Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (44 page)

T
he face that Annon saw was young—a girl not even his own age. Her hair was the color of wheat and her eyes such a pale blue-green that they were almost ivory. She smiled at him, almost timidly, and he noticed that she wore a rich green wool gown. There was an embroidered pattern on the thin wrist cuff that extended up the side of her arms. She could have been any damsel in Wayland by the look of her.

He was startled and supposed it showed on his face, for her expression turned impish seeing his reaction.

“And what were you expecting, Annon? A gown made of oak leaves or moss? Twigs in my hair? Claws instead of fingers?” Her smile was mischievous. “I am Aeduan, just as I told you. But I have lived for several thousand years.”

Annon stared at her in surprise. “How is that possible?”

She smiled demurely. “There is a tree in Mirrowen, Druidecht. One taste of its fruit grants eternal life. I have bitten its fruit as part of my binding. I was sixteen. That is the age one becomes a Dryad, you see. That is the age we are reborn.”

Her pale eyes were transfixing.

Annon cleared his throat. “So I am immune to your magic now?”

She nodded intently, pleased. “Rarely do I get to speak to another Aeduan. To learn about the world and how it has changed. Many have misperceptions about my kind. Everything I tell you, you will remember. You will come back here again, Annon. We are connected now, you and I. You will tell me about your world. I will tell you about mine.”

She knelt in front of him, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her. She looked eager to talk to him.

“The damage to your tree,” Annon said. “It did not harm you?”

She shook her head. “The tree is injured. But I am not. We are not connected that way. I do not feel her pain. She does not feel mine. What we share is much deeper.” Her voice fell lower. “We share memories. She is the receptacle. I am the engraver. You would not understand how it works, but I will try and explain it. I can take a man’s memories and implant them into the tree. What he no longer remembers, I hold safe. We are the guardians of great secrets, Annon. The past long forgotten. Yet the spirit magic that makes this work is very vulnerable. As you saw, I could not defend the tree from deliberate attack. I can only rely on others to protect me. Had you not come, I would not have died. I cannot die. But those memories would have been lost forever and I would have been trapped in Mirrowen with no way to return to the mortal world. This is my home, after all.”

Annon shook his head in amazement. “And you say you are thousands of years old? You were here before the founding of Kenatos?”

“Certainly. It is young compared to me. But there are Dryads even older than I. There are groves even more ancient.” She gave him a meaningful look.

He swallowed. “The Scourgelands.”

She flinched at the word. “That is not what we call it, Annon. Something happened there. Something long ago. A taint. An injustice. I am only a child compared to those Dryads. But they no longer speak to their sisters. They hide away. Something was done to injure them. A betrayal. That is what Tyrus seeks. That is the knowledge he is after. He is a protector of Dryads.”

It came to Annon’s mind immediately. “There is an oak tree in the middle of the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos.”

Neodesha smiled at him and twisted her fingers together. “She is a Dryad tree. One who was doomed to die because of her proximity to that city. He saved her.”

“The tree looked dead to me,” Annon said.

“Oaks are very resilient. It would surprise you. Was there a clump of mistletoe in the branches?”

He remembered it perfectly though he only recalled seeing it once. His memory was astonishingly clear. “Yes.”

“That is one of the ways you can tell. The mistletoe is a sign of our presence. In some kingdoms, it is a tradition during the winter festivals to kiss beneath a sprig of mistletoe.” Her smile was offset by a dimple. “The tradition was created by the Druidecht, of course, who alone know the truth of it.”

Annon shifted uneasily, uncomfortable from the intensity of her gaze. There was a power in it still. “And by looking at a person, you can take their memories.”

She nodded. “Tell me of your world,” she said, shaking his knee. “What kingdom do you come from?”

He shrugged, feeling awkward. “I am an orphan, but I was raised by the Druidecht in Wayland. Reeder was my…my mentor.” He felt the crushing weight of the loss suddenly, so powerful and violent that tears stung his eyes.

“Your memories are powerful,” she said comfortingly. “They will be from now on. They will burden you, it is true, but they will also serve you. You will remember things that others have forgotten. Tell me of Wayland. Where is it?”

“Several days south of here,” Annon said, struggling to control his feelings. He brushed his eyes on the back of his hand, amazed to see tears glistening on his skin. “The kingdom is sparsely populated due to the Plague. Small villages here and there, spread far from each other. Farms mostly. They grow much of the food that feeds the other kingdoms.”

“And how do they treat the spirits of Mirrowen?”

“They are mostly ignorant of them. Unwittingly, they destroy their lairs and homes. The Druidecht try to teach them, but they are more interested in the price of wheat.” He reached out and touched her hair, surprising himself. He jerked his hand back.

She smiled. “It’s the magic, Annon. Keep talking. It will help you if you keep talking.”

He wanted to. The look she gave him was so eager, he could not resist. He told her about his childhood. He explained his feelings of abandonment by Tyrus and how he had thrown himself into Druidecht lore. He revealed the fireblood and asked if she knew about it. She shook her head and implored him to keep talking. So he did. He explained the summons of Tyrus to Kenatos, the quest for Drosta’s lair. Even meeting Drosta himself and the encounter with the Kishion. He held nothing back. It was a relief to talk about it to someone. To purge the emotions and confusion he had been carrying for so long.

It was midnight by the time he finished.

The air was cold, but her presence warmed him. They sat so close their knees often touched. As he finished his story, she nodded in understanding and covered his hand with hers.

“There,” she said. “Speaking our troubles to another lessens them. Some seek me to purge their memories. They do not wish to know my name, only to speak of their troubles and thus pass them to me. When they leave, they have forgotten that portion of their lives. Some say too much and forget who they even are when they leave. They abandon a wife or children because they no longer wish to be bound by the connection or feel the hurt that comes with it. But those kinds of men leave weaker, not stronger. They feel an ache that they cannot salve. Part of them is missing. Part of them is left at the tree.”

Annon felt the softness of her hand. He looked in her eyes and nodded slowly. “I do not wish to be rid of my memories. You were speaking the truth to me, though? I will not forget that this happened when I leave?”

“Will you?” she asked teasingly. Then she rested her hands in her lap and sat straight. “Now, Annon. You have recounted your troubles. Use your new gift of wisdom and begin to solve them. You likely have harbored some ill-formed notions about yourself and others. Start with your sister.”

Annon exhaled slowly. He brought her face to his mind. Almost in a moment, everything she had ever said flashed through his mind. He frowned, for a feeling of dread had begun to squirm inside his stomach.

“Why do you grimace?”

Annon stared at her. “I have a bad feeling about her.”

Neodesha gave him a knowing smile. “Why?”

He thought more. Fragments and pieces began to slide together in his mind. “Because she is Romani. She is not trying to buy her freedom. She was sent by the Romani, likely Kiranrao, to steal the blade…the dagger I told you of.” His neck prickled with anger and resentment.

Her lips pursed slightly. “Do not be too harsh in your judgment of her, Annon. If you were raised in that life, you would
have done the same. But I have the feeling you are right. She is trapped in a hunter’s snare. Remember that an animal will often kill itself faster trying to escape. What it needs is another creature to free it from its bondage. That is the way with most traps.”

Annon felt the wisdom in her words. “Paedrin is who he always claimed to be. I do not know where the Kishion took him. But I feel he can be trusted.”

She wrinkled her nose and nodded in agreement. “Bhikhu are rarely duplicitous. It is easier to speak the truth all the time than to try and remember the lies told now and again. Paedrin can be trusted.”

“Erasmus. I do not know him very well.”

“Tyrus trusted him with your safety. Whether you trust Erasmus depends on how much you trust Tyrus. The same with Drosta.”

“But Drosta is a Druidecht.”

“But he was a Paracelsus first. Strange how people yearn to become holy only after years of depravity.” She smiled knowingly. “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.”

Annon chuckled softly. “So true.”

“Believe me, many a young Finder have hunted the woods in vain to glimpse a Dryad. And it was not wisdom they sought. My kind tend not to aid Finders until they are well seasoned in years and more desirous of imparting memories and conversation. Consider it a compliment that I have trusted you with my very life. With my name, you could force me to do many things I would detest.”

Annon shuddered. “I would never…”

She touched his arm. “I know.”

He sighed heavily. “I suppose I must think now on my uncle. Or the man I believed to be my uncle.” He rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully, awash in the conflicting miasma of emotions. “I do not recall him ever telling me he was my uncle.”

“Go farther back,” she coaxed. “What is your earliest memory of him?”

He explored his memories even farther. Most were new to him. Brief flashes of feelings and intense loneliness. He suffered under the weight of a child’s pain. Memories were blurry, especially further back. If he went further, would he even remember his birth?

She touched his wrist. “Please understand, Annon. The strength of my magic is related to memories. We have memories to keep specific people in our thoughts. Our emotions bind the memories to us. Emotions like love, loyalty, or gratitude are strongest. The stronger the emotion, the more vivid and influential the memory. As you seek your greatest pains, you will find the memories that contain the greatest wisdom.”

It was as if saying the words made it true. He remembered a woman. He remembered her face—the claw marks on her face. The wounds that had barely healed. He was young—a babe, if that. A year old? Certainly less than two. He remembered her face and the fierce love he had for her. But then she was hurting him. She was making him cry. She was shaking him. He was frightened, terrified. There was shouting and screaming. He did not understand the words because he was still too young to comprehend language. But he understood the emotions and knew the woman was his mother. She was hurting him. She was shaking him. And there was Tyrus—younger but just as imposing. His face also scarred by claw marks. Tyrus had taken him, pulled him up into his huge chest and shielded him. There were blue flames, orange flames spitting at them both. His child’s heart was in a terror. He clutched at Tyrus for protection and safety. He loved his mother, but she frightened him.

They abandoned a stone hut and went into a storm. Tyrus covered him with his cloak. There were screams of rage. The home was burning. The roof was ablaze. Screams of pain. Screams of madness. Tyrus was cooing to him, trying to blot out the sound. Annon was wailing hysterically. He was lost in the moment, in the nightmare. The rain was freezing. He was hungry, cold, abandoned.

There was a horse. Tyrus mounted it, clutching the baby in his arm. Smothered in the wet smell of wool, Annon struggled and whimpered until he cried himself to sleep.

When Annon awoke, he found his head in Neodesha’s lap, her fingers gently stroking his hair. She blotted his tear stains on her embroidered sleeve. Her look was tender.

He looked up at her, his emotions nearly too fragile to speak.

“We are bound together, you and I,” she said. “I experienced your memories as you relived them.” She smiled sadly, continuing to stroke his hair. “I do not think Tyrus of Kenatos means you harm. He felt and feels a certain degree of responsibility for you. The past makes that abundantly clear. Your mother had the fireblood. She was mad. Do not judge him harshly, Annon.” Her fingertip traced the edge of his lip. “Wisdom helps us understand that we are not alone in this great world. The sufferings of others cause us to suffer too. We are all bound. More so than we realize.” She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe it is time you faced the man you’ve known as your uncle. I do not think it coincidence that he is in Canton Vaud right now. Waiting for you.”

Nizeera began to purr.
She is right. It is no accident. We face him together, you and I.