She removed her hand from his face and stood. The Boeotians were retreating, fleeing through the smoke. Many writhed in pain on the forest floor, their bones broken by the efficient brutality of the Bhikhu who had come to help.
“You are not a Bhikhu,” Annon said in a broken voice, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“I am a Shaliah. A healer. A keeper. A penitent.” She gazed at him sorrowfully and bowed her head. “I did little to aid you. She saved you. Do you…remember?”
Annon saw the subtle flick of her eyes toward the tree.
He struggled to remember. It was only a voice. He remembered her voice.
“Yes.”
The Vaettir girl nodded slowly. “That is rare, Druidecht. My name is Khiara Shaliah.” She bowed her head to him in respect and responded to the call of a Bhikhu who had been slashed by a Boeotian ax.
She is wise, Nizeera said, butting his arm with her nose. You may see Reeder again. In Mirrowen. Her fur was made whole and her teeth were sharp and almost grinning. You fought well, Druidecht. You showed courage.
Annon’s mind was in a fog of despair, and he did not want to accept the compliment. Smoke from the fires that he had started diffused in the air. The stench was acrid. He lingered by the tree, stroking Nizeera’s ears, hearing the shrill voices of the spirits thank him for rescuing the Dryad tree. Little flitting streaks of light zoomed past him. He felt their emotions, the joy mixed with sorrow. They had lost many of their own as well.
He slowly stood and walked around the craggy trunk to the spot where the axes had ripped into it. His stomach lurched at the damage. The wood was pale as splintered bone. The cuts were jagged and crisscrossed. It would have taken more time to fell the tree. But the damage was severe.
Annon nearly wept again. He stared at the gaping hole and then down at the dismembered arm. Would the Black Druid survive his injury? Would a spirit heal him? Sinking to his knees, Annon stared at the pale hand. He had seen flames from those fingers and knew the man had the fireblood. His derangement had come from losing himself in it. His actions were certainly that of a man who had lost his mind. He had called himself the Reaper. The Plague. Gibberish. Or was it? He dreaded the thought of meeting him again and shuddered with fear.
He was unsure how long he knelt by the tree. Other Druidechts arrived, including Palmanter. His expression was hard. His eyes full of emotion. He crouched down next to Annon, running his meaty hand across the bark of the oak.
“You saved her,” he said in a deep voice.
Annon nodded listlessly. He was so miserable and tired. So much confusion. So many threads in his life had gone askew. Reeder was dead. Part of him refused to accept it. He felt a tide of emotions welling within him, but he shoved it aside.
“Reeder’s body is being taken to Canton Vaud. The Vaettir wish to pay him their respects before we return him to the soil. You will wish to do that as well. It helps with the pain. Every creature must die, Annon. Even a friend.” His big hand rested on Annon’s shoulder.
Annon looked at him, burying his emotions deep. He nodded. “I will come with you.”
The other shook his head. “No, you must stay here. You must stay by the tree. When a Dryad’s life is saved, they must offer a boon. It is yours alone to claim. Wait for her to appear. She will not with so many here. The Bhikhu will chase off the Boeotians. We will establish a defense around this part of the forest. But you must not leave this place without her boon.” His eyes crinkled. “It is rare, Annon. Very rare.”
Annon licked his lips. “What is the boon?”
“I do not know. It is never spoken of. Nor should you tell anyone what it is. Perhaps revealing it negates it. But do not leave this place until you receive it.”
Annon nodded and hunkered down at the base of the oak. He wondered how long it would take for the smoke to clear.
Palmanter rose and moved away from Annon. He looked at smoldering branches and then back at Annon. He said nothing. But his eyes revealed much.
The Dryad came at dusk.
Annon sat cross-legged with his back to the tree, gently stroking Nizeera’s fur. The sun was fading between the interlocking branches of the woods, offering faint pinpricks of light to stab his eyes as he watched it shrink. Grateful spirits had brought him berries, seeds, and mushrooms to eat. He waited patiently, wondering how long it would take.
There was a crackle in the dead leaves behind him. It was unmistakable. His nerves warned him to turn and prepare to defend himself, but his instincts warned him not to move. Another step. Then another.
Hair on the back of his neck began to rise. He could hear the breath. Another snapping twig, just behind him. Nizeera’s tail was perfectly still. He waited, wondering what would happen. Would she speak? His heart hammered in his chest. Conflicting emotions whirled inside of him.
“You are not a Bhikhu,” Annon said in a broken voice, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“I am a Shaliah. A healer. A keeper. A penitent.” She gazed at him sorrowfully and bowed her head. “I did little to aid you. She saved you. Do you…remember?”
Annon saw the subtle flick of her eyes toward the tree.
He struggled to remember. It was only a voice. He remembered her voice.
“Yes.”
The Vaettir girl nodded slowly. “That is rare, Druidecht. My name is Khiara Shaliah.” She bowed her head to him in respect and responded to the call of a Bhikhu who had been slashed by a Boeotian ax.
She is wise, Nizeera said, butting his arm with her nose. You may see Reeder again. In Mirrowen. Her fur was made whole and her teeth were sharp and almost grinning. You fought well, Druidecht. You showed courage.
Annon’s mind was in a fog of despair, and he did not want to accept the compliment. Smoke from the fires that he had started diffused in the air. The stench was acrid. He lingered by the tree, stroking Nizeera’s ears, hearing the shrill voices of the spirits thank him for rescuing the Dryad tree. Little flitting streaks of light zoomed past him. He felt their emotions, the joy mixed with sorrow. They had lost many of their own as well.
He slowly stood and walked around the craggy trunk to the spot where the axes had ripped into it. His stomach lurched at the damage. The wood was pale as splintered bone. The cuts were jagged and crisscrossed. It would have taken more time to fell the tree. But the damage was severe.
Annon nearly wept again. He stared at the gaping hole and then down at the dismembered arm. Would the Black Druid survive his injury? Would a spirit heal him? Sinking to his knees, Annon stared at the pale hand. He had seen flames from those fingers and knew the man had the fireblood. His derangement had come from losing himself in it. His actions were certainly that of a man who had lost his mind. He had called himself the Reaper. The Plague. Gibberish. Or was it? He dreaded the thought of meeting him again and shuddered with fear.
He was unsure how long he knelt by the tree. Other Druidechts arrived, including Palmanter. His expression was hard. His eyes full of emotion. He crouched down next to Annon, running his meaty hand across the bark of the oak.
“You saved her,” he said in a deep voice.
Annon nodded listlessly. He was so miserable and tired. So much confusion. So many threads in his life had gone askew. Reeder was dead. Part of him refused to accept it. He felt a tide of emotions welling within him, but he shoved it aside.
“Reeder’s body is being taken to Canton Vaud. The Vaettir wish to pay him their respects before we return him to the soil. You will wish to do that as well. It helps with the pain. Every creature must die, Annon. Even a friend.” His big hand rested on Annon’s shoulder.
Annon looked at him, burying his emotions deep. He nodded. “I will come with you.”
The other shook his head. “No, you must stay here. You must stay by the tree. When a Dryad’s life is saved, they must offer a boon. It is yours alone to claim. Wait for her to appear. She will not with so many here. The Bhikhu will chase off the Boeotians. We will establish a defense around this part of the forest. But you must not leave this place without her boon.” His eyes crinkled. “It is rare, Annon. Very rare.”
Annon licked his lips. “What is the boon?”
“I do not know. It is never spoken of. Nor should you tell anyone what it is. Perhaps revealing it negates it. But do not leave this place until you receive it.”
Annon nodded and hunkered down at the base of the oak. He wondered how long it would take for the smoke to clear.
Palmanter rose and moved away from Annon. He looked at smoldering branches and then back at Annon. He said nothing. But his eyes revealed much.
The Dryad came at dusk.
Annon sat cross-legged with his back to the tree, gently stroking Nizeera’s fur. The sun was fading between the interlocking branches of the woods, offering faint pinpricks of light to stab his eyes as he watched it shrink. Grateful spirits had brought him berries, seeds, and mushrooms to eat. He waited patiently, wondering how long it would take.
There was a crackle in the dead leaves behind him. It was unmistakable. His nerves warned him to turn and prepare to defend himself, but his instincts warned him not to move. Another step. Then another.
Hair on the back of his neck began to rise. He could hear the breath. Another snapping twig, just behind him. Nizeera’s tail was perfectly still. He waited, wondering what would happen. Would she speak? His heart hammered in his chest. Conflicting emotions whirled inside of him.
