He shook his head. They had not known each other for very long, but he felt connected with her in a way that defied explanation. Their time together in the woods had created a bond. The thought of anyone damaging her tree again and banishing her from the world filled him with horror. He did not know how she felt about him.
He swallowed his nervousness. When the trouble with the Scourgelands was over, he hoped to be able to return to Silvandom. He hoped to learn more of her and of the spirits in the land. “Do you have any jewelry that you wear? A bracelet, say. Around your…your ankle?”
There was that smile again, a very personal smile. She looked pleased and a little startled.
Instead of answering, Neodesha smoothed the hem of her skirt away, revealing her bare feet. And bare ankles.
Tyrus’s words floated through his mind, his memory perfect from her kiss. When a Dryad chooses a mortal, she wears a bracelet around her ankle until the man is dead. It is an ancient custom. She does not choose a man very often.
It was not lost on him that the Dryad chose the man. He stared at her face a while longer, knowing he would see it always in his mind.
“Thank you,” he offered, hoping they would all survive the challenges ahead. Unlike Tyrus’s previous group.
“While I was visiting one of the many orphanages in the city, I beheld an iron plaque on which was inscribed the following tenet: Thou must be emptied of that wherewith thou art full, that thou mayest be filled with that whereof thou art empty. The wisdom of the remark struck me. It is said that the orphanage, curiously, has produced a prodigious number of Paracelsus, including a very famous one known to all in Kenatos.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The magic of the Tay al-Ard channeled Tyrus and the Kishion leagues away. Tyrus clenched his fists, preparing for the moment when the colors quit whooshing, his innards quieting at last. In a moment, the briefest instant, they were there and the struggle commenced. It was a small thicket of spindly evergreens, the ground overgrown with moss and rain-slick from mist. The churning rush of a waterfall enveloped them, pummeled them. Its pressure and force sent Tyrus spinning, uncertain which way was up. He lost his grip on the cylinder. He kicked against the Kishion as they thrashed beneath the foaming waters, struggling to reach the surface before he ran out of breath.
Tyrus tried to see, but the violence of the waters prevented him from understanding which way was even up. He kicked with his legs and groped, hoping to find the surface. His lungs burned with the want of air. He felt something snatch at his boot, a glancing blow. He struggled further, kicking and pulling, feeling his cloak a burden that was trying to drown him. He touched a jewel on his ring and felt the force of spirit magic propel him upward. Breaking the surface, Tyrus took in an enormous gulp of air and quickly cast around for the nearest way to the shore.
He felt the power of the Fear Liath instantly, a blind terror that made his mind cringe and quiver. But what was chasing him was worse than the demon hiding in the waterfall. Tyrus used the power of the ring to draw him toward the edge like a piece of magnet finding iron. The muddy bank clung to him, and Tyrus crawled forward, sputtering, trying to gain some strength again. It surprised him how tired he was already. There was little time. If he could get to Drosta’s lair, he could hide beneath the stone, putting a solid barrier between him and the Kishion.
Gasping, Tyrus pulled himself to his feet and began running. The ripples of fear sent spasms of panic through him. He had to force his mind to accept that it was only the Fear Liath’s power, nothing more. It would not be dusk for a long while. It would not be able to hunt him yet.
He sensed a presence behind him.
In that moment, all the terror of his experience in the Scourgelands returned. The naked fear. Desperation. All the intangibles of mortality rising like surf to overpower his emotions. He could sense the Kishion emerge from the pool and he knew, in his gut, that he was too far from Drosta’s lair.
What to do?
He had gambled in that last moment. He had hoped the waterfall, the disorientation of a natural force—not magic, but a real force—would nullify the Kishion’s power. A man would panic when faced with drowning. Tyrus had known where they would end up after their journey by the Tay al-Ard. The Kishion would not have known.
Tyrus’s clothes were soaked and heavy. They were scant protection against a knife. He knew he would not be able to outrun his murderer. The little respite he had hoped for had failed. Wasn’t that always the way of things?
He abandoned his plan, realizing by instinct it would not work. He needed to do another, to create one out of nothing. The strong gibbering fear of the monster inside the falls did not seem to affect the Kishion in the slightest. He approached, dripping wet, but his face was unconcerned.
He swallowed his nervousness. When the trouble with the Scourgelands was over, he hoped to be able to return to Silvandom. He hoped to learn more of her and of the spirits in the land. “Do you have any jewelry that you wear? A bracelet, say. Around your…your ankle?”
There was that smile again, a very personal smile. She looked pleased and a little startled.
Instead of answering, Neodesha smoothed the hem of her skirt away, revealing her bare feet. And bare ankles.
Tyrus’s words floated through his mind, his memory perfect from her kiss. When a Dryad chooses a mortal, she wears a bracelet around her ankle until the man is dead. It is an ancient custom. She does not choose a man very often.
It was not lost on him that the Dryad chose the man. He stared at her face a while longer, knowing he would see it always in his mind.
“Thank you,” he offered, hoping they would all survive the challenges ahead. Unlike Tyrus’s previous group.
“While I was visiting one of the many orphanages in the city, I beheld an iron plaque on which was inscribed the following tenet: Thou must be emptied of that wherewith thou art full, that thou mayest be filled with that whereof thou art empty. The wisdom of the remark struck me. It is said that the orphanage, curiously, has produced a prodigious number of Paracelsus, including a very famous one known to all in Kenatos.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The magic of the Tay al-Ard channeled Tyrus and the Kishion leagues away. Tyrus clenched his fists, preparing for the moment when the colors quit whooshing, his innards quieting at last. In a moment, the briefest instant, they were there and the struggle commenced. It was a small thicket of spindly evergreens, the ground overgrown with moss and rain-slick from mist. The churning rush of a waterfall enveloped them, pummeled them. Its pressure and force sent Tyrus spinning, uncertain which way was up. He lost his grip on the cylinder. He kicked against the Kishion as they thrashed beneath the foaming waters, struggling to reach the surface before he ran out of breath.
Tyrus tried to see, but the violence of the waters prevented him from understanding which way was even up. He kicked with his legs and groped, hoping to find the surface. His lungs burned with the want of air. He felt something snatch at his boot, a glancing blow. He struggled further, kicking and pulling, feeling his cloak a burden that was trying to drown him. He touched a jewel on his ring and felt the force of spirit magic propel him upward. Breaking the surface, Tyrus took in an enormous gulp of air and quickly cast around for the nearest way to the shore.
He felt the power of the Fear Liath instantly, a blind terror that made his mind cringe and quiver. But what was chasing him was worse than the demon hiding in the waterfall. Tyrus used the power of the ring to draw him toward the edge like a piece of magnet finding iron. The muddy bank clung to him, and Tyrus crawled forward, sputtering, trying to gain some strength again. It surprised him how tired he was already. There was little time. If he could get to Drosta’s lair, he could hide beneath the stone, putting a solid barrier between him and the Kishion.
Gasping, Tyrus pulled himself to his feet and began running. The ripples of fear sent spasms of panic through him. He had to force his mind to accept that it was only the Fear Liath’s power, nothing more. It would not be dusk for a long while. It would not be able to hunt him yet.
He sensed a presence behind him.
In that moment, all the terror of his experience in the Scourgelands returned. The naked fear. Desperation. All the intangibles of mortality rising like surf to overpower his emotions. He could sense the Kishion emerge from the pool and he knew, in his gut, that he was too far from Drosta’s lair.
What to do?
He had gambled in that last moment. He had hoped the waterfall, the disorientation of a natural force—not magic, but a real force—would nullify the Kishion’s power. A man would panic when faced with drowning. Tyrus had known where they would end up after their journey by the Tay al-Ard. The Kishion would not have known.
Tyrus’s clothes were soaked and heavy. They were scant protection against a knife. He knew he would not be able to outrun his murderer. The little respite he had hoped for had failed. Wasn’t that always the way of things?
He abandoned his plan, realizing by instinct it would not work. He needed to do another, to create one out of nothing. The strong gibbering fear of the monster inside the falls did not seem to affect the Kishion in the slightest. He approached, dripping wet, but his face was unconcerned.
