Dryad-Born (Whispers From Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Ooogh,” hissed Kiranrao, pain in his voice. “Aeldwyn will come soon? Very well. I will wait for him at the summoning chamber. Send more Stonehollow wine with him. The last batch of Waylander ale was spoiled, I think. Remember your promise.”

  Silence was the reply. The glow in the room faded.

  “Blast my insides,” he growled, wheezing suddenly. He muttered more under his breath, complaining that he had swallowed pins. Hettie stared at the shadow on the floor, watching him bowed over. He would realize it soon enough. But she had also heard enough to realize something herself. Comprehension dawned on her.

  “Every moment it gets worse,” he gasped. He sat back against the table, jarring the contents. He stiffened suddenly, bending double and wheezing loudly. “No,” he gasped. “No…it can’t be.” Lurching forward, he staggered over to the other side of the room, over to the cabinet fixed onto the wall, near the bed, near the fallen blankets, near Hettie. He withdrew a key and unlocked it, pulling open the cupboard door violently. His fingers jittered as he fumbled through the vials of poison, searching.

  “Gone,” he whispered breathlessly. In shock and despair, he sat down on the bed, his weight pressing on the mattress, pressing on her.

  Hettie plunged her dagger into the side of his knee and jerked the blade hard. He howled in pain and fell off the bed, his scream muffled by the blankets he collided with. Hettie struggled to free herself, clawing her way out as he thrashed in the blankets. Her heart pounded in her ribs, knowing she would not have long to bring her victim down.

  As she swung herself free, she found him rising, holding up the scabbard, and saw the pommel begin to glow. She swept her cloak over the pommel and using a Bhikhu maneuver, she grabbed his wrist and then rammed her elbow against his extended forearm, dropping with her weight. It broke his arm and another scream ripped from his mouth. Hettie kicked him hard in the stomach, choking off his breath, and then jerked the scabbard away from him and tossed it to the far side of the room.

  He was on one knee, his other bleeding profusely, his arm hanging loose at his side. His face was contorted in anguish. She slid another dagger free and kneed him in the chest, knocking him back against the cabinet, and then put the dagger to his throat.

  “You are not Kiranrao,” she said with disdain at the imposter. She knew what the real Kiranrao was capable of. “You are a drunk and a wretch, and you’ve been poisoned by monkshood, as you already know. I’ve stolen the cure and even if you managed to kill me, you will not find where I’ve hidden it. You will die, very soon, crumpled in pain and agony. If you wish to live, you will start answering my questions.”

  His eyes glittered with hatred, his mouth a snarl of enmity. “I’m bleeding to death.”

  “Hardly. The poison will probably kill you before that happens. You just won’t be able to walk very well. Sit down on the bed.” She grabbed him by the tunic front and shoved him on the bed. He gasped with pain as he collapsed.

  She waved the dagger at him. “How can you wear Kiranrao’s face? What magic gives the illusion?”

  He licked his lips. “I wear a Druidecht talisman,” he gasped. His face contorted and tears squeezed from his eyes. “The pain! Lass, it’ll kill me soon!”

  “Give me the talisman,” she ordered, holding out her hand.

  One of his arms was useless, but with the other, he reached up to his collar and she saw the cord she hadn’t noticed before. He fished it from his shirt and she recognized the design from the one her brother wore.

  “Take it off slowly.” Her voice was full of menace. She hefted the dagger, ready to throw it.

  His face contorted again and he began gasping.

  “I swear, I will kill you right now and take it from you,” she promised.

  “Have you ever tasted monkshood?” he said savagely. “Oh by the gods, it hurts! The cramping. I swear it, lass, you will die. I will kill you. I will—”

  “A postponement till morning is a postponement forever,” she interrupted. “Give it over!”

  He was reluctant. She could tell. But he could not see any other way and slid the talisman over his head. His entire body seemed to collapse upon itself, a grape shriveling into a raisin in moments. The illusion was gone. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a wiry Preachán. The only part of him that had not changed was the expression of absolute hate. She blinked in surprise at the complete metamorphosis. There was something familiar about him.

  “It’s you,” she whispered, realizing the deep truth finally. He was from Havenrook. He was one of Kiranrao’s closest men. He whipped the talisman around by the cord and it struck her on the side of the face. The metal bit hard, causing a rip of pain as her skin tore. The blow was so sudden and hard that she dropped her dagger. Suddenly he lunged at her, grabbing her shirtfront and pulling himself forward, his teeth widening to dig into her.

  Hettie managed to bring her arm up in time and his teeth sank into her flesh, biting hard enough to shear through her skin. Their bodies tangled and they fought, each as desperate as a savage alley cat. Though her arm was bleeding she would not cry out with pain. She kneed him in the groin twice, dug her thumb into his eye, and finally managed to twist herself free from his terrible grasp. Grabbing the hair at the base of his scalp, she smashed his face into the floor. Blood exploded from his nose, the blow dazing him. Hettie found her fallen knife nearby, grabbed it, and brought it up to plunge into his back.

  Only she did not.

  The Preachán lay gasping on the floor, his body convulsing. His face was smeared with his own blood and hers. Her arm hurt from the bite marks. Gritting her teeth, she stared down at him.

  “Kill me,” he begged. “Do it! The Bhikhu should have killed me. He should have killed me in Havenrook. I killed them all. The whole temple. Please…you must kill me.”

  Hettie stared at him with loathing and understanding. This was the Preachán that Paedrin had fought defending Erasmus’s house in Havenrook. A man whose arm was broken and blade claimed and then the spirit trapped inside was freed. The man who had come to Kenatos and poisoned the Bhikhu well with monkshood.

  The man’s eyes were full of desperation. “You are Romani,” he said, his voice quavering with agony. “Kill me, or the Arch-Rike will.”

  Hettie noticed the Preachán’s hand and saw the Kishion ring around his finger.

  “Close your eyes then,” Hettie ordered.

  The man complied, his breath heaving with pain. Hettie grabbed his wrist, and pulled it away from his chest, exposing his heart.

  “Answer my questions first and be quick. How does the talisman work?”

  “You must know the person you intend to mimic. You must know them very well.” He grunted with pain as the poison continued its terrible work. “A casual glimpse is not enough. You must know his voice, his mannerisms.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “The Arch-Rike. He wears one as well.” He started to moan. “Quickly, lass!”

  Hettie swallowed. “The Sword of Winds. Where is it?”

  “On the floor where you threw it.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Little. I know little. Oh, the pain, lass. The pain!”

  “Pity the Romani girls, not yourself. They live in fear of it. What of the sword?”

  “Even in the sheath, it is powerful. With it, I can fly like a Vaettir. Even better…than a Vaettir. Faster. It is very fast. It cannot be drawn though. Only the champion can draw it. Anyone else who tries will be blinded. The stone in the hilt stings the eyes.”

  “Is the blindness permanent?” Hettie asked.

  “No. The Bhikhu’s vision will return. It’s the Kishion test. To be the master here, one must wrestle the champion for the blade. No one can defeat the champion, though.”

  “Cruw Reon,” Hettie said. “He’s the champion. Where is he?”

  “No one knows,” the Preachán snarled. “No one dares to fight him. He’s the Arch-Rike’s champion. His bodyguard.”

  Hetti
e gasped. “The Quiet Kishion?”

  “Yes. He’s the master of the blade. He’s the only one who can draw it without being blinded. I’m going to die anyway! Just end it now! Give me the blade. I’ll do it myself. I don’t want him in my mind. I don’t want him spoiling me again. Please, girl! End it!”

  Hettie grasped the Preachán’s wrist, staring down at the iron ring on his finger. It was the same kind of ring that Paedrin had been forced to wear.

  “Hold still,” Hettie whispered.

  The trembling Preachán sucked in his breath. He held as still as he could, though his body trembled.

  With a quick stroke of the dagger, Hettie cut off his hand and tossed it beneath the bed.

  The Preachán screamed in pain, his eyes open and livid. His face was a mask of shock and despair. Hettie grabbed a nearby blanket and stuffed it against his stump. With some cord from her backpack, she tied a tourniquet around the wound and sliced away the excess fabric. He began sobbing in pain and despair.

  “Why won’t you kill me?” he groveled. “I murdered them all at the Bhikhu temple. Even the young. The Arch-Rike swore he could remove the memory of it. He could take away the guilt.”

  Hettie found the discarded talisman and slipped it around her neck. Then she went to where the sword lay and strapped it to her belt. She stared down at the quivering Preachán, his face ashen. She tugged the small leather pouch from the side of her boot and withdrew a fleck of desiccated leaf and held it above his tongue.

  “Just kill me,” he whimpered. “I beg of you. If not with a knife or sword, let the poison do it, at least! I would rather die than live.”

  Hettie crouched lower, staring into his eyes. “If I were a Romani still, I would oblige you. But as you can see, I no longer wear the earring. I am free and so are you. I am a Bhikhu now. We do not seek revenge, even for the worst wrongs. Pain is a teacher. Let this pain teach you. What is your name, Preachán?”

  His upper lip quivered. The hate seemed to leak from his eyes. “I am Janis-Stor. They call me Stor.”

  Hettie sheathed her dagger and placed the fleck of leaf on his tongue. “I spare your life, Janis-Stor. I will not kill you, though you are worthy of it. Go back to Havenrook and join your people. Fight the Arch-Rike’s dominion. There is a rope dangling from the balcony facing the sea. Use it to claim your own freedom.”

  “You think I can climb like this?” he said bitterly, his face twisting with the futility. “Or swim?”

  “You have a great strength of will,” she replied. “You are relentless. Use it now for a better cause than greed.” She touched the side of his face, trying to ignore the stinging pain in her own skin. “We seek to abolish the Plague. The Arch-Rike tries to thwart us. Through your failure here, you help us be successful. I pity you, Preachán. But I do not hate you.”

  His eyes closed and he started to sob.

  Hettie stood and left him crumpled in the corner, weeping. Wearing the Druidecht talisman around her neck, she began to imagine herself looking like Kiranrao.

  “I have heard that in moments of extreme terror and suspense, our minds can deliver to our aid a remedy for the situation if we have the courage not to flinch from it. Too often we are doomed to fail simply because we believe too quickly that we will.”

  —Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Erasmus was dead. It had happened so quickly that there was no time for Annon or Khiara to prevent it. Staring at the body of his fallen friend brought a swell of grief and a shattering earthquake of rage colliding inside Annon’s chest. The serpents converged on him and he unleashed the fireblood in a torrent of flame, sweeping his arms around in a circle to scorch the ground in every direction. The serpents recoiled from the brightness, but he saw immediately that their scales were not harmed by it, just as the lizard-like guardians in the mountain pass had not been affected either. The rage turned to sudden icy terror. The Arch-Rike had prepared his defenses.

  “Fly!” Annon shouted to Khiara.

  “I won’t leave you alone,” she argued. “The flames are useless, let me try my staff.” It was long and she swept it in against the serpents, striking at their flaring hoods and pin-prick fangs. The serpents struck at the staff, one latching onto it and slithering up the post. She brought it down hard, dislodging it.

  “Behind us!” Annon warned desperately.

  She pivoted the staff between her hands and swung it down in a sharp arc on the other side, crushing one of the serpents with the blow. Others hissed and struck at the staff again, coming closer to their boots. There were too many. They were too quick.

  “Fly!” Annon said, grabbing Khiara’s arm and shaking her.

  Her eyes looked desperately into his.

  “One of us needs to survive!” he pleaded. “One of us needs to warn the others.”

  He saw the determination in her eyes. With a quick motion, she struck another serpent with the butt of the staff, breaking its body. Then she inhaled and rose above Annon, but she gripped his hand with hers as she floated upward. He wondered if she would attempt to pull him up with her. It seemed impossible.

  Don’t move.

  It was only the whisper of a thought. Khiara hovered in the air, her eyes closed, her mouth whispering words in a language he did not understand. He felt power surging from her into his skin, healing his injured shoulder, infusing him with life and vitality. Her whispers echoed through the circular chamber, sounding behind his eyelids, down to his very toes. The connection of her fingers against his was full of energy.

  Don’t move.

  Annon saw the serpents gather at his feet, hoods flaring. He saw the little forked tongues and felt pure revulsion and fear threaten to unman him. He shut his eyes, unable to bear the suspense, wondering if the keramat that Khiara was performing would save him from the fangs and the poison. He waited to feel the needle-like fangs pierce his legs. He tamed the fireblood, knowing it was useless. There was no defense against such an attack.

  A serpent slithered across the top of his boots. He wanted to shudder, but he willed himself still. Clenching his jaw, he dared not even breathe. He waited for the jolts of pain.

  “Annon,” Khiara whispered.

  He would not speak. His jaw hurt from the pressure of his grinding teeth. Moments passed in silence. Another serpent slithered across his feet, one brushing against his ankle. He felt them continuously, snouts butting against his boots, prodding. He sank deep into himself, preserving the air in his lungs. His heart began to slow.

  “They aren’t striking,” Khiara whispered. “They are searching for something. Searching for us. Annon, they cannot see us.”

  Annon opened his eyes. He almost wished he hadn’t. There were probably a hundred or more. The floor of the room was a twisting, writhing mass.

  Nizeera? Annon beckoned with his mind.

  I am behind you, atop a tomb. They cannot strike me here. I am still.

  Growl, Nizeera. Let them hear you. Tell me if they react to your noise.

  He heard the low growl in her throat coming from behind him. The growl increased and then became a high-pitched shriek of anger. Annon stared at the twisting serpents, trying to see if any responded to it, but they did not. They were slithering randomly now, each serpent going its own way, prodding at the stones, tasting the air with their split tongues.

  “They cannot hear us,” Annon whispered. “For some reason, they cannot hear us.” It was unnerving, feeling them glide around his body as if he were nothing but one of the stone columns in the room. “Nizeera, are you moving or still?”

  “She is still as a stone,” Khiara replied, still floating above Annon’s head. Her body swayed slightly, up and down, as if she were floating in a pond. “Nizeera—move and see if they see you.”

  The serpents began to converge, darting around him and gliding purposefully to the object behind Annon. He did not turn his head to see, but he saw that the serpents were responding to something.

  “They see her,” Khiara said sof
tly. “Nizeera, stop.”

  “What is happening?” Annon asked, feeling sweat trickle down his neck.

  “She stopped pacing. The serpents are…their heads are coming back down. They are tall enough to strike her when roused. They are searching again. Movement, Annon. They respond to movement, not sound.”

  “Test it again,” Annon said. “Nizeera—growl again but do not move.”

  She growled from behind, the sound a threatening and menacing one.

  “No change,” Khiara said. “They cannot hear us.”

  “Or see us only so long as we do not move,” Annon reminded her. “It forestalls our death but does not eliminate the risk. I can’t remain standing here forever. I see a bier on my left…how far is it away?”

  “There are snakes between you and it, many of them,” Khiara replied. “They are everywhere and they are quite tall when roused. I don’t think it would protect you. There is the broken sarcophagus over there, though. That one might if you could make it inside. Where were they hiding before?”

  In the walls, Nizeera thought with a low growl. I could sense them but not understand what it was. They began to enter soon after the Rike perished.

  Annon thought a moment. “Nizeera says they were hiding in the walls. Obviously there are other chambers here. They must be fed somehow. Something keeps them at bay—” The thought bloomed in his mind, the distinct memory. “Of course! The Rike wearing the torc! He was the leader, I think. The torc repels creatures. It kept Nizeera from attacking him. It keeps all creatures at bay.” A surge of hope and joy sprung into his senses, causing a thrilling wave. “Yes! I remember hearing Tyrus talk about the creatures of the Scourgelands. They are terrible to face, quite vicious. That torc repels them. This allows the Arch-Rike or whoever he sends to enter the Scourgelands unharmed. It also keeps the serpents from entering the room. Once he died, its power failed—”

  “The serpents were no longer barred from coming in,” Khiara finished. “He said we were going to die. He knew the snakes would come and bite us.”