asked you earlier. What would convince you?”
Phae looked at him with her tear-streaked eyes. “I want to see my mother. Where is her tree?”
Tyrus stared at her, aghast at the demand.
“Where is she, Father?” she insisted.
His expression hardened following the sudden blow of pain and anguish. Emotions played across his face, ranging from anger to deep sadness. His jaw clenched. His eyes flashed. But he mastered himself, how she did not know. “The Paracelsus Towers. Kenatos.”
Phae stared at him coldly. “Take me there. Now.”
“No eulogy is due to him who simply does his duty and nothing more.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Tyrus stared at Phae for several moments, unable to speak. The shifting emotions finally settled to a look of determination. His eyes were flecked with spurs of gold. The gray streaks in his beard and temples seemed to spread with the weight of his concerns.
He shook his head no. “Impossible.”
Phae came to her feet, her emotions raw with fury. Her fingertips tingled with prickles of heat. “You would drag me to my death in the Scourgelands, but you will not let me see my mother? As if Kenatos were not the place to fear instead of the Scourgelands? You have some twisted magic that allows you to go from place to place. Surely it can bring us there?”
She caught the Vaettir prince’s look of outrage at her insolence, but she ignored him. Tyrus allowed her to loom over him. He did not meet her anger with his own. “For your own safety, I cannot allow it.”
“My safety?” Phae said, her voice shrill. She was cornered on all sides. These men in her life had all accosted her, threatened to or did abduct her against her will. She was furious. It roared to life inside her like a demon. “Is it safe to enter the Scourgelands? Everyone else you brought there died. What will make this time any different?”
Tyrus bowed his head, staring down at the lamp. “Sit down, Phae.”
She covered her face with her hands, wanting to pound her fists into his chest. She want
ed to kick the lantern and scream at all of them. She choked on her emotions. “Tell me why,” she said with a savage voice. “If I must go into the wilderness with you, if I must bond with a tree as you say, then tell me why I cannot see my mother.” Her breathing increased. She started to pace inside the thickly-shadowed cell.
The Kishion put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. She looked up at his face, saw the hard look there—but it was not focused on her this time.
He gazed down at Tyrus. “The Arch-Rike knows of the Dryad in the tree,” he said. “It is already weak from living in the city. He gave the order to have it cut down.”
“No!” Phae gasped, clutching the Kishion’s tunic.
He nodded. “I did not understand the reason, other than revenge, but the Arch-Rike cannot allow a portal to exist inside the city that he does not control. He is very careful who is allowed to use the gateways or where they can be entered from. It may take a few days for the order to be carried out, but I fear it is done by now.”
Phae turned from the Kishion to her father, her heart despairing. “You cannot abandon her!”
Tyrus looked up, his face lined with a deep scowl. His eyes were haunted. “We knew the risks,” he whispered. He shook his head. “I cannot shield her from the Arch-Rike’s wrath as I wish to.” His shoulders slumped. “You do not understand, child, what it cost her—what it cost us both to give you up. I would prefer another dagger thrust than to experience this pain. We knew a sacrifice would be necessary. Her instincts require her to provide a replacement for herself. She gave that up to try to save generations yet unborn. That has been my chief desire as well. I do not do this for glory or for fame. My only ambition is to correct the injury that was done in the past. No one forces me to do this. Believe me, it would have been far easier to quit long ago.” He gazed into her eyes fiercely. “The tree is not destroyed yet. I know it is not, because I still share a connection with her. She is in peril. I can feel that. She is surrounded by enemies. But if we go to her now, and if we are detected, you know the Arch-Rike will destroy her in a hurricane of magic. He will use her against me. That is his nature. I will honor the sacrifice she made, though it pains me to my soul.”
Phae stared at him, overcome with grief. “So he will kill her tree for certain if we go?”
Tyrus nodded. “I believe so.”
Phae crumpled and sat down on the floor, all her energy gushing out of her. “How can I know this is even true then? Your excuses are believable, if not convenient.”
Her father laughed bitterly. “The truth isn’t often that way, I’m afraid. However, I propose an alternative.”
She licked her lips, her heart too heavy to speak. She shrugged.
“There are others aiding in this quest. One is a young Druidecht, not much older than you. He is the son of Merinda Druidecht who I mentioned before. He protected a Dryad tree in the woods of Silvandom and earned her trust. She could teach you about your heritage.” He reached out and drew a circle on the dirt floor with his finger. “Would that help convince you?”
Phae folded her arms over her knees. “I’ll think about it. I am so tired, Father. So very tired.”
“Get some sleep,” Tyrus said. “We will have little rest in the days ahead.”
Phae stretched out on the hard-packed floor, using her cloak as a pillow. Waves of weariness crashed down on her. Her entire life was hanging askew. Voices murmured in the stillness. She heard the prince speaking softly. Tyrus muttered a response. Her mind grew thick like churning butter. She tried to listen, but felt herself drifting farther away.
Then she heard the Kishion speaking to Tyrus. His voice was low, as it always was, but she felt the words cut through the veils of sleep falling over her.
“I will not let you force her to do this. She must choose it.”
Daylight came through the uneven slats in the cellar door and Tyrus beckoned her to follow him up the ladder. Phae climbed the ladder outside, feeling her muscles ache with fatigue. The air was sharp and cold and she shivered, hugging herself for warmth as little puffs of mist came from her mouth. The old man, Evritt, greeted them from the porch with a small cauldron of porridge to stave off the chill. It was amber with honey swirls and tasted delicious. Fruits and nuts accompanied the meal along with water from a rain barrel on the far side of the cabin.
The prince practiced some strange morning ritual, standing stock-still, knees bent and legs flexed, his arms crisscrossing in a pattern of maneuvers that looked menacing. He rarely moved his legs, other than to shift the stance occasionally, as if his feet were slowly sinking into the earth. The motions were intriguing to watch and she studied him as she ate the porridge.
Tyrus conferred with Evritt on the porch, discussing someone named Hettie, a girl who had worked for him for some time. Not understanding the conversation, Phae abandoned the empty bowl and started to wander around the secluded grounds, exploring the various benches, curing sheds, and fire pits that had developed over time. Even a small stream trickled nearby and she went to find it, seeing a strange black-masked animal washing something in it with its paws when she arrived.
She stared at it and it stared at her, chittering in a friendly sound before slinking away up the stream bank.
Phae turned and saw the Kishion nearby, leaning against a cedar.
“You are quiet,” she said.
He folded his arms and gazed back at her. “What will you do?”
She crouched by the stream and ran her fingers through the chilly water. After rising, she approached him. “What do you think I should do?”
“What does my opinion matter?”
She glanced down. She was still frightened of him, but no longer feared he would stab her ruthlessly. “It matters to me. Strangely.” She looked up at him, cocking her head. “I heard something you said last night. That you wouldn’t let them force me to do this.” She swallowed. “Thank you.”
He shrugged as if it were of no importance. “Would you shove a man in front of a runaway cart to stop it from crushing five people? Or would you jump in front of the cart yourself? Either way, a person dies and five are saved. In one case it is murder and in the other the sacrifice is willing. There is a difference.”
“Or you let the cart kill the five,” Phae said. “I suppose I see your point.”
The Kishion stared hard at her. “It is a sacrifice, to be sure. The obligation you face must be a great burden.”
“Sympathy, Kishion?” she said, her mouth twisting into a smile. “From you?”
He looked at her calmly. “You have a choice in this, Phae. If you say the word, I will take you back to Stonehollow. You can hide in those mountains for a long time. It is outside the Arch-Rike’s reach for now.”
She frowned, her face pinching. “Now you are tempting me with freedom. That is not fair.”
“You have a choice. Which is more than I have right now.”
She picked a fleck of wood from his sleeve. “How would I live with myself, though? I am young and so have never experienced the ravages of the Plague before. I know my blood can save a few families from perishing. But if I could stop thousands of families from being destroyed? Could I be so…selfish? How would I feel watching so many die and wondering if I could have prevented it?”
“You’ve made up your mind then.” It was spoken as a fact.
She gazed down at her boots and nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Then I will go with you. I have a feeling it is not the first time I’ve been there.”
“Maybe you will remember again. When we get there.”
He shook his head. “No. Not unless we find the tree where my memories are buried. Maybe I do not want them back.”
She looked up at him, still feeling that visceral fear knowing he was capable of destroying her so quickly. “If you help me end the Plague, Kishion. It would go a long way in your redemption.”
He nodded in silence, then cocked his head. “Danger
.”
Explosions screamed from the sky and then struck the cabin.
The ground rumbled with the impact. The Kishion grabbed her tunic and pulled her behind him and the tree. More whistling sounds came, followed by eruptions of flame and a spoiled egg smell. The woods began to catch fire and trees shattered in the showering hail of blazing pitch. Phae glanced around the tree and saw her father running toward them, the prince and the woodsman at his heels. A rock of burning pitch landed in front of them, exploding and splattering the burning black substance everywhere. Part of it struck the tree they sheltered behind and Phae felt it shudder and catch fire.
A howl of pain sounded and Phae could not tell which of the men it came from. The Kishion took her elbow and yanked her away from the tree as another whistling sound came from above and struck it directly, causing another plume of greenish fire and sending shards of wood and broken tree limbs every direction. The Kishion dragged her up as she stumbled and plunged into the stream.
The sky was raining fire.
Phae’s boots sloshed in the water, her heart galloping in fear at the awesome force unleashed against them. It was as if ten thousand burning arrows had been launched at once and descended in a cloud. Tyrus was pulling the old man, whose arm was on fire with the burning pitch. Prince Aransetis grabbed Evritt’s other arm and helped haul him toward them in the stream. The old man’s face was knitted with pain and agony and he cried out. Tyrus removed the cylinder from his robes and held it out for them all to reach.
Another whistle sounded from above, coming straight at them. Phae took the Kishion’s arm and closed her eyes as the world lurched and began to spin.
Trasen gazed at the monstrous city, listening to the sound of the oars lapping the waters and urging the boatman with his thoughts to put more vigor into his strokes. He was beyond worried. He was beyond desperate. He had searched the outer tunnel leading beyond Stonehollow for clues, for any trace of Phae’s passing. What he found alarmed him beyond all reason—a blackened scorch mark on the ground, carving a huge tear in the earth’s skin. He had discovered a twisted iron ring abandoned in the crater, which was now in his pocket. He had heard stories from Holt about the spells of the Paracelsus. He had never witnessed the magic himself.
