He tried to move his neck, to see the gnarled limbs of the great Dryad tree. He could not see Phae but thought he had spied her entering the gap in the trunk. That was good. A part of their quest had been fulfilled. With all the death and suffering he had experienced, he was ready to lay aside his grip on the mortal coils. He had hoped, secretly, that he might catch a glimpse of Mirrowen when Phae entered it. A glimpse was all he desired.
Shion backed up against the great tree, fighting off the soundless guardians robed in brown. Annon could do nothing more to help him. His strength was ebbing, draining from his body. It was close now. He could feel his consciousness wavering.
Paws crushed the twigs near him as the Weir approached. He let out his final breath and shut his eyes. He began counting his last heartbeats.
There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out the sounds and he felt himself slipping away. His final thought was not of his sister. It was not of Tyrus or Reeder or the many people he had encountered.
Neodesha, he thought.
He imagined he heard a whisper—far, far away. Annon.
Paedrin’s soul was wracked with sorrow and anger. Hettie was with Tyrus, abandoned without the Tay al-Ard. He desperately wanted to flee to her, to make sure she was safe. To be sure she had survived. But he could not leave Shion alone, not with so many enemies surrounding him. Not with Kiranrao and that wicked blade trying to kill him. Annon was sprawled on the turf, his eyes closed. It was another cause of grief. Was the Druidecht dead? It would haunt Paedrin for the rest of his life. Phae had vanished inside the tree, but would she emerge soon, needing to be taken to Poisonwell? If so, he had the ability to take her there. His memory could transport them to the spot he had visited earlier. He had to remain behind. He had to wait for her to return from the bowels of the tree. How long it would take, he had no idea.
Weir approached the tree, hissing and spitting but staying away from the three brown riders who sought to destroy Shion. Their gaze had no effect on him. Neither did their arrows. But he remembered how exceptionally strong the riders were and knew that eventually, the three would bear him down and subdue him. He could not win the fight. He could only delay the inevitable conclusion.
Unless Paedrin interceded. He was a Bhikhu by training, well versed in the Uddhava. Paedrin clenched his fists, readying himself. Each moment delayed added to the torture. His mind was frantic for Hettie. Would she survive? Was there anything he could do to save her? Or was her fate already spelled out in some bloodstained portion of earth farther away? The thought brought a cruel agony to his heart. Focus—he had to focus. He had to be ready.
Paedrin waited, watching for the moment. He knew it would come. He knew that Kiranrao would strike at Shion again.
The Romani appeared on Shion’s blind side, the blade tucked underhand . . . like the Preachán who had tried to kill Paedrin in Havenrook. The memory was like a flicker of thought. Paedrin hissed out his breath and plummeted from the tree branches above.
Hettie swung her leg up around the edge of the rock and pulled herself up onto the ridge of the promontory. She lay still to rest a while, breathing heavily, pressed against the crumbled stone of the moldering ruins. Fearing capture, she had not climbed straight up but had moved sideways at an angle. The clouds had brought fierce winds and occasional bursts of rain that made the footing treacherous and cold. Her fingers were bleeding, as was her cheek, but she had made it to the crest alive, despite several moments when she had felt her footing slip and then suddenly catch on something firm. The thrill and worry of the climb had taxed her strength and abilities. She was on the ridge now, amidst a crew of soldiers and Rikes from Kenatos. What was she supposed to do next? Her heartbeat slowed.
From down below, she saw occasional bursts of heat and magic as Tyrus destroyed the attackers. The fires raged across the ravaged earth and had caught the outer rim of trees. The towering oaks were blazing and the fire was spreading, making her choke as she had climbed. Her lungs felt raw and ravaged. After a little rest from the difficult climb, her strength began to return.
“This way.”
The voice came from beyond the shattered wall and she listened carefully, trying to block out the other noises, hearing the sound of a sputtering torch and boots walking.
“Are you sure?” came another voice.
“Lukias ordered all the edges to be searched in case they tried to climb. You go there. You go there. Check behind that wall too.”
Her heart filled with dread as she heard the boots approach. Were there only three? She looked along the edge of the wall and the debris of stone that would make sneaking away treacherous. One slip and the shuffle of bricks would give her away. She did not have time to think.
Shion backed up against the great tree, fighting off the soundless guardians robed in brown. Annon could do nothing more to help him. His strength was ebbing, draining from his body. It was close now. He could feel his consciousness wavering.
Paws crushed the twigs near him as the Weir approached. He let out his final breath and shut his eyes. He began counting his last heartbeats.
There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out the sounds and he felt himself slipping away. His final thought was not of his sister. It was not of Tyrus or Reeder or the many people he had encountered.
Neodesha, he thought.
He imagined he heard a whisper—far, far away. Annon.
Paedrin’s soul was wracked with sorrow and anger. Hettie was with Tyrus, abandoned without the Tay al-Ard. He desperately wanted to flee to her, to make sure she was safe. To be sure she had survived. But he could not leave Shion alone, not with so many enemies surrounding him. Not with Kiranrao and that wicked blade trying to kill him. Annon was sprawled on the turf, his eyes closed. It was another cause of grief. Was the Druidecht dead? It would haunt Paedrin for the rest of his life. Phae had vanished inside the tree, but would she emerge soon, needing to be taken to Poisonwell? If so, he had the ability to take her there. His memory could transport them to the spot he had visited earlier. He had to remain behind. He had to wait for her to return from the bowels of the tree. How long it would take, he had no idea.
Weir approached the tree, hissing and spitting but staying away from the three brown riders who sought to destroy Shion. Their gaze had no effect on him. Neither did their arrows. But he remembered how exceptionally strong the riders were and knew that eventually, the three would bear him down and subdue him. He could not win the fight. He could only delay the inevitable conclusion.
Unless Paedrin interceded. He was a Bhikhu by training, well versed in the Uddhava. Paedrin clenched his fists, readying himself. Each moment delayed added to the torture. His mind was frantic for Hettie. Would she survive? Was there anything he could do to save her? Or was her fate already spelled out in some bloodstained portion of earth farther away? The thought brought a cruel agony to his heart. Focus—he had to focus. He had to be ready.
Paedrin waited, watching for the moment. He knew it would come. He knew that Kiranrao would strike at Shion again.
The Romani appeared on Shion’s blind side, the blade tucked underhand . . . like the Preachán who had tried to kill Paedrin in Havenrook. The memory was like a flicker of thought. Paedrin hissed out his breath and plummeted from the tree branches above.
Hettie swung her leg up around the edge of the rock and pulled herself up onto the ridge of the promontory. She lay still to rest a while, breathing heavily, pressed against the crumbled stone of the moldering ruins. Fearing capture, she had not climbed straight up but had moved sideways at an angle. The clouds had brought fierce winds and occasional bursts of rain that made the footing treacherous and cold. Her fingers were bleeding, as was her cheek, but she had made it to the crest alive, despite several moments when she had felt her footing slip and then suddenly catch on something firm. The thrill and worry of the climb had taxed her strength and abilities. She was on the ridge now, amidst a crew of soldiers and Rikes from Kenatos. What was she supposed to do next? Her heartbeat slowed.
From down below, she saw occasional bursts of heat and magic as Tyrus destroyed the attackers. The fires raged across the ravaged earth and had caught the outer rim of trees. The towering oaks were blazing and the fire was spreading, making her choke as she had climbed. Her lungs felt raw and ravaged. After a little rest from the difficult climb, her strength began to return.
“This way.”
The voice came from beyond the shattered wall and she listened carefully, trying to block out the other noises, hearing the sound of a sputtering torch and boots walking.
“Are you sure?” came another voice.
“Lukias ordered all the edges to be searched in case they tried to climb. You go there. You go there. Check behind that wall too.”
Her heart filled with dread as she heard the boots approach. Were there only three? She looked along the edge of the wall and the debris of stone that would make sneaking away treacherous. One slip and the shuffle of bricks would give her away. She did not have time to think.
