by Jeff Wheeler
“It is strange to watch,” Paedrin agreed. “But I know why it is.”
“You do?”
He nodded vigorously. “He expects to die in the Scourgelands. He is preparing himself for it. He is preparing her for it. He will make no emotional attachments until the Plagues are banished forever. He is simple that way.”
“Do you think we will survive this quest?”
“I plan to.”
“I’m trying to be serious, Paedrin.”
“What odds do you think Erasmus would give us? I miss that strange bird. Of all the Preachán I’ve known, I will miss him the most. I am sure he would have offered a prediction by now. It would have been wrong.”
She butted him with her elbow. “I said be serious.”
“Whatever for?” he asked. “This is about as hopeless a situation as one can be in. I may as well find some humor if I can.”
Their banter was interrupted by Kiranrao marching toward them, his face a mask of anger.
“I hate that man,” Paedrin said softly, his eyes narrowing.
“Shhh,” Hettie warned.
The Romani reached them, his expression curling into a sneer seeing them so close to each other. He felt Hettie ease away from him, just slightly enough that it caused a prickle of resentment.
“Come, Finder,” Kiranrao said, looking down at Hettie. “I would speak with you.”
“Is she yours to command?” Paedrin said in a warning tone.
He saw Hettie tense, but he did not care. He looked up at the man, feeling the magic seeping from the blade at his waist. The Iddawc was no longer seeking someone to master it. It had found someone it could master.
“I do not wish to waste many words arguing with you, Bhikhu,” Kiranrao said in a flat voice. “Tyrus promised her asylum in Silvandom in return for aiding in his quest. When the dawn chases away the shadows, it will chase away any hope of that safe hold. We are renegades, all of us. But while the Arch-Rike insists that no one will shelter us, I can assure you that we Romani will shelter each other. Come, girl.”
Paedrin felt Hettie start to rise and he grabbed her arm. “You do not have to go with him.”
She looked in Paedrin’s eyes and he saw the conflicting loyalties. “I know I don’t,” she said, cupping his cheek with her hand. But she stood anyway.
Kiranrao smirked with satisfaction. The look he gave Paedrin was full of enmity. “Come, girl. The stars make no noise.”
Paedrin watched them walk off together, his heart turning blacker with each step they took.
“Must you provoke him?” Hettie sighed wearily.
Kiranrao glanced at her. “Yes.”
She sighed again. “What do you want?”
“To understand your loyalties. You are Romani.”
“I am a Bhikhu now. You got the blade you wanted. You used me to get it. Our bargain is complete. I owe you nothing.”
He looked at her approvingly. “I like a girl with fire in her blood.”
“You already have a vial of it with you. The price was paid, Kiranrao.”
He shook his head slowly. “There is always a debt, girl. You know that. Your talents are wasted as a Bhikhu. You will grow bored of it eventually. And I am patient. I wanted to speak with you because I have a sense that Tyrus is going to fail again.”
She stiffened and cursed herself for the involuntary reaction.
“You sense it too, good.”
Hettie shook her head. “You mistook me.”
“No, girl. I did not. You think like a Romani still. You sniff out the weakness. The Druidecht is weak. The Shaliah is weak. The Dryad-born is weak. Even your Bhikhu is weak. Only the strong will survive the Scourgelands. Only the most ruthless. That is how Tyrus survived last time. It is how I intend to survive.”
Hettie snorted. “You will abandon him already?”
He shook his head. “The dice are cast but they are still rolling. They will settle soon. Very soon. When they do, we must be prepared to flee. Do you know how to work his magic? The one that makes him come and go? I want you to steal it from him.”
She stared at him. “You think he might not notice it missing?”
“Don’t be a fool, Hettie. When his plan crumbles to dust, you will steal it. And we will flee together. Just the two of us. Remember that. The Sword of Winds you carry…it will help us to escape. So will my blade.”
She bit her lip. “But if we succeed?”
A crooked smile twisted on his mouth. “Then the Arch-Rike of Kenatos is a dead man.”
Trasen plodded up the road listlessly, seeing the home at the end of the rise amidst the grape trellises and the fluttering green leaves. His journey was now at an end. As he saw the trellises, there was a nagging, empty feeling in his mind. A memory about greeting someone amidst them, yet he could not recall when it had happened or who he had seen. There was something just beyond his reach, a recollection that teased and hinted. The sandy dirt was familiar. The looming barn was familiar. Just seeing the vineyard brought back a flood of pleasant memories that warmed his heart, but something was missing. He stared at it, feeling some jagged, gaping hole in his soul.
It was dark and only a thin bit of light came from the home. The barn looked abandoned. He shook his head, feeling uncomfortable and a little nauseous. As he reached the porch, he knocked firmly. He would have expected to hear laughter ringing out from the house. Why was it so silent? It was too early for the family to go up to the cabin, for the grapes had not been harvested yet. No one could leave until after the harvest and the trampling of the grapes. He could not wait to tell them all about his adventures, how he had gotten lost in the woods in Silvandom and finally directed back to Stonehollow by some fellow travelers.
Trasen massaged his cheeks and felt the rough, bristling whiskers. He needed a bath and a shave. His clothes were fit to be burned. So many empty pockets in his memory. So many things he could not recall. He must have hit his head while lost. That must be it.
“Is that you, Trasen?”
Trasen whirled and saw Uncle Carlsruhe come from around the house, axe in one hand as if expecting an enemy. The man was strong and rugged, with streaks of silver in his mustache and hair. He was Dame Winemiller’s younger brother.
“Uncle?” Trasen asked, perplexed. “Where is everyone? Why are you here?”
Carlsruhe approached him warily, his face beginning to grimace. “Where is she, lad? Devin and Tate said you’d gone after her.”
“Who?” Trasen asked, his mind turning into gnats that flittered every direction at once.
“Where is Phae?” Carlsruhe demanded. “You said you wouldn’t come back without her.”
Trasen stared at him, completely befuddled. There was a panicky feeling in his stomach, as if he should know the name. But he did not. “Who are you talking about, Uncle?” He could not explain it, but that nervous feeling felt as if it were covering a painful, sleeping wound.
He had never heard that name in his life.
Phae sat right at the edge of the fire, rubbing the warmth into her arms. She watched Annon play with the flames and her heart grieved for him. His face was sunken, bereft, his eyes haunted.
“I know a little of how you feel,” she said tenderly, almost shyly.
Annon glanced up at her, blinking as though he had awoken from a dream. “Do you?” he replied but not unkindly.
“Not long ago, I was staying at the Winemillers in Stonehollow. It’s an orphanage, you see. It was my home. My best friend was a young man named Trasen.”
“The one the Arch-Rike threatened you with,” Annon said softly.
She nodded. “Trasen doesn’t remember me anymore. I stole his memories.” She gazed down at the fire, her heart aching with the loss. “It was grown so subtly, I did not understand how I truly felt about him until after I stole his memories away. It was on a night, not long ago, that I wept as you did. Shion comforted me, strangely.” She glanced over at him, watching him conferring in low tones with Tyrus and Prince A
ran, the three men standing nearby.
Annon drew a quavering breath. “Even though you have the power to take away memories, Phae, I do not wish it. I’ve heard Dryads are immortal. Perhaps the blast did not kill them.”
Phae nodded hopefully. “I would like to meet her someday. My mother, that is. I did meet the Dryad of your tree. She was very helpful. She gave me what I needed most—the knowledge of how to become like her. If I can cross into Mirrowen, Annon, I will see if they are there. After hearing about Mirrowen, I would like to see it for myself. It gives me something…to look forward to. Crossing the Scourgelands will be difficult. As long as there is something to hope for, I think I can bear it.”
“You are the key to solving the riddle,” Annon said, reaching out and putting his hand on hers. “The fate of us all is in your hands.”
Phae felt a thrill at his words, but also a sense of great responsibility and helplessness. “I am the weakest among you. I have the fireblood too, but I don’t want to use it. You are a Druidecht with great power. Everyone is going to be so much more useful along the way. But I will do what little part I can.” She swiped a strand of hair behind her ear. “If the worst sacrifice I must make is being trapped in a tree in the Scourgelands that no one can visit…I suppose that will be my sacrifice.”
He shook his head. “Every forest must be reborn eventually.” He sighed deeply. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Phae sighed and then cocked her head as Shion approached them. He sat down next to her. She noticed the look Annon gave him.
“What is it?” Phae asked the Druidecht.
“I’m sorry, but you look so different now.” Annon leaned forward, gazing at Shion. “When we first met, in a grove of trees outside the Alkire, he tried to kill us all. I see the face, see the same scars, but it is a different countenance now. You were in chains before. I see that now you are free. How did it happen?”
“I can tell you that story,” Phae said, looking over at Shion and smiling at him. “It is a scary story, Annon. I must warn you.”
“I should like to hear it,” Annon said.
“Before I tell it, there is something else you should hear first. Shion?” She held out her hand.
Her protector reached into his pocket and withdrew the golden locket. The firelight glimmered off its polished edge as he dangled it in front of him. A harmless piece of Paracelsus magic. Harmless, perhaps, but it was the magic that had begun to unravel the coils binding him to the Arch-Rike’s service. He handed it to her.
Annon stared at it with great curiosity. Phae held the locket between her fingers, feeling the warmth of the metal. The shock of the dead Druidecht in Canton Vaud flashed inside her mind. The air was full of misery and suffering. Slowly, she opened the locket.
The haunting melody began to drift in the air. Almost in unison, all eyes turned to Phae, drawn in by the spell of the mourning anthem that somehow, in that moment, captured how each of them was feeling.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
One of the causes (or consequences) of being a history major in college is an innate curiosity of how traditions come to be. As I studied ancient and medieval history, the more I learned about an era, the more I came to realize how insufficient the historical records are at divulging all the nuances of the past. Historical witnesses often contradict each other, obscuring the trail of what really happened. Truths we cling to as historical facts start to squeal like rusty hinges as you open the doors of the past. There is so much we do not know about the world we live in. Even looking back five hundred years is seeing through a glass darkly.
The loss of memory (history) is one of the themes of Dryad-Born. I’m sure by now you realize that while Possidius Adeodat is an interesting historian, he is clueless about the depths of the Arch-Rike’s machinations and often attributes the wrong motives to the people he is writing about. You have to take his biases into account as you read his words. So it is with history. We often take at face value a truth we have learned from someone else, but when we dig a little deeper, our understanding changes.
I have always been fascinated by the lore of Dryads, which come from Greek mythology, and based the Mirrowen series on a new interpretation of them. As always, I weave together elements to try to breathe new life into an older idea. Dryads in history are always associated with oak trees, for example. Mistletoe grows on oak trees as well. In many parts of the world, it is a tradition for couples to kiss under a sprig of mistletoe during Christmas holidays. Hence, the creation of the Dryad’s Kiss ties together several traditions and ideas into something new and a possible origin of how the tradition came to be.
I apologize again for another cliffhanger ending. As I’ve said before, I tend to tell stories in a three-book arc. All will be revealed in book three. One of my all-time favorite reactions to the ending of Fireblood came from a friend of mine in Rocklin. I got several distraught texts from him while I was traveling across Nevada because of how things ended with Tyrus. He was especially upset because he has a hard time remembering plot points after finishing a book and waiting for the next would cause him to forget everything. He consoled himself with this concluding line, which cracked me up: Perhaps I’ll go around kissing trees in hopes of improving my memory.
Until we meet again in Book 3.
GLOSSARY
Aeduan: A race from the southern kingdoms of Wayland and Stonehollow. They are primarily fair-skinned with dominant and recessive traits for hair color, eye color, and complexion. Many consider the Aeduan as mongrels because of the variety of their physical characteristics (hair color, eye color, skin tone). However, they have proven to be very adaptable and most resilient to the Plague. The Aeduan were the principal founders of Kenatos.
Boeotian: A race of tribes from the northern territories known as Boeotia. They have no central government, though purportedly revere an individual known as the Empress. They are nomads with no permanent cities and live off the land. They are strong and typically have brown or black hair and are prone to fight amongst themselves, pitting tribe against tribe. Their skin is heavily veined and tattooed, giving them an almost purple cast. They have sworn to destroy the city of Kenatos and occasionally unify for the purpose of attacking the island kingdom. Silvandom is the primary defense against Boeotia, for they have conflicting ideologies.
Bhikhu: A class primarily found in Silvandom and Kenatos. These are highly trained warriors that specialize in all forms of armed and unarmed combat and are trusted to preserve the peace and dispense justice. They cannot own treasure or items of value and treat life with the greatest respect. They are often mistaken as being cruel for they will punish and deliberately injure as a way of teaching their morality of painful consequences. The Bhikhu are typically orphans and nobility who have abandoned worldly wealth.
Canton Vaud: The seat of the Druidecht hierarchy, known as the Thirteen. These are the wisest of the Druidecht and they travel throughout the kingdoms to solve social and political problems and to represent nature in disputes over land. When one of the Thirteen dies, the remaining vote to replace that person from a promising Druidecht who will join Canton Vaud and travel to kingdoms solving problems.
Carnotha: A small marked coin denoting the rank of thief. Showing it to another ensures cooperation in an activity as well as access to information and illegal items. There are purportedly only five hundred such coins in existence and so in order to acquire a carnotha, one must steal it from another thief. They are carefully safeguarded and hidden from authorities. There is one carnotha that identifies the location of all the others and can determine whether one is a fake. The bearer of this one is known as the master thief.
Chin-Na: A lesser-known class found in Silvandom and only taught amongst the Vaettir and usually only to nobility. In addition to the martial aspects of the Bhikhu, the Chin-Na train their bodies to exist on very little air and have learned to harden their bodies and focus their internal energy to the point where even weapons cannot pierce their skin. As such, they do not
float but their attacks are so focused and powerful that they can strike down an enemy with a single blow that damages internal organs. Only the most trusted and dedicated to Vaettir ideals are allowed to learn the secrets of the Chin-Na.
Cruithne: A race from the eastern mountains of Alkire. They have grayish-black skin, ranging in tones, with hair varied from pale blond to coarse gray. They are easily the largest of men, in terms of weight, not size, but not slow or ponderous. The Cruithne are known for their inquisitiveness and deep understanding of natural laws and spirit laws. They founded the Paracelsus order in their ancient homeland and transferred its knowledge to Kenatos.
Druidecht: A class found in every kingdom except Kenatos. Those in Kenatos consider them superstitious pagans, though harmless. The knowledge of the Druidecht is only transmitted verbally from mentor to disciple. It teaches that the world coexists with a spirit realm known as Mirrowen and that the spirits of that realm can be communed with and enlisted for help. A Druidecht cannot heal innately, but it can enlist a spirit creature that can. When a disciple has memorized the unwritten lore and demonstrated sufficient harmony with nature and Mirrowen, he or she will be presented with a talisman that will enable them to hear the thoughts of spirit creatures and to be able to communicate back. The variety of spirit creatures is diverse and so Druidecht often only stay in one place for a few years and then move to another place to learn about the denizens there. The Druidecht are the only outsiders trusted by the Boeotians to enter their lands unharmed.
Fear Liath: A spirit creature of great power known to inhabit high mountain country. Their presence causes fog and fear to disorient and terrify their prey. There are no recorded descriptions of a Fear Liath. They cannot tolerate sunlight.
Finder: A class found in nearly every kingdom, trained to search for lost items or people. They can track prints, discern clues, and are often hired as bounty hunters or guides. Finders trained in the city usually do not associate with those trained in the wild.
