by Jeff Wheeler
Her heart spasmed with sadness, seeing the desperate look in his eyes. “Please!” he begged her, imploring her to abandon him to the madness. To save herself as he could not do.
Tears stung Hettie’s eyes. He had always been so hard, so implacable. But she saw at the end that he had been preparing himself for the moment. That he had truly come to the Scourgelands to die and save her and Annon if he could. He wanted to repay the debt owed to Merinda. Hettie rarely wept. She experienced a surge of forgiveness so powerful that she nearly started sobbing. Through the hard shell of his emotions, she saw him as he truly was and she pitied his loneliness, his solitary life, his determination to sacrifice all to save the world.
Abandoning him was the hardest thing she had experienced. She hurried onto the rocky edge, clambering swiftly to find handholds and footholds. One of the beasts snagged her boot, but she kicked free of it and clawed her way higher, leaving the Weir down below to surround Tyrus on all sides. He was hunched in pain, his arms crooked as they spread out, unleashing flames.
The rocks scratched her fingers as she pulled herself higher, fighting off exhaustion and despair. The smoke from the fires made a haze that was difficult to penetrate. Before long, she lost sight of Tyrus below and the darting shadows that converged on him. A few drops of rain pattered on her head. Thunder boomed right overhead, splitting the air with its deep coughs. She struggled to find footing, maneuvering up a cracked lip that made her muscles ache and wither. There was no Paedrin to catch her if she fell this time. No rope or harness to secure her to the knobs and crags. Painfully, span by span, she climbed toward the crest of the promontory, listening to the barks and snarls below.
A wave of heat and light rushed from below, blinding her. She pressed herself against the rocks, scraping her cheek against a spur of jagged stone. The fire was white-hot in intensity, exploding in a pillar of devastation that scorched the ground all around. The wall of flames was almost as high as she had climbed and it made her reel at the power he had delved into to unleash such an inferno. The light made her shadow against the cliff wall, and she hung her head, drenched with misery as she realized what he had done. He had sacrificed his own mind and his life to save her, a poor Romani girl who had never studied the Paracelsus tomes, had lived a life of thieving and deception since she had been stolen at birth. Of the two of them, she had deserved to die.
The flames roared and spread across the wasted land. But amidst the roar of the flames, she heard Tyrus’s mad laughter ringing out louder still.
Annon’s eyes felt as heavy as stones. He lay crumpled in the clotting mass of dried leaves and sharp twigs. His blood seeped from his body, spilling from the wounds and soaking the ground. His feet tingled with the loss of feeling. His fingertips experienced the same sensation. As a strange memory, he recalled the Rike Lukias speaking clinically of these sensations where Khiara had revived him back in Silvandom. What a curious memory to have in such a moment. He swallowed, experiencing the effort it took to complete. His vision began to swim, but he tried to focus his eyes. Was that music he heard? What strange memory had been unlocked in his mind? He lay prostrate, one arm flung out ahead of him. The burn of the arrow in his shoulder that had pierced him through was fading. The one in his stomach had wrenched when he had collapsed, ripping his skin wide open. He felt numbness now. Water—just a mouthful of water would have been worth a thousand ducats.
He tried to move his neck, to see the gnarled limbs of the great Dryad tree. He could not see Phae but thought he had spied her entering the gap in the trunk. That was good. A part of their quest had been fulfilled. With all the death and suffering he had experienced, he was ready to lay aside his grip on the mortal coils. He had hoped, secretly, that he might catch a glimpse of Mirrowen when Phae entered it. A glimpse was all he desired.
Shion backed up against the great tree, fighting off the soundless guardians robed in brown. Annon could do nothing more to help him. His strength was ebbing, draining from his body. It was close now. He could feel his consciousness wavering.
Paws crushed the twigs near him as the Weir approached. He let out his final breath and shut his eyes. He began counting his last heartbeats.
There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out the sounds and he felt himself slipping away. His final thought was not of his sister. It was not of Tyrus or Reeder or the many people he had encountered.
Neodesha, he thought.
He imagined he heard a whisper—far, far away. Annon.
Paedrin’s soul was wracked with sorrow and anger. Hettie was with Tyrus, abandoned without the Tay al-Ard. He desperately wanted to flee to her, to make sure she was safe. To be sure she had survived. But he could not leave Shion alone, not with so many enemies surrounding him. Not with Kiranrao and that wicked blade trying to kill him. Annon was sprawled on the turf, his eyes closed. It was another cause of grief. Was the Druidecht dead? It would haunt Paedrin for the rest of his life. Phae had vanished inside the tree, but would she emerge soon, needing to be taken to Poisonwell? If so, he had the ability to take her there. His memory could transport them to the spot he had visited earlier. He had to remain behind. He had to wait for her to return from the bowels of the tree. How long it would take, he had no idea.
Weir approached the tree, hissing and spitting but staying away from the three brown riders who sought to destroy Shion. Their gaze had no effect on him. Neither did their arrows. But he remembered how exceptionally strong the riders were and knew that eventually, the three would bear him down and subdue him. He could not win the fight. He could only delay the inevitable conclusion.
Unless Paedrin interceded. He was a Bhikhu by training, well versed in the Uddhava. Paedrin clenched his fists, readying himself. Each moment delayed added to the torture. His mind was frantic for Hettie. Would she survive? Was there anything he could do to save her? Or was her fate already spelled out in some bloodstained portion of earth farther away? The thought brought a cruel agony to his heart. Focus—he had to focus. He had to be ready.
Paedrin waited, watching for the moment. He knew it would come. He knew that Kiranrao would strike at Shion again.
The Romani appeared on Shion’s blind side, the blade tucked underhand . . . like the Preachán who had tried to kill Paedrin in Havenrook. The memory was like a flicker of thought. Paedrin hissed out his breath and plummeted from the tree branches above.
Hettie swung her leg up around the edge of the rock and pulled herself up onto the ridge of the promontory. She lay still to rest a while, breathing heavily, pressed against the crumbled stone of the moldering ruins. Fearing capture, she had not climbed straight up but had moved sideways at an angle. The clouds had brought fierce winds and occasional bursts of rain that made the footing treacherous and cold. Her fingers were bleeding, as was her cheek, but she had made it to the crest alive, despite several moments when she had felt her footing slip and then suddenly catch on something firm. The thrill and worry of the climb had taxed her strength and abilities. She was on the ridge now, amidst a crew of soldiers and Rikes from Kenatos. What was she supposed to do next? Her heartbeat slowed.
From down below, she saw occasional bursts of heat and magic as Tyrus destroyed the attackers. The fires raged across the ravaged earth and had caught the outer rim of trees. The towering oaks were blazing and the fire was spreading, making her choke as she had climbed. Her lungs felt raw and ravaged. After a little rest from the difficult climb, her strength began to return.
“This way.”
The voice came from beyond the shattered wall and she listened carefully, trying to block out the other noises, hearing the sound of a sputtering torch and boots walking.
“Are you sure?” came another voice.
“Lukias ordered all the edges to be searched in case they tried to climb. You go there. You go there. Check behind that wall too.”
Her heart filled with dread as she heard the boots approach. Were
there only three? She looked along the edge of the wall and the debris of stone that would make sneaking away treacherous. One slip and the shuffle of bricks would give her away. She did not have time to think.
Keeping low, using the wall fragments as cover, she started off away from the approaching soldiers. The gap between the edge of the promontory and the wall narrowed until the footing disappeared entirely, dropping straight down. The corner had already given way, providing a small gap that she could leap through.
“I see someone!”
The voice was right behind her. She pulled herself over the gap and climbed up on the edge of the wall, using it as a crumbling walkway to get herself farther away. The soldiers shouted in warning and charged after her and Hettie stumbled off the edge of the wall, landing crookedly on her ankle. She went down in a heap, cradling her leg, rocking back and forth and whining with pain.
A sword cleared its scabbard with a metallic swish.
“Hold there, girl!”
“It’s Tyrus’s daughter,” one of them whispered.
The three approached her, two soldiers and a Rike. She stared up at them, gripping her ankle tightly, cowering.
“Be careful,” the Rike warned. “Don’t look in her eyes or she’ll bewitch you. She has the fireblood too.” He held out a hand coaxingly to her, his gaze averted. “Give yourself up, lass. The Arch-Rike has ordered us to take you alive. Will you come?”
“Do I have a choice?” Hettie said darkly.
The world was made of fire.
Tyrus staggered through the crackling blaze, feeling wooden and confused. His bowels were on fire as well, all needles and pain and agony. He spat out the leather in his mouth, not aware of what it was or how it had gotten there. He snapped the twine keeping it to him and tossed it aside, watching with relish as the flames consumed it instantly. The fire was everywhere, even inside of him. His belly hurt. Why? What had happened?
Looking up, he saw the cliff of stone. A buzzing in his ears became annoying and he knuckled at his left ear hard enough that it hurt. But it could not hurt worse than the fire in his belly. He bent over, wincing and writhing. Where was this place? He could not remember the details. There was a fog about his mind, almost as thick as the plumes of sooty smoke billowing all around.
There was a rampway leading up the cliff. Anger drove him to it. The anger was terrible and roiling, hotter than the flames. There was someone to punish on the mountain. An enemy to destroy. He started to laugh, feeling giddy with the thoughts of revenge. His hands were glowing blue, swathed in flames. He stared at them, excited by the swirling colors. Blue, violet, even a tinge of green. He stopped walking, mesmerized by the flames gushing out of his hands. His arms were trembling. It made the flames dance.
Another spasm of heat and agony went through his middle. It was insufferable! He groaned loudly and let loose a string of blistering curses. Spittle flecked his lips. Up. He had to go up. Vengeance was required. Punishment given. Clack, clack, like a rod to unruly children. He remembered fragments from his life. An orphanage. A tower. Hatred drove him up the steep ramp, despite his wayward legs. There was a song in his mind, something he had heard from long ago. He remembered a golden locket. Why did that matter? He had lost the locket. He had to find it. Someone had stolen it. Yes, that’s why he was angry. Someone had stolen his locket. Someone had stolen his music.
Tyrus bent over double, the clenching so painful he vomited bile. There was a sharp taste in his mouth. A bitter taste. He started walking again, moving up the ramp in a daze of pain and anger. Someone had stolen his song. He would kill the thief.
Ahead, up the slope, he saw a group of soldiers in the haze, forming two lines. They all had crossbows. Crossbows were made of wood. Wood burned.
Tyrus smiled, willing the wood to burn.
The crossbows exploded into flames and the soldiers began shrieking, fleeing into the haze.
Tyrus staggered up the ramp after them.
XXXV
Phae entered Mirrowen and dropped to her knees with pain shooting up and down her injured leg. The ground was soft, yielding. Her fingers dug into the cool grains as she gasped and moaned, hoping the agony would subside. Instead of suffering with the pain, she tried to focus on the sensation of the gritty dirt between her fingers. But it wasn’t dirt. It was finer, like river sand. She squeezed it, feeling it give away, but firm as she compacted it in her fists. The throbbing in her leg began to subside.
Strangely, she did not experience any sense of danger or imminent threat. There was the murmur of a gentle brook somewhere on her right. In the distance, she heard a sound she had never experienced before. It sounded like thunder, but it didn’t come from the sky. The rumbling noise built up and then exhaled like a long sigh, only to build up and again, release into a sigh. The sound was vast, not one of a creature—unless the creature were larger than the world. Smells struck her next. The air was crisp and fresh, with a slight saltiness filled with pleasant aromas from flowers. The scent was distinct, blended in a way that struck her so much that she let it linger, focusing on breathing it in and exhaling.
She realized the throbbing inside her, the budding seed of her Dryad powers, had settled. She straightened, wincing with the pain in her leg, but felt her abdomen was no longer clenching.
Phae heard steps approaching in the sand and she opened her eyes.
At first, it seemed as if the sunlight blinded her, but there was no sun in the sky. All was light and warm and pleasant, but she saw no trace of sun or moon. The sky was a rich blue, full of enormous billowing clouds.
A woman approached her, barefoot. Phae averted her eyes, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze and risk losing her memories. She saw the feet first and noticed the bracelet around one ankle. It was shaped into the coils of a serpent and wrapped around her ankle. She was a Dryad.
“Who are you?” Phae asked tremulously. “Is this Mirrowen?”
“Phae,” replied the woman.
The voice sounded . . . familiar. Her heart began to pound inside her. “Neodesha?”
The woman knelt in the sand in front of her, wearing a beautiful but plain woolen dress after the manner of Stonehollow. It was a deep orange color, like a sunset, with trim along the sleeves.
She felt the woman’s fingers in her hair. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Daughter, do not fear to look on me. I won’t steal your memories. I am your mother. Who else would the Seneschal have sent to greet you?” She stroked Phae’s tangled hair. “My child . . . my lost child. I see you at last!”
A well of longing opened up deep inside Phae’s heart. She was desperate to believe this woman’s voice. So desperate to embrace her, but how could she be sure? Phae felt tears sting her lashes and she dropped her head, beginning to weep, confused.
“Phae, there is no deception in Mirrowen. You come from a brooding world where people cheat, deceive, and murder each other for ducats. I lived long inside the prison walls of Kenatos. I saw it all. This is a place of rest, a place of healing, a place of unalloyed truth. Believe me, Phae. I am your mother. I was sent to heal you and prepare you to meet the Seneschal. He is a kind master, Phae.”
The words were a balm to Phae’s heart. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked up at the Dryad’s face, scarcely hoping to believe.
When she saw her, Phae’s heart leapt with joy. She looked so much like Phae’s father, as if she had taken part of his essence inside of her. Her hair was dark with natural waves, similar to Phae’s own, except without the amber tint. She resembled Dame Winemiller, with eyes expressive of a mother’s love and care. Phae hugged her fiercely, ignoring the pain in her leg, and her mother embraced her, kissing her hair and stroking it tenderly.
“Mother,” Phae panted, trying to quell the sobs that threatened to choke her. All her days she had wondered about her mother—who she was, how she had lived or died. She had always imagined s
omeone like Dame Winemiller . . . not a girl her own age. Though she was young, her eyes were full of wisdom and deep understanding.
In the distance, she heard the deep grumbling sound followed by the sighing reply—an endless rhythm and cadence.
“Come, Phae. Let me heal you first. Lean on me while you stand. We’re going to the brook over there. It isn’t far.”
Phae felt her mother’s strength help pull her to her feet. She winced and gasped as the pain shot through her again, but she managed to hobble on one leg, supported by the Dryad until they reached the shallows of the brook. The waters were tranquil, full of life. Little colorful fish darted through. Insects skimmed the surface with beautifully hued wings—dragonflies and butterflies and ladybugs. Her mother reached over the brook to a mossy rock protruding from the waters and tore a fragment of it away. The moss was flecked with blue and violet flowers and smelled of honey. The Dryad gently touched the moss to the arrow protruding from Phae’s leg.
Phae’s blood began to sing with spirit magic. She shuddered, feeling the cuts and bruises mend and fade. The Dryad pulled the arrow free and it did not hurt. The arrowhead emerged silver, untarnished. Phae watched as the gaping wound in her leg closed and felt her bones fuse together whole. She gasped with delight, the magic flowing through her, healing every ailment and injury. It was over in moments, but the feeling was blissful and swift.
“What is that?” Phae asked, staring at the shrinking nub of moss. Her mother reached down and put the remains back on the rock. It immediately began to brighten again, the shriveling buds blooming once more.
“The vegetation is called by different names in different worlds. It is plentiful here in Mirrowen. It can cure any disease. Even the Plague.” She gave Phae a knowing look.
Her heart began to hammer. “Can I take some with me?” she begged. “Those who brought me, who helped me, they are injured and dying. Mother, if I save them—!”