Reeder shrugged complacently. “The Thirteen do not typically discuss their business with me directly. I think your presence startled Palmanter, and so he let it drop to see what impact it had on you. I am as certain as wheat that you will shortly become a topic of conversation among them. That can be good or bad, depending on how feelings go.”
Annon took a bite from a slice of bread. He chewed it absently, not even tasting it. Erasmus dipped his into the bowl of soup and ravenously ate. He glanced around for more and Reeder motioned toward the bread plate.
The older Druidecht looked at Annon thoughtfully as he ate. “So you came here seeking me and wound up finding your uncle as well. You did go to Kenatos?”
Annon nodded, wondering how much he should say. Should he tell Reeder about the blade Iddawc? About the Arch-Rike? About the Kishion who had come? Should he say anything about Drosta and his warning? How much did Reeder already know? Be wise, he warned himself. Do not reveal too much, even to your friend.
“You are pensive,” Reeder said softly.
“Much has happened since I left Wayland,” Annon replied. “Tell me of your troubles, though. What is happening in Silvandom that you came to help? Troubles with the Boeotians?”
Reeder nodded. “You could say that. And I do. They began encroaching on the woods of Silvandom. They are killing trees.”
Annon frowned. “For profit?”
“No, they do not seek to trade the wood, or to build with it. They seek to burn it.”
“For fuel then?”
Reeder shook his head. “What do you know of the Boeotians, Annon?”
“Very little. The other kingdoms consider them barbarians. They have no seat of power. No cities. They roam the north just below the fringes of the Scourgelands. They rarely settle but for hunting. They share an enmity with Kenatos and routinely wage war with her. I did not know they liked to burn wood. But are there not many trees in their country?”
Reeder nodded pensively. “You are mostly right. The Boeotians have a leader who they call the Empress. She does not treat with anyone and they guard and protect her. But the various tribes are fractious, and they do enjoy warring amongst themselves when they are not warring against Kenatos. But let us go to the crux of the matter.” He glanced over at Erasmus, who was nodding off with sleepiness. “There are blankets over there. Sleep, friend.”
Erasmus yawned uncontrollably and set down his cup. He went over to the pile of blankets and lay down. Reeder stared at him. A spirit full of gossamer threads flittered into the tent and delicately kissed Erasmus’s eyes. His breath came in and out heavily. He was asleep.
Annon looked at Reeder in confusion.
“What I have to tell you is Druidecht lore,” Reeder said. His eyes were deadly serious. “It should not be spoken of, even to your uncle. Do you swear it?”
“I swear it,” Annon replied promptly. He took Erasmus’s chair and pulled it closer to Reeder’s stool. “Tell me.”
Reeder glanced at the tent door as Nizeera slowly padded inside, eyes wide and glassy. She stroked against Annon’s leg before settling down on the blankets near him, tail flicking this way and that.
“How well do you know your forest lore?” Reeder asked. “You know of sylphlings. You know of hamadrods and cepints. You know all the spirit life in Wayland. It varies depending on the location. Depending on the menace, you might say. As you can see, there is much spirit life in Silvandom. This is their last bastion of safety.
“In the mountains of Alkire, they are caught and trapped and bound into service. In the forests of Wayland, where you and I are from, they struggle against the local woodcutters and hunters who do not bother to understand their ways. It leads the poor folk to some harm at times. Of all the spirit life you have learned about, have you ever heard of the spirits that guard the trees? Tell me what you know of the Dryads.”
Annon stared at him in confusion. “I know nothing. I do not even know that name.”
Reeder nodded, smiling as if he had not expected Annon to know the secret. “Good. It is not usually part of the Druidecht lore we teach at your age. For good reason, for which you must trust me, young as you are. As I said, they are spirits. They are very rare, Annon. Hidden. Even for spirits, they are quite vulnerable. Dryads are only female. They live inside the trees that they protect, but not in a way that you would understand. Their trees hold the knowledge of the portals to Mirrowen.
“There is very little that is known about the Dryads, the guardians of the Ways. There is a reason for that. You see, it is their defense. They protect the knowledge stored in their trees in a special way. When someone approaches, they appear before the intruder suddenly. They are said to be very beautiful. But no one can remember what they look like, for they steal your memories. Look at them once, and you forget what it is you came to do. There is no magic that can prevent this from happening. That is why it is only said that they are beautiful. They do not allow those who have seen them to remember, so they can protect their trees from harm. A Dryad can preserve a tree and live for a thousand years. There are a lot of memories in their trees, many secrets.”
Annon took a bite from a slice of bread. He chewed it absently, not even tasting it. Erasmus dipped his into the bowl of soup and ravenously ate. He glanced around for more and Reeder motioned toward the bread plate.
The older Druidecht looked at Annon thoughtfully as he ate. “So you came here seeking me and wound up finding your uncle as well. You did go to Kenatos?”
Annon nodded, wondering how much he should say. Should he tell Reeder about the blade Iddawc? About the Arch-Rike? About the Kishion who had come? Should he say anything about Drosta and his warning? How much did Reeder already know? Be wise, he warned himself. Do not reveal too much, even to your friend.
“You are pensive,” Reeder said softly.
“Much has happened since I left Wayland,” Annon replied. “Tell me of your troubles, though. What is happening in Silvandom that you came to help? Troubles with the Boeotians?”
Reeder nodded. “You could say that. And I do. They began encroaching on the woods of Silvandom. They are killing trees.”
Annon frowned. “For profit?”
“No, they do not seek to trade the wood, or to build with it. They seek to burn it.”
“For fuel then?”
Reeder shook his head. “What do you know of the Boeotians, Annon?”
“Very little. The other kingdoms consider them barbarians. They have no seat of power. No cities. They roam the north just below the fringes of the Scourgelands. They rarely settle but for hunting. They share an enmity with Kenatos and routinely wage war with her. I did not know they liked to burn wood. But are there not many trees in their country?”
Reeder nodded pensively. “You are mostly right. The Boeotians have a leader who they call the Empress. She does not treat with anyone and they guard and protect her. But the various tribes are fractious, and they do enjoy warring amongst themselves when they are not warring against Kenatos. But let us go to the crux of the matter.” He glanced over at Erasmus, who was nodding off with sleepiness. “There are blankets over there. Sleep, friend.”
Erasmus yawned uncontrollably and set down his cup. He went over to the pile of blankets and lay down. Reeder stared at him. A spirit full of gossamer threads flittered into the tent and delicately kissed Erasmus’s eyes. His breath came in and out heavily. He was asleep.
Annon looked at Reeder in confusion.
“What I have to tell you is Druidecht lore,” Reeder said. His eyes were deadly serious. “It should not be spoken of, even to your uncle. Do you swear it?”
“I swear it,” Annon replied promptly. He took Erasmus’s chair and pulled it closer to Reeder’s stool. “Tell me.”
Reeder glanced at the tent door as Nizeera slowly padded inside, eyes wide and glassy. She stroked against Annon’s leg before settling down on the blankets near him, tail flicking this way and that.
“How well do you know your forest lore?” Reeder asked. “You know of sylphlings. You know of hamadrods and cepints. You know all the spirit life in Wayland. It varies depending on the location. Depending on the menace, you might say. As you can see, there is much spirit life in Silvandom. This is their last bastion of safety.
“In the mountains of Alkire, they are caught and trapped and bound into service. In the forests of Wayland, where you and I are from, they struggle against the local woodcutters and hunters who do not bother to understand their ways. It leads the poor folk to some harm at times. Of all the spirit life you have learned about, have you ever heard of the spirits that guard the trees? Tell me what you know of the Dryads.”
Annon stared at him in confusion. “I know nothing. I do not even know that name.”
Reeder nodded, smiling as if he had not expected Annon to know the secret. “Good. It is not usually part of the Druidecht lore we teach at your age. For good reason, for which you must trust me, young as you are. As I said, they are spirits. They are very rare, Annon. Hidden. Even for spirits, they are quite vulnerable. Dryads are only female. They live inside the trees that they protect, but not in a way that you would understand. Their trees hold the knowledge of the portals to Mirrowen.
“There is very little that is known about the Dryads, the guardians of the Ways. There is a reason for that. You see, it is their defense. They protect the knowledge stored in their trees in a special way. When someone approaches, they appear before the intruder suddenly. They are said to be very beautiful. But no one can remember what they look like, for they steal your memories. Look at them once, and you forget what it is you came to do. There is no magic that can prevent this from happening. That is why it is only said that they are beautiful. They do not allow those who have seen them to remember, so they can protect their trees from harm. A Dryad can preserve a tree and live for a thousand years. There are a lot of memories in their trees, many secrets.”
