It was a small clump of green moss, with little buds of blue and violet. It smelled earthy and vibrant, and it was dripping wet. The moisture trickled through his fingers. What was it? He stared at the colorful moss, raising it to his nose, and smelled. The scent was intoxicating. He shook his head to clear it. Perhaps it would help ease Baylen’s pain. After dipping the moss back into the pouch, he closed the bag and cinched the strings.
He lacked the tools to bury Khiara properly, so he decided to rake dead leaves to cover her. There was a fallen oak branch nearby, one that had split from the Mother Tree. He slid her body until it pressed against the tree and then set to work. Before long, he was done and mopped the sweat from his brow. He took her white oak staff with him back to Baylen and then set it down nearby.
Baylen’s eyes blinked awake. “Thought . . . I thought you’d finally left. It’s getting dark.”
“I found something while burying Khiara. It looks like moss . . . maybe it’s some sort of salve. I’m going to dress the wound at your head first. It looks like it’s stopped bleeding anyway.”
Baylen sighed and didn’t reply.
Paedrin examined the torn scalp, the matted hair, and open wound. He winced at the sight and hoped the salve would not hurt too much. He opened the drawstrings again and dumped the mass of dripping moss into his hand. As gently as he could, he pressed it against the injury.
The Cruithne’s body arched as soon as the moss touched him. His eyes shot wide with startled surprise, his slack expression filling with indescribable joy. The look on his face was transfixed with pleasure and Paedrin nearly jumped away from him in shock. Paedrin stared at the wound and watched the scalp close, the flesh knit together and heal. Baylen’s body continued the arch, rising off the ground, and his muscles seem to flex and contort on their own. Paedrin heard the bones grinding, mending, snapping back into place.
“Guhhh!” Baylen groaned, his chest expanding to fill with air. He took several deep breaths, which became more rapid and pronounced. Suddenly, inexplicably, the Cruithne sat up.
Paedrin dropped the pouch in surprise, staring at him.
Baylen extended his arms, twisting his wrists, bending his elbows, flexing his fingers. He looked overjoyed, grinning broadly.
Paedrin looked for the moss, watching it shriveling before his eyes. When it was only a little tiny nub, it fell off into the dirty leaves.
“What . . . was . . . that?” Baylen chuffed, patting his chest, then reaching and touching his scalp, running his fingers through the tangle of bloodied hair.
Paedrin stared at him, overwhelmed. “I . . . found it . . . with Khiara.”
Baylen stood, no look of pain or injury on him. In fact, he looked hale enough to sprint. He cast around the grove for his twin broadswords and inserted them into the scabbards on his back.
“You sure this isn’t a dream?” Baylen asked, looking around the deserted woods. “I never saw her use that plant before when she healed someone.”
Paedrin rose, a foolish grin on his own face. “Neither have I, Baylen. But I noticed the pouch just now.” He sighed. “It came when we needed it most. Maybe it is the keramat. Maybe it is ghosts. Either way, we should press on and find the center of this maze. Even if Phae is dead, if we can penetrate the center, it will help Tyrus succeed next time.”
Baylen smirked. “Next time?”
Paedrin nodded, grabbing the Cruithne’s arm. “We’d better get going. I don’t think that Fear Liath is going to stay in his den forever. But I like our chances of climbing a tree much better now.”
Baylen nodded. “Which way?”
Paedrin shrugged, looking around. Then he pointed. “There. And if we happen to run into Kiranrao . . . so much the better.”
“My spirit echoes the mood of the city. It is dusk. Tumult abounds. My heart frets. As we are, such are the times.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXVI
Annon leaned back against the rough bark of the massive, bending oak. He drew the cowl over his head and sat in the stillness, listening to the stuttering clicks from some unknown insects, the sway of the heavy branches, the nearly audible sigh from the earth. The air smelled of acrid smoke from where Tyrus had unleashed the fireblood into the Dryad tree. Brittle leaves and twigs were his only cushions and he sat in fear that another enemy would crash through the woods. His energy was drained and his body ached from dozens of cuts and puckered wounds. He fidgeted with every crack and snap, worried about being attacked again. He shifted his thoughts to the moment, to face the test of will that was about to happen at the tree. Shadows thickened with the twilight, plunging the grove into darkness. He knew the others were nearby, listening for danger. He was not certain how long he would need to wait until the Weir found them.