Stunned, devastated, Shion sank to the ground, clawing the bark with his iron-hard fingers until the bark shredded and came off in chunks. He howled in dismay, screaming with frustration and despair. He struck the tree with his fists, pounding on its immovable trunk. He could not bleed. He could not die. He let out a wail of anguish that pierced Phae’s heart. Sobs shook him violently, great racking sobs that added to the chorus of the dying.
Shion sprawled down at the base of the tree, gasping, breaking apart, unable to die of sorrow.
The Seneschal stroked her hair. The day seemed to pass more swiftly, the arch of the sun across the sky fading to twilight, and then night. Near midnight, the last of the screams ended. Those who had fled the construction of Canton Vaud, those who survived, would carry remnants of the Plague back to their communities. Stonehollow would be devastated by it, the first kingdom to fall.
Night began to fade as a pink sky started to light in the east.
Phae nodded to the Seneschal and then quietly stepped forward, approaching Shion’s crumpled body. She knelt nearby him, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders. He had not moved for hours. As she knelt, little twigs snapped.
Shion’s head stirred slightly. “Who is there?” he whispered in a ravaged, hoarse voice.
She sat silently, hands folded in her lap, waiting for him to rouse.
He was still a moment longer, then his head swiveled and he looked up at her. His face was bereft of life and joy. He was shrunken, defeated, tormented. He stared at her, his eyebrows furrowing.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said in his quiet voice. “I’ve seen your face.”
Phae nodded. “In your brother’s palace. I was with the Seneschal.”
He slowly pushed himself up on one arm, his expression so hurt and aching that she reached out and touched his cheek. He flinched.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We will meet again in the future,” Phae said. “This is my tree now.” She stroked the bark that he had ravaged with his bare fingers. “You must protect me. You must bring me here safely. I charge you, Prince Isic, to reopen the gate to Mirrowen.”
“It’s closed to me,” he said, his mouth turning to a frown.
“Only you and I can open it,” she said, giving him a timid smile. “I see that now.” She breathed deeply. “You won’t remember this. You won’t remember any of it. I’m sorry, but I see that this must be.” She reached out and touched the side of his face, looking deeply into his eyes, deeply into his very soul. “Until we meet again, Shion.”
She blinked, taking away all of his memories. Not a portion—not a slice. She took them all away. They came as a rush, suffusing into her heart, into her mind, all of his memories and emotions, his knowledge of Druidecht lore, even his knowledge of music. She absorbed it into herself, feeling it well up like a tidal wave. She loved him. She understood the boy he was as a child, the man he was at that moment. All of his life experiences rushed past her in a surge.
Phae gathered the memories, hugging them to her soul, and then she filled the tree with them, preserving and safeguarding them.
Shion slumped to the ground, unconscious. His face was reposed, deep with sleep.
She reached around his neck and lifted the talisman away. Then Phae stood and walked back to the Seneschal.
“I am ready,” she said firmly.
“These next choices will be up to you,” the Seneschal said. “Be wise how you make them. Return to your own era in the mortal world. Save your father. Save your friends. Redeem Poisonwell.”
“Be at peace with your own soul, then the heavens and the earth will be at peace with you. The Druidecht are truly wise.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLIV
Paedrin stood side by side with the Quiet Kishion, their blades slashing at every angle, defending the Dryad tree in the center of the Scourgelands. Arrows hissed and stuck into the trunk. Somehow, Paedrin avoided every one. His blind sense seemed to move him, and each time the trunk was split and scarred by the heavy weight of impact. Kiranrao flashed again, trying to stab at him, but the Bhikhu was all rage and quickness and his sword had the better reach than the cursed dagger.
Sweat streaked down Paedrin’s cheeks, coming down his back in a river of moisture. His muscles hummed with energy, his situation too desperate for fatigue. One wrong move and the blade Iddawc would graze his skin, snuffing out his life. Every stroke counted. Every miss mattered.
“Should I lie still?” Paedrin taunted the Romani. “Maybe you’re only used to striking people asleep. I thought you were quick, Kiranrao. Old Master Shivu could run circles around you.”