by Jeff Wheeler
“I can help you,” Tyrus said, his hand open calmingly, as if he were trying to soothe a skittish horse. “Let me tell you what I know about you. It may be more than you know. Here is my offer. I know how your memories can be restored. I can provide you the chance to learn who you really are and why the music from that little charm affected you so much.”
The Kishion hoisted Phae up higher, keeping his arm around her neck. She felt the dagger tip press against her side and she began shaking all over, her breath coming in gasps.
“How did you survive?” the Kishion demanded. “My dagger went inside you. You are not protected by magic like I am.”
“You are not protected by magic at all,” Tyrus replied. “I know all of the types of spirits that can or have been harnessed, including the blade Iddawc. I also know that the blade Iddawc can kill you. It was designed to. The Arch-Rike claimed that it would be used by you to kill others. But it was invented to protect him against you. He fears you, Kishion. With good reason.”
Phae felt the Kishion’s body start to tremble. Her own was affecting his. She pulled slightly on his arm. “Please,” she whispered. “I won’t run.”
His gloved fist was clenched and shook. He slowly eased his grip on her, but he did not lower the dagger. “I hold you to your promise,” he warned.
Phae nodded, staring from her father to her captor. She turned and looked up at the Kishion’s face, saw the whirlwind of emotions playing out there. He was desperately curious. She knew the knowledge being offered tormented him.
“What would you ask of me?” Tyrus asked, taking a cautious step closer. “I will not take her by force. I will not defy your mission. But think before you bring her back. Do you really want to go back to your cell in the Arch-Rike’s dungeons again?”
“What?” the Kishion snapped.
“That is where he keeps you. His puppet. His killer who cannot be killed. He is afraid of you learning the truth about yourself. He fears you turning on him. He steals your memories to control you.”
The Kishion’s frown was terrifying. His jaw was clenched, the muscles in the corners bulging. “Tell me about the music. What is it?”
“It came from the Scourgelands,” Tyrus said. “One could say it is even the hymn of the Scourgelands. Ancient spirits sing it still, which is why they are captured. The tune is melancholy. The song is part of you somehow. You are from the Scourgelands, Kishion. I know it. You bear the marks, the same as I do. Come with us back to your homeland. We will uncover the secrets of your past. There, your memory can be restored. I know how it can be done.”
“But not here?” the Kishion asked, his voice full of distrust.
“No, the knowledge you seek can only be restored there. I need your help. I charge you to protect my daughter. She is the key to opening the door. There is no one else I could trust her safety to better than you. If you decide my motives are deceptions, you are free to fulfill your mission at any time. I do not force you, Kishion. Join us willingly.”
The Kishion’s voice was raw with emotion. “The ring I wear will explode.”
Tyrus shook his head. “It will if you venture back into the Arch-Rike’s domains. But even if it did, it will not harm you. You are not protected by magic, Kishion. You are what you are. You cannot be harmed except by the blade Iddawc. You are not trusted by the Arch-Rike. He does not want you to remember.”
“Prove it,” the Kishion said menacingly.
“I do not need to convince you,” Tyrus said, shaking his head. “Your heart already tells you that I speak the truth. These are my motives. I seek to end the Plague. That is my goal and my destiny. I have assembled a mastermind, if you will, to help accomplish this. Just as the Arch-Rike has assembled one to prevent it, to conceal the knowledge that was lost. Tell me why the Arch-Rike seeks to thwart me? Give me his reasons? You cannot, for he has told you nothing. You are a slave to be sent to kill whoever crosses him. Then he strips away your memory under the false guise that he is saving your conscience. He knows how to stop it and conceals that knowledge to preserve his own power. Why else would he have summoned you to kill me? Listen to reason! You owe him loyalty because he tells you that you do? He cannot force you to obey him. Come with us and learn the truth. Protect my daughter from the dangers that threaten in the Scourgelands. Let us reveal the secrets that have long been guarded.”
Phae was terrified at her father’s words. She had no desire to enter the Scourgelands. But she knew that it had something to do with her being Dryad-born, that her ability to steal memories played a role in the absence of the Kishion’s. She did not know why her father had abandoned her for all of these years. But seeing him in person, seeing the look of emotion on his face, she felt relief swelling up inside her as well as fear that he was gambling with her life.
She stared up at the Kishion’s face next. “Please,” she begged. “At least we can listen to him?”
The Kishion stared at Tyrus defiantly, his expression stiff and furious. “I cannot trust your words alone,” he said. “Stand aside. Let us pass. Prove you won’t interfere with my mission.”
“Please!” Phae implored.
A voice came from above. It was like a whisper but it pierced her soul, the echo of it thrumming in her mind. It was as if the sky had spoken it. Kishion, kill her now.
Phae saw that they all heard the voice. She did not know where it came from, but it made her soul despair and her knees buckle. She faced the Kishion fully, gazing into his eyes with anguish. She would not run from him though he still held the dagger aimed at her ribs.
One breath. Two breaths.
She reached up and touched his face, feeling the grooves of the claw marks. Her touch brought his eyes down, meeting hers. She had contact with his eyes. She could snatch the memory away if she blinked. She could steal it all away.
She did not.
He stared at her in surprise, his expression a mix of anger and awe.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please protect me.”
The dagger fell from his hand, sinking blade-first into the road. He gave Phae a quick nod just before shoving her away from him as hard as he could, sending her backward into the air as if a battering ram had struck her. He turned on his heel, sank into a crouch, as if praying, and exploded into a deafening blast of light. Had she been standing next to him, it would have killed her.
“One of the ancient Cruithne kings carved this into a monument in his great city: He that is kind is free, though he is a slave. He that is evil is a slave, though he be a king.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The explosion rang in Phae’s ears, the blast buffeting them all and knocking each sprawling. Heat and a tingling pressure lingered in the air, sending streamers of smoke from her clothes. A strong hand grabbed her forearm and helped her back to her feet. It was the Vaettir prince, his expression stern and forceful. He said something to her, but the ringing in her ears prevented her from understanding him.
She shook her head and shoved past him, staring in shock at the Kishion’s kneeling form. He was hunched over, head bowed, at the edge of a small crater. The blast ran out in a circle around him, charring the earth as if a stroke of lightning had landed there, though there were no clouds in the sky. Rock fragments were strewn about and pine cones and shattered branches rained from the nearby trees. The Kishion slowly stood and turned to face them.
The look in his eyes was haunted. She stared at him, realizing he had shielded her from the explosion with his own body, uncertain whether his immunity would save him from death. Her ears pierced with noise, but she approached him, staring down at his hands.
The gloves were smoking, charred with soot. He shook them off, revealing the ring on his finger. The sigils carved into it were marred and twisted. Slowly, the Kishion wrenched it from his finger and stared at it in his palm for long moments. Then he tossed it into the crater.
The Prince and Tyrus approached them.
“We must fly,�
�� her father said, his voice husky with emotion. “Come, both of you. Hold my arm.”
Phae heard his words as if they were spoken under water. She saw him extend a cylindrical object, made of brass or gold with gems studded into the two ends. It was carved with peculiar symbols. The Prince rested his hand on the outstretched arm. Phae was hesitant, looking at the Kishion to see what he would do.
His voice was hushed. “Where do we go?”
“A safehouse. It will not take long before they start arriving. Grab my arm.”
The Kishion did and Phae joined her hand to the mix. There was a queer feeling of power, a spinning sensation that made her lose her balance and she stumbled. The sky was suddenly darker, much darker than it was a moment before. They were in the woods somewhere, but the trees were different—cedar instead of bristlecone. The flavor of the air was strange, the night full with the sound of flies and other insects. Smoke from a wood fire met her nose and she struggled back to her feet, seeing that they were just outside a sturdy cabin in the woods.
“The root cellar,” Tyrus said to the Vaettir, pointing to it.
The Kishion examined the area quickly, searching the yard and taking in the details. It was a woodsman’s home, with several cords of wood stacked neatly with a round, gouged splitting block nearby. There was a shed nearby as well, but her father’s finger pointed to the trapdoors of a cellar at the base of the cabin. Prince Aran marched to it and heaved open the doors. The hinges were well oiled and opened soundlessly.
The main door of the cabin opened, spilling out lamplight. A wizened old man emerged, thickset and brawny. He hefted an axe in his left hand and a lantern in his right. Most of his hair was gone, with only a dusting of gray slivers across his dome.
“Tyrus?” the old man croaked.
“Hello, Evritt,” Tyrus replied, stepping into the light.
The older man looked at the rest of them and then motioned for the cellar and then sat down on the rocking chair on the stoop. He cradled the axe in his lap. The chair began to creak as he slowly began to rock.
The Prince hefted the doors open and ventured down the ladder first. Tyrus strode to the porch, gripped the old man’s hand firmly and with obvious affection, and then returned with the lantern and took Phae by the arm and brought her to the ladder descending into the cellar. He shone the light down, exposing the rungs and the Prince’s waiting face.
The ringing in Phae’s ears was subsiding. She climbed over the lip of the cellar door and hurried down the ladder, surefooted. The strong smell of musty roots filled the space, reminding her of mushrooms and worms. Fabric sacks were stacked neatly along the far wall. It was a small, cozy space, smaller than Winemiller’s cabin in the mountains. She rubbed her hands together, feeling small and defenseless. She had three protectors it seemed, but she still felt vulnerable.
Tyrus came down with the lantern, revealing the supplies hanging from pegs on the frame. The floor was dirt but packed hard. Each scuff of her boot awakened a little plume. The Kishion came down last, reaching out and swinging the cellar door down behind him as he descended.
Phae walked hesitantly into the cellar, absorbing the heavy aroma in the air, feeling it sink into her bones. She saw another ladder at the far side and a trapdoor leading up to the inside of the cabin. Smart, she thought. More than one way to escape.
She looked at her father. “You are alive.”
Tyrus seated himself in the center of the floor and set the lantern down in the middle. The Prince edged toward the ladder they had descended and remained standing for a moment, searching the room with his gaze. Then he settled on the floor as well.
“I am,” he answered. “Sit. There is much we must say to each other.”
The Kishion stared at Tyrus, his face impassive. “Where are we?” he asked in a whisper-like voice.
“Alkire,” Tyrus replied. “But just for the night. It drains the rod when I bring others with me. It needs time to regain its power. We will be more difficult to track beneath the ground though. That should give us some time to rest. And to talk.”
Phae rubbed her arms, still staring at the other ladder. She glanced back at the man she knew to be her father. Her heart was jumbled with conflicting emotions. That he was even alive was a shock and a thrill. But she was also wary and concerned about his motives. He had abandoned her as a baby and now had come to make her part of some deeper purpose. If that purpose was related to the Scourgelands, she wanted nothing to do with it. What was the proper way to greet such a stranger?
“Sit, child,” Tyrus bid, motioning to the space on the other side of the lantern. “I’m sure you have many questions.”
Phae stared down at him, studying the haggard look on his face. Yet he seemed genuinely pleased to see her. His eyes were fierce yet gentle, as if he tamed great emotions churning inside of him. He did not want to frighten her. She nodded and obeyed.
“What is your name?” he asked her gently.
“Phae,” she replied.
The name seemed to startle him. “Really?”
She nodded. “That surprises you? Was I to be named something else?”
Tyrus half-sighed, half-chuckled in amusement. “Winemiller named you? How interesting. Yet there are no coincidences. I will have to ask him about it sometime.”
Phae stared at him hard. “Why does it surprise you what he named me?”
He smiled at her in a broken-hearted sort of way, as if breathing caused him pain. “It was the name I gave your mother.” He sighed, staring down at the lantern. In a moment, he had mastered his emotions again. His eyes were like flint. “What would you know of me?”
Phae folded her arms. “I am your daughter?”
He nodded.
“Why did you abandon me?”
Tyrus gazed up at the Kishion. “I am demonstrating my good intentions by speaking freely in front of you. With this knowledge, you will have power to stop me and my plans. I give it to you freely, because I believe you were meant to join in our quest. You took the blast meant to kill my daughter. For that, I thank you. You’ve earned my trust. I hope before this night is done that I have earned yours.”
“I left the ring back in Stonehollow,” the Kishion answered. “I think the magic was destroyed, but to be sure, I left it behind. That way the Arch-Rike will not hear you through my ears. I believe the connection between us is severed. The ring is what allowed it. Trust for trust. But I will hear what you have to say before making up my mind.”
Phae glanced at the Kishion, saw the claw marks on his face vivid in the lamplight. She shuddered, knowing he was still very capable of killing her.
Tyrus turned his attention back to her. “I will answer you as honestly as I can. You may not like to hear what I have to say. It may trouble you. It will frighten you.” He sighed deeply again, brow furrowing with consternation. “There is even a great possibility that my plans will result in your death. But know this, child. I will lay down my own life before I allow that to happen to you. So will Prince Aran. And so will that gentleman behind you. If we three cannot protect you from the dangers you face, then I do not know what else I can do.”
He plucked the hair at his lips absently and then leaned forward, gazing at her. “Phae, I am determined to stop the Plague that wrecks our lands. I believe that the Arch-Rike is behind it. Either that or he knows its origins and conceals what must be done to vanquish it. Eighteen years ago, I rallied a group to my cause and we entered the Scourgelands to seek the Plague’s origin. The Arch-Rike knew of our journey and the path we would take. We were set upon immediately and all were killed, save myself and a Druidecht girl named Merinda. She taught me, during our escape, that the guardians of the Scourgelands are Dryads. They are vulnerable creatures and cannot defend themselves physically, but they have a powerful magic that affects even the man standing behind you. A Dryad can steal memories. By stealing, I mean they can take a person’s memory and embed it into the tree they are bonded with. The person forgets, but the Dryad rem
embers. Have you experienced this power?”
As he spoke, Phae felt a thrill and a tingle through her body. It resonated with her and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “Yes,” she answered, looking down. “I have. It started to frighten me and so I do not use it very often. Only for little things.”
Tyrus beamed at her. “How does it work? What have you noticed?”
She kept her arms tucked and began rocking slightly, back and forth. The light from the lantern painted eerie shadows across the walls. “I must meet someone’s gaze. It cannot work in darkness. But if we look at each other, and if I blink, I can take memories from them. They do not stay with me. They…float away, you might say.”
“Indeed,” Tyrus acknowledged. “You have not bonded with a tree yet. Only then will you be able to experience the full use of that power. You are of the age, Phae, when a girl makes the decision to fulfill the obligation her blood requires. This is Druidecht lore, child, and I am not privy to all of it, but I know enough. Your mother…taught it to me. A Dryad bonds with a single tree. If the tree dies or is destroyed, the bond is broken and she is trapped and unable to enter this world.”
Phae stared at him in confusion. “This world? What do you mean?”
Tyrus joined his fingers together and leaned his forearms on his knees. “There is an unseen world that we share. It is called Mirrowen. When one is calm and quiet, you can hear the whispers from Mirrowen. These are spirits, unseen to mortal eyes. Sometimes they appear to us in the form of animals, insects, or other woodland creatures. Only the Druidecht can hear them. The talismans they wear—that is the way they commune with the spirits. You are partly a spirit creature yourself, Phae. You are Dryad-born. You were also born with the fireblood, which you inherited from me. My goal, child, is to bring you into the Scourgelands so that you may bind with a tree there and re-learn the secrets of the Plague that have been lost for thousands of years.” He leaned even closer. “I do not have the power to stop the Plague. But you do.”