Dryad-Born (Whispers From Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “There is a saying among the Romani, or so I am told. ‘It is folly to cross a bridge until you come to it, or to bid a hungry bear good morning until you meet him—perfect folly. All is well until the stroke falls, and even then nine times out of ten it is not so bad as anticipated.’ It means that we should not dwell on our troubles until they materialize for they are often not as desperate as we fear. Of course, this may be complete rubbish.”

  —Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  She was caught.

  Phae realized it immediately, knowing that there was no chance she could run. The night was dark and chill. Her ankles and knees were throbbing, her face itching from tiny cuts. Small twigs and crushed leaves had been her pallet as the stars had swirled above. Lifting her head, she gazed at the one who had hunted her relentlessly. She tried to speak, but her throat was thick and she nearly choked. It took some coughing and swallowing to master it again. There was something she had to know. She dreaded his answer.

  “Did you kill him?” she whispered hoarsely.

  He was shrouded with the darkness, staring down at the ground in silence, his expression void of emotion in the pale light. He plunged the nub of a stick into the dead leaves, stirring them lazily.

  “Did you?” she demanded, slowly sitting up. Her body groaned with the effort. “Did you kill my friend?”

  He tossed the stick away and shrugged. “He wasn’t a threat. I let him live.”

  She let out a breath of relief. Leaves clung to the tangled net of her hair. She was dirt stained, filthy, and looked like a shambling mess. But her heart surged with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  The man said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Who are you?” she pressed, rubbing her arms, which were very cold in the night air. She was trembling and felt her voice quaver. She tried to subdue it.

  He brushed some leaves from his pants and then rose, adjusting the cowl so that it covered most of his face. She took a moment to study him. Woodsman garb, a heavy tunic and sturdy pants and boots. He had leather bracers across his arms and gloves. The cloak was travel-worn and fraying at the edges. She saw his chin in the moonlight, but it was too dark to see the scars or his eyes. As he moved, the cloak ruffled and she saw the hilts of two daggers at his belt. Both had sculpted hilts with hawk-like heads for the pommels and tight leather wrappings along the handles. Oddly, he carried no knapsack or bedroll but he did carry a leather flask for drinking. Where was his food?

  He approached her deliberately. “I know what you are. I know what you can do. Do not attempt to run from me. It will end badly for you. I have no qualms hurting you.” He paused, folding his arms across his chest. “For now, you are of worth to my master, the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. I intend to take you to the city and you will come with me. If you prove difficult, my master has instructed me to kill you. I will do that. Believe me. Do we understand one another?”

  Phae nodded solemnly, her heart constricting with terror. She could tell he was used to killing people. The dispassionate voice chilled her more than the night breezes. “Who are you?”

  “I have no name.”

  “What shall I call you then?” she asked.

  She thought she saw a twist in his mouth, a sardonic expression. “I am a Kishion. Call me that, if you wish. But I do not wish to speak to you. It would be best if this were enough. We go to Kenatos now.”

  She bit her lip. “Can I see my friend? Where did you leave him? I want to see him so that he can tell my family that I did not come to harm.”

  “I will obey my master by bringing you to Kenatos as swiftly as possible.” He turned and began to walk. After a few steps, he paused, tilting his head slightly. She recognized it as a signal that she should follow him.

  Folding her arms tightly, she started after him, wincing at the pain in her joints and the ravening hunger in her belly. Her pack thumped softly against the small of her back as she walked. The night made ominous sounds. The distant call of a night animal. Snapping sticks somewhere hidden in the gloom. Her mind whirled with dread and her insides thrummed with fear. She had thought he would use rope on her and drag her after him like a pup on a leash. His threat of death worked just as effectively as a bond.

  Her body responded to the walking, bringing a flush of heat to her cheeks that helped ward off the chill. She was tempted to run for it again. She was young and quick. She tried slowing deliberately, to see if he would outpace her. When she did, he would pause, cocking his head slightly as a warning. He expected her to match him stride for stride.

  What should she do? The dilemma forced her to consider the situation from a hundred different ways. Should she try to escape? Should she refuse to walk and force him to drag her? Would he kill her for disobedience outright? She knew she had to try something, but preferably something not too risky. He had let her sleep and rest. There was any number of reasons he had done so. She imaged it was because he knew she needed it and that it would be difficult for her to go on if she were too fatigued. Carrying her back to Kenatos would not be enjoyable either. Perhaps he would bring her to a Preachán caravan and she’d be bundled up like cargo?

  Phae wanted to try something, to test him even a little bit. Would he be reasonable?

  “I am thirsty,” she said. It was true. Even if he wore a black ring beneath his glove, it would only confirm it.

  The Kishion hardly broke stride. He slowed his pace slightly, pulling the leather flask from his belt and handed it to her. It was nearly full and she twisted it open and took a long drink from it. The water was warm and leathery. It tasted awful but it served its purpose. She wiped the moisture from her mouth on the back of her hand and gave it back to him.

  The quiet and solitude tormented her. She had never been outside of Stonehollow. The thought of leaving the valley was excruciating. The Kishion’s stride never faltered. He was tireless. He was terrifying. She struggled to think what she could do to get away from him.

  The next day passed in strange quiet. Phae noticed that they often attracted the attention of robins or blue jays, and an astonishing number of butterflies and other winged insects. They fluttered and hovered nearby, and she thought it curious. Several times during the day she had seen a doe or a fox peering at her, as if trying to win her gaze. Their luminous eyes were almost pleading. She did not understand this. Never before had nature tried to commune with her in such a way. Was this what it meant to be Dryad-born? Or were the old man and the young girl both mad?

  The Kishion stopped to let her rest several times during the day, for which she was grateful. His pace was punishing but not impossible. He would pause by streams to let her drink and foraged berries and roots from the surrounding woods for her to eat. She noticed that he rarely ate—a few berries, if that. He’d suck on a root for a good while before eating it. He also knew the differences in edible mushrooms, which he promptly gave to her. She thanked him, but he did not answer.

  Who was this man who had caught her? Why had he not seen her by the oak tree? He was strange and enigmatic and rarely glanced at her face for more than an instant. It was as if the Arch-Rike had warned him about her gaze. She wished she knew more about her race, whatever she was. Dryad-born, the Druidecht had called her. What did that mean? Twice she tried engaging him in conversation. He refused to speak or answer her. On they plodded, crossing meadows along the fringe of the valley, near the rim of mountains. If they were journeying to Stonehollow, they would have been going east, but instead, she discerned a northerly bend to their journey. They were crossing the lowlands along the northern edge. Each step took them farther away from the Winemiller’s vineyard. Her heart yearned to see it again.

  In the late afternoon, they encountered an abandoned homestead. That it was abandoned was plain to see because the roof had caved in, the fence was rotting and dilapidated and the grasses had grown as high as their waists. It was a large stone cottage and the walls were intact, though the windows were missing, and
Phae could see a hive of bees in the roofline, the swarm buzzing in the late afternoon.

  The stone cottage was sullen and lonely and Phae pitied it immediately. There was an unkempt fruit orchard beyond the broken fence and she could see the branches laden with wild fruit.

  “Can we stop a moment?” Phae implored, gazing hungrily at the trees. He glanced back at her, saw where she was looking and shrugged his indifference.

  She walked through the high grass, enjoying the new smells on the breeze. The house looked so lonely and forlorn. How long had it sat empty of life? How long had nature laid claim to its seams and mortar? Trasen wanted ducats to buy a farmstead in Wayland. This one could be taken and rebuilt. A new roof could be put on, the grasses cut with a thresher. It was a sturdy-looking place and it seemed to weep in the light, begging her to stay. What if Trasen and she could fix it together? The thought of it sent a subtle thrill through her bones. Just the two of them, starting a homestead together.

  When she reached the orchard, she discovered it was laden with dark, leather-skinned pears. They did not look very inviting, but she plucked one and sank her teeth into it. The flesh beneath the peel was as sweet as treacle and the flavor surged into her mouth. They were delicious! The skin was dark and rough, but the flesh was white and sugary. She devoured three quickly, appeasing her ravenous hunger. She quickly plucked several more and began stuffing them into her pack.

  Turning, she spied the Kishion climbing the roof toward the beehive and gawked. He maneuvered up the corner of the cottage, his gloves tucked in his belt, and moved up the surface like a spider. The small seams in the stone and mortar were very small, but his fingertips and boots seemed to have no problem tracing their lines and finding suitable handholds. She stared at him as he reached the edge of the roof and slung himself up on the edge. He walked a few paces to where the beehive was fastened to the eaves.

  Phae stared at him, chewing and swallowing. Was he mad? Brushing some hair from her face, she watched in shock as he crouched near the edge of the roof and then plunged his hand into the hive.

  The bees reacted in a chorus of angry buzzing and darted at the Kishion’s face and arm in response to the invasion. She watched the stinging creatures and nearly cried out to him, but the little stabs apparently meant nothing to him. He did not flinch or swat them away. He let them sting him. His hand withdrew a dripping gob of honeycomb. Then he leaned over the edge of the roof and plummeted to the ground.

  Phae started in surprise, nearly rushing to help him, and saw him straighten from the impact. He had landed on his feet and looked as hale as ever. He strode toward her, breaking off pieces of the honeycomb and eating them. There were no welts on his face or hands, only the strange scars that had always been there. It was impossible. He should have broken his legs falling from that height.

  He nibbled on another cluster of honeycomb and then offered the rest to her. She was almost too afraid to take it.

  “What are you?” she whispered, staring at him in confusion. “Bees cannot harm you. Neither did the fall.”

  He offered the honeycomb again with a gesture and she took it, careful of its dripping. He wore a ring on his right hand.

  “I am in the Arch-Rike’s service,” he responded, the first time she had heard his voice that day. “I am protected by powerful magic.”

  She nodded in respect, realizing the display of his power had been deliberate. He was showing her that nothing she could do would hurt him. The small axe tucked in her belt would be of no use against him.

  “So the arrow Trasen shot did not even harm you,” she said.

  He nodded at her astuteness and said nothing. He looked back at the hollowed-out house. That was why he did not conceal his approach when he tracked them into the mountains. He knew he could not be killed. A stone of fear sank into her stomach. How was she, a poor homestead girl, supposed to escape him? She realized that it may not even be possible. The sense of dread was paralyzing.

  “Can we rest here tonight?” she asked, trying to hide the pleading in her voice. “It will be dusk soon.” She stared back at the house. She would love to fall asleep in the house, dreaming of what it would be like to live in Stonehollow forever. She had a feeling their journey to Kenatos would not take very long. Anything to drag it out longer would be a treasure.

  He frowned, as if dubious of her motives.

  “I will walk faster tomorrow,” she promised. “We can make up the time. Please? I am so weary.”

  She did not want to beg. Biting her lip, she gazed down at the dripping honeycomb in her hand.

  He nodded once and turned away from her.

  “Thank you,” she offered softly.

  Phae ate part of the delicious chunk of honeycomb and then had the idea to combine it with a pear. The sweetness was almost too much, but she enjoyed it and licked her fingers when it was gone. She wandered the orchard a bit, counting about a dozen trees producing fruit and another dozen that were so wild they were barren. The Kishion entered the house to examine it and she had the sudden impulse to flee. She continued her deliberate walk, letting her hands brush the tips of the grasses. Glancing back at the house, she wondered if he was watching her from inside, waiting to see if she would run.

  She wanted to. Though she was tired from the day’s walk, she was more rested than she had been the previous day, and more alert. Her body felt firmer and her joints did not ache like they had. In the tall grass, she could almost disappear if she dropped low. Was he watching her? Was he testing her? It would be night soon. Did he need to sleep as well?

  Phae decided it would be foolish to flee. She did not imagine that her endurance could outlast his. If she ran, he would chase her and he would catch her. Would he punish her? Or simply plunge one of his knives in her heart? She could not risk it. The best thing to do was to earn his trust by proving herself trustworthy. She decided to stay awake as long as she could and see if he fell asleep. She needed to learn everything she could about him, his strengths and—hopefully—his weakness. That was what she needed to learn more than anything else.

  After exploring the perimeter of the house, she entered it from the main doorway. The door was missing completely. The inner hall was made of stone tiles and weeds grew in the mortar cracks where the sunlight touched it. There was a crumbling stone hearth with what looked to be the abandoned bed of a wolf or a fox. Dried droppings from mice and other small creatures showed it was used occasionally. Their presence would frighten off any creatures returning that night.

  The remains of a loft were smashed on the floor, covered with rotted shingles. The Kishion had cleared away a space by the hearth, the farthest from the windows.

  “No fire, I suppose?” she asked tiredly but she did not believe he would answer. She gazed about the innards of the cottage. It would take some work, but the place could be fixed. The walls had been constructed by a master mason. They were thick and solid and had not yielded to the elements or time. They were stones set to last five hundred years. A new roof was needed. The loft could be rebuilt. The orchard could be tamed once more. Horses and goats and oxen fixed in the pen. The cottage was lonely, all it needed was a family to care for it. The owners had likely died of the Plague. So many people gathered in cities that there was truly more land than available people to work it. She wished for it more than anything else.

  “How old are you?” she asked, gazing at him covertly. He seemed younger than thirty by his looks.

  Ignoring her, he rubbed his hands together, gazing at the dust motes twirling in the fading light. The sun was descending quickly.

  “Did you have a name before you became a Kishion?”

  He tapped some old rotting wood with the tip of his boot, staring down at it curiously.

  Realizing that he would not engage in conversation, she slumped down near the hearth and imagined living in the cottage. In her mind, she began listing all the things she needed to do to make it inhabitable. She would need saws and hammers. Barrels for collecting rainw
ater. A broom for certain. Her eyes searched the room in the fading light, growing heavier and heavier. She tried to keep her eyes open, missing Trasen with a piercing pang that surprised her. He was alive. She could thank Kishion for that at least.

  The darkness brought fatigue and bleary eyes. The Kishion watched her from the shadows. She could sense his presence as well as see him. Did he never tire? What sort of man was this? What sort of protection did the Arch-Rike’s service give him?

  She recalled the ring on his finger. She had seen it when he handed her the honeycomb. It was a black ring, probably made of iron. Was that ring the source of his power? Was that why he wore gloves, to conceal it? Her eyelids drooped. She pinched herself, struggling to stay awake. He stared at her. She could sense his eyes but could not see them in the shadows.

  She stared back, wishing there was light, wishing there was a way she could steal his memory of her. A look and a blink. That was all it would take. Somehow he had missed seeing her at the Dryad tree. Was that his vulnerability? The beginnings of a plan began to form in her mind. She could not quite make out the edges, but she felt it brushing against her thoughts. It would have to be during the day. She would have to be very near him, to be sure their gazes met. She wished she had the power to force him to look at her.

  The thought caused a tingling feeling inside her. She did not understand the feeling, but she sensed it. Something was missing. Some part of her was missing. Weariness stole quietly over her and she felt her chin bobbing down. Unable to fight it any longer, she stretched out on the tile floor and drifted asleep.

  Phae awoke in the dark of night to the sound of a hauntingly beautiful melody.

  “It is amazing the trinkets that are devised by the Paracelsus order. Some glimmer with iridescent light. Others can create dazzling smells. Some offer glimpses of hidden treasures to torment the mind. I do not pretend to understand how these devices work or by what principles they operate. Some of the most popular, I have learned, are those that weave melodies out of nothingness.”