by Jeff Wheeler
Lukias struck the man in the stomach with his fist and then squeezed his inner arm with his fingers, making him yelp with pain. Khiara brought her staff around, dropping the second man before he could move. The third reached for a cylinder in his robes and found Nizeera’s jaws clamped down on his wrist. Then Khiara struck him in the skull as well and he fell to the floor.
Lukias shoved the Rike he had captured into the door. “How many came from Kenatos?” he hissed angrily.
“You traitor!” the other Rike snarled, his eyes livid.
He struggled for a moment, but Lukias slammed him again. “Answer me, or you’ll wish you had.”
“There were fifty, fool. Do you think the Arch-Rike will let you live after this, Lukias? You are the world’s greatest fool.”
Lukias kneed him in the groin and the man collapsed in a whimpering mass on the floor. He brushed his hands and yanked open the door, waving them to join him.
Annon stared at the hateful eyes of the Rike on the floor as he passed him.
They are coming, Nizeera warned. Running.
“Quickly,” Annon said, shutting the door behind them. He glanced around the room. It was not very large. A few stone benches were set against the walls. On the far side was a black onyx platform with silver runes carved into it. It was wide enough for five or so across, no more. In the center of the onyx floor hung a black iron lantern, fixed from a rung in the ceiling on an enormous heavy chain. There were no glass slats on the lantern, only immense stays. In the center of the lantern was a brass cylinder, not unlike the one Annon had seen Tyrus use. It was fastened into the lantern, suspended in the middle. Only by reaching through the slats could people grab it. Annon realized that it also prevented anyone from stealing it.
“It is a Tay al-Ard,” Lukias said, approaching it swiftly. “Only five or six can surround it at a time. Join me on the stone.” He stepped onto the onyx platform and crossed to the center. Khiara glanced at Annon and he nodded and followed himself. Nizeera stared at the door and a low growl sounded from her.
“Nizeera,” Annon beckoned. He strode to the suspended lantern.
“You think about a place you have been,” Lukias said. “As long as you have been there personally, it will take you there. You lead us, Annon. Where do we go?”
Annon looked at Khiara. “Silvandom?”
Lukias shook his head before Khiara did. “The Arch-Rike has been there, remember? You want to go to a place where he cannot immediately follow us. A place of safety. Quickly, Annon. Decide.” He glanced at the door.
Annon reached through the bars and grasped the cylinder. It was scalding hot and he jerked his hand away, banging his fingers on the bars.
“Hot!” he said in amazement.
“No,” Lukias said. “Cold. But your body reacts as if it were heat.” He looked at the door again, his expression quickening to a look of panic. “A Tay al-Ard needs time to rest between uses. If the Arch-Rike brought fifty through here, it is well spent.”
“How long must it rest?” Annon asked.
“We don’t have time,” Lukias said. “Abide the pain. We must leave!”
Annon stared at the cylinder. He had never been burned before. He was not familiar with the sensation. His palm tingled where he had touched it.
“Do this, Annon,” Khiara said, her eyes full of trust. She put her arm on his. Lukias did the same.
The sound of boots echoing down the corridor grew louder. From behind the door, they heard the muffled cries of the Rike they had sprawled on the ground. “In there! Quickly! They are inside!”
Annon stared at the Tay al-Ard. He reached through the bars again, his arm heavy with the added weight of their hands. Nizeera pressed against his leg and he gripped the skin above her neck with his other hand.
Closing his eyes, he clenched the cylinder, experiencing the freezing burn of the Tay al-Ard explode up his arm and thought of a place of safety. A place he longed for more than anywhere else.
He thought of Neodesha’s tree.
The door shuddered open on its hinges as the world lurched and began to spin.
“Hear the other side. What is usually lacking, when there is trouble, is the lack of listening. So quick we are to rush to judgment. We would do well to listen more. There would be far fewer disputes.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The look of alarm and misery on the Dryad’s face wrung Phae’s heart. She rushed to the other girl, clutching her arms. “What is it? What do you see?”
The other girl’s eyes were wide with terror. “I cannot see it. It is what I feel. Memories flitting through the aether, summoned here because of the bond we share.” She gripped Phae’s forearms with surprising strength for one so slight. “He may die! Annon, be still. Be very still.” The girl shrank against the trunk of the oak, huddling small, like an acorn. Phae lowered with her, still holding the girl as if she were one of Dame Winemiller’s orphans.
“Who is it?” Phae asked, stroking her shoulder.
The girl shuddered as the memories assailed her. “A moment. There is danger. So much danger. If he dies, I will know it. Our bond will be severed.” She put her face in her hands and wept softly.
Phae hugged her, nestling against the bark of the tree, feeling wave after wave of emotion passing from the Dryad. She was quiet herself, just being there to comfort the girl—her sister in some strange way. The wind rustled through the trees, bringing the smell of soot and forest. They hugged each other, sharing the lack of words, the surging feelings. In time, the Dryad’s panic began to ebb.
“Thank you.” The girl patted Phae’s arm. “Normally I am the one who comforts. The threat is still there, but I do not sense the same fear. He has survived the danger for now.”
Phae bit her lip. “It must be awful to feel such premonitions but be unable to help.”
The girl shook her head. “I can help, in a small way. If he is calm in his heart, my thoughts can reach his mind. The talisman he wears aids in this. The Druidecht have always been our fiercest guardians. We need them, you see. They are the way we can be free of our duty.”
Their voices were soft, nearly whispers. “He can free you by marrying him, is that how it is?” Phae asked solemnly, eyes downcast with embarrassment.
The girl smiled. “It is not as you probably fear. Annon saved my tree when the Boeotians came to hack it down. His friend perished, right over there. He could have fled. We share a special bond. I’m not sure it has grown yet into love.” Dimples appeared within a timid smile.
“How old are you?”
The Dryad looked at her as if she had asked a strange question. “Age means nothing to me anymore. How many leaves are in a forest? Does it matter? Why bother counting them?”
Phae shook her head. “Is it…miserable at times, being Dryad-born? Are you very lonely here in the woods?”
The girl straightened, her look turning to amusement. “You misunderstand a great deal. I guard this portal. I control access to who may pass and who may not. I protect memories. But I do not live here. My home is Mirrowen. When someone approaches my tree, I sense their presence. To me, a year passes quickly, like a moment. A man may age and die in a single day. I am never lonely. There are my sisters, of course, to keep me company. And there are others who have earned the right to live in Mirrowen. And then there is the Seneschal.” She lowered her voice reverently.
“What is that?” Phae asked, leaning forward.
“The Seneschal is a title—it is an ancient title. It means the oldest servant. He holds the Voided Keys. He is the one you must see if you are to accept your powers. He is the one who will perform your oath. He will bind you to your tree with a Key.” The Dryad reached out and gently brushed a lock of Phae’s hair away from her face.
“Does the Seneschal have a name?”
The girl nodded. “He will tell it to you. I cannot speak it.” She sat straighter, looking worriedly into Phae’s eyes. “So you are the one who was chosen? You wo
uld enter the vast Scourgelands and seek our fallen sisters? You must awaken them to the oaths they made. We do not speak of what happened. Only the Seneschal remembers it and he does not say. It is a great sadness, I think. The younger ones, like myself, have asked. The knowledge is lost to all of us.”
Phae nodded slowly. She felt so comfortable with the Dryad. “What can you teach me? I know so little about us.”
“I should fetch your mother. It is proper that she should teach you.”
“I would like to see her,” Phae said, her heart swelling with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes.
“Then I will seek her. I will be gone but a moment.”
Phae blinked and the girl was gone. Startled, she stared at the spot where the Dryad had been. Slowly, Phae stood, trying to quell the sudden tremor that started in her knees. She longed to see her mother. A burning ache began to swell inside her heart. Phae grazed the bark with her fingers, staring down at the fallen leaves, waxy acorns, and stubble. Another breeze stirred the air, sounding like a sigh. Phae shivered.
The Dryad girl reappeared around the side of the oak, her face downcast.
A stab of pain struck Phae’s heart. “She did not come?”
The girl shook her head slowly. “She cannot leave her tree, even for a moment. It is dying, Phae. The air and pollution of Kenatos is choking its life. Her presence is the only thing helping it survive. She must stay to preserve your father’s memories. If she leaves, even for a moment, the tree will die and she will be banished from this world.” With a look of sorrow, the girl approached and gave Phae a hug. “She bid me embrace you. And she charged me to instruct you in her stead.” She kissed Phae on the top of her head. “She loves you, sister. More than I can express.”
Tears spilled from Phae’s eyes, and she caught them on the edge of her sleeve. “I wish I could go to her,” she whispered mournfully. “I told my father to take me to Kenatos.”
The Dryad shook her head vehemently. “There you must not go. The air is sick. I could smell it in her bark. Her tree is just a husk now. There are so few leaves and only a few sprigs of mistletoe left. She clings to its life, to preserve the connection with your father. To give him the wisdom he needs to fulfill the task.”
Phae bit her lip, nodding. “It is my task now as well. Tell me what I need to know.”
The two girls held hands and lowered back to the base of the oak. “It may sound strange to you, but I will do my best to describe our world. You should have been taught this as a child. If you had, it would have been easier to believe. You must trust me. Things may seem strange to you at first. Do not let your natural doubts crowd out the truth of what I say. All right?”
Sighing deeply, Phae nodded, clinging to the girl’s warm hands.
“Let me teach you first of Mirrowen. It is the gateway to the lands beyond the reach of death. There is no death in Mirrowen. It does not exist there. How can I describe it? It is like a kingdom…no, that is not the right word. It is like a manor house only more beautiful than any king could construct. There are no bastions or walls or gates. There are gardens and bridges and waterfalls. There is no night. Every tree produces the most precious fruit. The flowers and plants are beautifully tended by the Seneschal. There are other servants, of course. But…that is not what they really are. Many are Dryad-born, like us. Some are spirit creatures who serve the Seneschal because they choose to do so.”
“What is he like?” Phae asked.
The girl bit her lip, her expression pinching in thought. “He is very tall. He looks similar to a Vaettir, except his hair is not black but a dark brown. He is ageless, eternally young. He is wise. So very, very wise. When you speak with him, you learn something new every time. He is patient. Mostly though, he is meek. Do you know anyone who is meek?”
Phae’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure I even know that word. It is not a common trait in Stonehollow, I think.”
The girl laughed softly. “No, it is not common in this world at all. It is difficult to describe. He does not anger quickly. But when he does, when he is disappointed, you feel it in your bones. He is patient though. You gain patience tending gardens.”
“So the Seneschal is a gardener then?” Phae asked, shrugging.
The Dryad smiled knowingly. “In a way. You see, the garden he tends is very precious. There is a tree. The fruit of that tree is what makes us immortal. He decides who can pluck a fruit from the tree.”
Phae’s eyes widened.
“Don’t let your doubt cover your eyes,” the girl said. “What I say is true. I have partaken of that fruit. It is…bitter. So very bitter. But it changes you. When you eat it, your body no longer ages. That allows you to dwell in Mirrowen and this world. In order to earn a piece of that fruit, you must perform an oath in front of the Seneschal and accept the responsibility of preserving the portal and the tree’s memories. The responsibility passes from mother to daughter. A Dryad can never bear a son. When you have found a man you deem worthy, you can make him your husband. You fashion a bracelet around your ankle as a token of that vow. It ends with the man’s death. When you have a child, you train her to make the oath and take your place. As I said before, time is not the same to me as it is to you. Kingdoms come and go. I was here before the Vaettir arrived. I am ready, I think, to pass on my knowledge to a daughter.”
Phae’s heart was swarming with conflicting feelings. What she heard sounded preposterous in some ways. But she did not speak her doubts openly and stared at the Dryad. She patted the girl’s hand, thinking of a thousand questions.
“Why is the fruit bitter?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“I know I can steal memories. I have that power now. How do I embed them into a tree?”
The girl smiled. “When you make the oath, the Seneschal will kiss your forehead. When he does, your memory will be perfect only so long as the tree lives. Your responsibility to guard and care for it isn’t permanent. When you pass on the duty to your daughter, you will not be able to take all those memories with you. The burden will pass to another.”
Phae’s brow wrinkled. “And I will have the power to restore someone else’s memories? You said that you could do it with a Dryad’s kiss, but it is—”
“It can be loathsome, yes. If a man has saved your tree from destruction, you owe him a boon. It is a debt that must be fulfilled. If he lingers for one day, you must appear to him. If he looks at you, then you can steal his memories and he will forget the debt and leave. If he does not look at you, then you must give him your true name. That is the name that the Seneschal gives you. With it, the man can force you to obey him. That is why we try to trick the man into looking at us and make him forget. A man with that power over us can prevent us from fulfilling our duty. It would prevent us from returning to Mirrowen.” She shuddered. “That is why the Druidecht guard this lore so carefully, to prevent the young ones from taking advantage of us. Wisdom comes with age not with youth. If you give the man your name, you may give him a Dryad’s kiss, which allows him to bond with you and gain access to your thoughts as well as your perfect memory. If he dies, the connection ends. If the tree is destroyed, it is also severed.
She squeezed Phae’s arm sadly. “This is why Tyrus of Kenatos seeks you to enter the Scourgelands. There are Dryads there who are bound to this world and no longer visit Mirrowen. Their trees are ancient, as old as the world when it began. They are cut off from Mirrowen now and are poisoned with hate. They will not speak with us. If you can find the mother tree, the one who controls all the others in the forest, you can enter Mirrowen there and seek the fallen Dryad and remove her burden. That would give you the knowledge Tyrus seeks. No doubt she contains many secrets and many mysteries.”
Phae felt a surge of alarm. “But what if she does not relinquish it? What if she refuses? Does she have that choice?”
The Dryad nodded. “She must willingly give it to you. She may well be mad by now.” She cupped Phae’s cheek. “There is great risk in this
journey. The Scourgelands are guarded by evil spirits that act as sentinels to keep away the living. They will try to kill you, even though you are Dryad-born.”
Sighing in despair, Phae wiped her face, her emotions churning. The possibility of success was even more remote than she believed. They would have to fight their way deep into the Scourgelands, surrounded on all sides by enemies seeking her death. How would they even find that mother tree? Would they have to search every tree in the forest? How long would that take?
“You are despairing,” the girl said softly. “I feel it in you.”
“This quest feels impossible,” Phae murmured.
She shook her head. “No, sister. When Tyrus ventured into the Scourgelands last time, it was impossible. Despite his failure, he gained the key he needed. Through patience and cunning, he has arranged for you to succeed where he failed. It will be difficult. It will be the most difficult thing you ever do.”
Phae bit her lip. “I wish I could have met my mother.” She sighed again, feeling the tears sting her eyes.
“You will,” the Dryad promised, tears glistening on her lashes. “When her charge is complete, when her tree finally succumbs to death, as all trees must eventually, she will be free to join you in Mirrowen. She has earned her place there.”
Smiling, Phae reached out and hugged the other girl. It was a mote of hope. A tiny little speck. But it was something.
“Could I enter Mirrowen from your tree?” Phae asked, staring at the bark, wincing at the damage done to it by a vicious axe.
“No, not yet,” the Dryad replied. “Only those oath-bound may enter Mirrowen through a Dryad tree. You are not oath-bound yet.” She clasped Phae’s hand between hers. “I sense in you that your power is fully ripe. You are sixteen, or will be soon. If you do not take the oath by that time, you will not be able to enter Mirrowen at all. You must choose this life or abandon it forever. It must be your choice, freely made.”
