by Jeff Wheeler
“Do you know about Mirrowen?” Phae asked.
“The Rikes teach that it is a superstition of the Druidecht, but some know the truth. The spirit creatures in Kenatos are all enslaved. The woods of Silvandom are said to be the last bastion of safety.” Another blue butterfly flitted from the side, joining its brother ahead. “There is another one, joining the first.”
There was no path that they followed, but the butterflies seemed to know it instinctively. The ground suddenly ended, opening to a steep decline into a broad gulch. The butterflies flitted across the open air to the other side and then landed on a tree stump, their wings opening and closing.
Shion frowned, gazing down at the steep incline and then motioned for her to stay. He started down the side of the gulch, body low and hands plunging into the muck on the side to steady himself. Tendrils of tree roots poked through the side, offering handholds. It was very deep and steep and she watched him proceed with surefooted grace. About halfway down, he motioned for her to follow.
Phae stepped down the side of the gulch too. Her boots sank into the muck as she scrabbled down, trying to keep from slipping. She was not nearly as graceful as he had been, which irked her, but she bit her lip and continued the descent. Partway down, she slipped and slid down, but he shifted his body and caught her legs, stalling the slide. She clawed through the muck with her fingers to regain control as he continued the rest of the way to the trickle of gully water at the bottom. She joined him shortly after, rinsing her muddy hands in the rank waters.
Three butterflies flitted down from above and started down the gully trail ahead of them. Their boots made sucking sounds in the muck. At some points ahead, the gulch was so narrow they had to go sideways to clear it. The dazzling butterflies were soon joined by others, both in front and behind. The muck dragged at Phae’s ankles, making it difficult to walk. Exposed roots brushed against her face and hair, causing flecks of dirt to shower over her. Rivulets of water streamed down from the top of the ridge above. The air smelled rich and spoiled, like the loam pits behind the Winemiller shed.
The ravine widened to an immense opening. It was a pit sunken into the midst of the ridge, exposing a bracken-covered pond. In the midst of the pond was an enormous tree. Instead of rustling leaves, the branches held thousands of blue butterflies, clinging to each branch and twig. It was the most beautiful sight Phae had seen in her life and she gasped. The butterflies that had thickened ahead joined the writhing mass of the tree. More came from behind, dancing in the air past them, rushing toward the tree and its enormous canopy of blue leaves.
Phae paused to catch her breath, gripping Shion’s arm. “Look at this! I’ve never seen anything like it. So beautiful.”
He said nothing, his expression impossible to read. He stared at the tree, shaking his head. His lips pursed. “I think I have been here before.”
Some butterflies left the tree, flitting before them, coaxing them forward. Phae stepped into the murk of the pond, her boot sinking into the mud, the water just below her knees. The air smelled sickly sweet.
He grabbed her wrist and jerked her back. “Wait.”
Phae struggled against his grip. “Let go of my arm. These are spirits. They want to protect us. We should go to them.”
“Look around,” he said, motioning with his other hand. “The pond is dead. Everything is decaying here. You can smell it.”
“The tree is alive,” Phae said. “Look at the leaves.”
“Those aren’t leaves,” he answered harshly. “Come out of the water.”
Phae felt the compulsion to join the tree grow stronger. “No, we will be safe there. They were warning us. The water is not deep. We can cross.”
She tried to pull away from his grip, but it tightened painfully. Anger burned inside her. She tried to pry his fingers away from her wrist. “You’re hurting me! Let go!”
“Trust me, Phae. This doesn’t feel right. There is no life here. We were lured here.”
She looked at him, seeing the vivid scars on his face. His eyes were blue—a dead man’s eyes. Fear exploded from the marrow of her bones. She had to get away from him. She had to run, to escape. Desperately she tried to rip her arm free, bucking and twisting. She wrenched with enough force that his boots slipped in the muck on the bank and they both tumbled into the brackish waters.
The smell and taste of the waters was loathsome and thick with slime. Phae gagged and thrashed in the water, her hands plunging into the mud at the bottom, but she felt something hard and round, a large rock. She seized it and shoved herself up out of the foul waters, impulsively bringing it down on the Kishion’s head with her free hand.
He deflected the blow, then hoisted her by the waist and flung her back to the mouth of the ravine. She struck the ground hard. Her hair was plastered to her face. The taste in her mouth was putrid. Sputtering and choking, she scrambled to get to her feet, ready to plunge back into the pond.
She stared down at the rock in her hand. Only it was not a rock. It was a skull.
The Kishion, dripping wet, emerged from the pond, his face contorted with anger. He snatched the skull from her hand, whirled, and hurled it with all his might, sending it arcing across the pond where it struck the midst of the tree with a loud cracking sound.
Instantly the air was a cloud of blue butterflies, revealing a skeletal tree in the midst of the pond. The limbs were cragged and silvery, gaunt as bones. Her mind snapped awake instantly, realizing in shock that they had been led into the lair of some horror.
He grabbed her tunic at the shoulder and hauled her back into the ravine. The swarm of insects caught up with them in moments, a blizzard of blue wings and tickling legs. They both raised the cowls of their cloaks and fought down the path, tromping through the slick, fetid waters as they tried to go back the way they had come. She felt the insects all over her body, wriggling inside her clothes. Phae shrieked and convulsed at the feeling, unable to walk, contorting against the writhing creatures that tickled and pricked against her skin.
The Kishion’s firm hand pulled her after him, half-dragging her through the muck. The farther they went, the less frantic the feelings became. Phae’s breath was ragged and choked with tears. The wave of butterflies crested and then faded, leaving only a few dancing tauntingly in the air nearby. She stared at them, twitching with raw emotions, and nearly summoned the fireblood to destroy them.
Her boot struck a tangled root and she went down. Sprawling in the wet ravine, wet and miserable, she stared up at Shion. His face was no longer an eerie exaggeration that she had seen by the pond. In fact, she barely noticed his scars at all. Instead of dead eyes, they were full of emotion. He knelt next to her in the mud and debris, gripping her shoulder.
She flinched, afraid he was going to strike her. She tried to control her breathing and failed.
“Are you all right?”
Concern was not what she had expected. She shuddered. “It was…awful. I still feel them wriggling…”
He nodded in agreement then he froze. He put his finger to his lips, his eyes looking up the wall of the ravine.
Voices drifted along the air, coming from above. “I know…I heard it too. It was a scream. A girl’s scream. This way. Can you see anything, Finder?”
“The tracks are over here,” came a reply, farther back along the ravine. “The two sets only. One belongs to her.”
Phae’s eyes widened with shock, unable to believe the voice she had just heard. It was a voice she would have recognized anywhere. It was a voice from her past and it brought a surging flood of different emotions.
It was Trasen.
“Even wild beasts feel kindness, nor is there any animal so savage that good treatment will not tame it and win love from it. It is a true principle. And it is even more true when dealing with men. Men can be persuaded to many things through small acts of kindness.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The Kishion’s filthy hand clamped over Phae’s mouth and
he pushed her against the ravine wall, pressing himself against her. His mouth brushed against her ear, his voice the smallest of whispers.
“I recognize his voice. The boy from Stonehollow. Do not cry out. The Arch-Rike is using him to find us. Possibly to kill you. Do you understand me? Nod if you do.”
A sickening wave of fear and desperation tore through her and nearly made her crumple. What was Trasen doing in Silvandom? She was desperate to see him. The urge to jerk free and scream to her friend was nearly overwhelming. Instead, she nodded and he removed his hand.
“Don’t hurt him, Shion,” she pleaded. “Promise me.”
“I will not,” he said curtly. “He is no threat to me. He is hunting you. This is how the Arch-Rike does his work. He goes where the feelings are strongest. You are not safe with this boy.”
“I must see him,” Phae said, grabbing a fistful of his cloak. “He may be a hostage.”
The Kishion smirked. “Then I will free him. Stay down here. Stay hidden.”
Trembling seizures of cold began to shake her and she hugged herself, nodding glumly. He looked up the sharp edge of the ravine and sinuously began to scale the roots and dirt, his arm muscles thick as coiled wagon ropes. He pulled himself up the edge of the ravine, spattering crumbs of dirt and silt down. She crouched nearby, hidden in the shadows, cold and dripping from the plunge into the pond. Her wet hair clung to her face and she brushed it back, trembling uncontrollably.
The Kishion snaked his way up the ravine edge before disappearing past the lip of the ridge. He was silent, but the men above were making plenty of noise. The sound of boots trampling through brush. Voices murmured from above.
“I don’t see anyone.”
“Should we go down?”
“There are no boot marks on the other side.” Trasen’s voice. “The floor of the ravine is too dark to see. I’m going down.”
“Don’t be an idiot, boy. You won’t last long against that one. The Quiet Kishion. He’s a killer of children. Sick in the head.”
Another voice. “The ravine goes both ways. Should we trail them both?”
“Where is Heap?”
“What?”
“Where’s Heap? He was over there. I don’t see him.”
Phae could not stop trembling, listening to the sound of their voices. So close. They did not realize how close they were to their prey—or to becoming prey themselves. The mud smelled spoiled and tainted. The air was stifling.
“Heap?”
“How old are these tracks, boy? When did they pass?”
It was Trasen again. “Not long ago, by the look. The marks are fresh. If you shout any louder, Badger, they will hear us coming.”
“What about the girl’s scream? How far away do you think that was?”
“Sounds travel oddly in the woods,” Trasen said. “It sounded like it came from over there. I think we should follow it this way.”
“I saw someone! Over there! A shadow.”
“Heap?”
The sound of running and thrashing from above. Weapons came loose from scabbards. Phae flinched, digging her nails into her hands, stifling her gasp on the back of her fist.
“There! I see…”
“Scatter! Get back to Gorman. Go!”
The sound of a fist striking flesh. A man grunted and collapsed into a mass of fronds. The men were fleeing into the woods, crying out in panic and dread. More noise came as some fell, struck down by a silent attacker in the woods. Phae heard someone scrabbling down the side of the ravine, heard boots splash in the trickle and mud.
“Phae?” Trasen called, charging up the ravine neck. She heard him splashing, heard the muck clinging to his boots as he struggled. A frenzy of emotions whirled inside her. She was desperate to see his face. But what if it was a trick? Conflicting doubts and feelings assailed her, making her heart hammer violently in her ribs. She had to know. She started toward him, shaking with cold, clawing at the mass of dirt along the ravine wall as she stumbled.
Then he was there. Trasen—his curly dark hair, angled face. The look of shock and relief in his eyes brought tears. He recognized her—his expression was one of pure delight and the first embers of hope amidst ashes.
“Phae!” he breathed in triumph, a wide grin splitting his face. He rushed and embraced her, grabbing her with strong arms and pulling her close. He had not bathed in days, it was true, but he still smelled like himself—like home. A muffled sob burst from her chest and she squeezed him hard.
“I need to get you out of here,” he said, pulling back.
“No, Trasen,” she said, shaking her head. “You are the one in danger. Why are you with these men? Who are they?”
“They are hunters. They trap bears. They have special ropes and nets. They’re going to trap the man who abducted you. Now that I’ve found you—”
“No!” Phae cried, pressing her hand against his mouth. “I am here willingly, Trasen. But you have to go. Leave these men. Go back to the Winemillers. Tell them I am safe.”
“Safe?” he said, aghast, his face crinkling with outrage. “Look at you! You were kidnapped by the Arch-Rike’s most—”
Phae clamped her hand over his mouth. “Listen to me! He is my protector. My father is alive. I need to go into the Scourgelands, Trasen. I won’t be…I won’t be coming back. I chose this. No one is forcing me. I can end the Plagues.”
He shook his head free. “Is that what your father told you, is it? Your father, Tyrus of Kenatos? He’s a liar, Phae. Whatever he’s told you, it’s a lie. I’ve spoken to the Arch-Rike. I’ve been to the city. This…I’m trying to save you!”
A shadow loomed just before the Kishion landed in the muck behind them. Phae gasped with fright and Trasen whirled. He pulled a short axe from his belt and Phae saw the sparkling onyx stone set into the sigils along its blade. The stone shimmered with light, growing brighter as the magic was summoned.
“Trasen, no!” she begged.
The Kishion had landed full on his feet, a raven in his dark cowl and menacing eyes.
“Run, Phae,” Trasen said warningly. “I won’t be a victim this time.”
The Kishion’s face was grim. He did not unsheathe any weapons. He looked equally deadly without any.
There was no way she could make Trasen understand. No words would make sense to him, not after the Arch-Rike had woven his lies around Trasen’s mind. What mattered most to her was that he was safe. She did not want Shion to kill him or even injure him. Trasen would not be safe if he continued to track and hunt her. He would follow her. He would follow her all the way into the Scourgelands. She would have done the same for him. Of all the sacrifices she would need to make, this would be the hardest. She knew what she had to do.
Phae grabbed Trasen by the cloak and pulled him around until he faced her. His expression was hard with determination, his jaw tensed and thick with stubble. She saw him swallow. His gaze shifted, surprised by her sudden action. She took his face between her palms and stared into his eyes. His eyes were bluish green and wild with energy and determination. She stared deliberately, connecting them. Then she blinked.
She took away his memories of her. All of them.
When the fierce maelstrom of sobbing had finally ended, Phae felt drained, desolate, and hollowed as a gourd. Her nose was puffy and tender and she dried her face with her hands, wiping away the vestiges of grief from the corners of her eyes. Her head throbbed. Sitting across from her in the dense scrub, silent as a stone, was the Kishion. He was a silent observer of her suffering, but though he had not spoken, his expression was full of compassion and sympathy. His mouth was a tight, drawn line, his lips curling with shared pain, as if her suffering somehow was his. The look in his eyes was haunted, full of anguish for her.
“I’m sorry,” Phae whispered hoarsely. She wiped her chin and then pressed her temples with her fingers. “I needed to mourn him.”
“You loved…Trasen, didn’t you.” His voice was soft, not judging.
She li
cked her lips, staring at him and then down at her boots. She nodded. “I didn’t realize it. I didn’t see the pattern until I gathered all those memories together in one. He loved me as well. I saw it then, but it was too late. They flitted away…like leaves. I could not hold onto them. They’re gone now. Forever.” Saying it out loud caused the crushing weight in her chest to press harder.
“You saved his life,” he said. “He will be of no use to the Arch-Rike now.”
Phae nodded, the misery a dull ache still. “I’ll never forget the look on his face though. I was a stranger to him.”
He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I understand a little of what he was feeling when he left. Confused, frustrated. He is in the woods of Silvandom and he doesn’t realize why he is here or why he came. We told him to go back to Stonehollow and keep the orphans safe. His memories of them may return. At least we sent him out of danger and to the right place. It’s more than anyone has ever done for me.”
She bit her bottom lip, glancing into his eyes. “I pity you, Shion. If my father is right, your memories will return when this is over. I hope so, for your sake.”
He gave her the hint of a smile. Then dropping his hand, he leaned back slightly. “It was painful to watch you grieve. I wish there was something I could do to take it from you. It wasn’t just pity that I felt.” He stared off into the woods at the thickening shadows of twilight. “Memories hidden. Locked away. Insurmountable grief. I understood your pain as if it were my own.” He sighed deeply and fished in his pocket. There, in his hand, he cupped the locket.
Phae stared at the charm, blinking. She reached out and took it, fingering it delicately. From deep within the Kishion’s chest, a sound emerged. He started humming the tune she had last heard emitted by the locket. The sound that came from him was rich and languid, as if he had been an accomplished performer on a stage. He stopped, catching himself.
