She realized the throbbing inside her, the budding seed of her Dryad powers, had settled. She straightened, wincing with the pain in her leg, but felt her abdomen was no longer clenching.
Phae heard steps approaching in the sand and she opened her eyes.
At first, it seemed as if the sunlight blinded her, but there was no sun in the sky. All was light and warm and pleasant, but she saw no trace of sun or moon. The sky was a rich blue, full of enormous billowing clouds.
A woman approached her, barefoot. Phae averted her eyes, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze and risk losing her memories. She saw the feet first and noticed the bracelet around one ankle. It was shaped into the coils of a serpent and wrapped around her ankle. She was a Dryad.
“Who are you?” Phae asked tremulously. “Is this Mirrowen?”
“Phae,” replied the woman.
The voice sounded . . . familiar. Her heart began to pound inside her. “Neodesha?”
The woman knelt in the sand in front of her, wearing a beautiful but plain woolen dress after the manner of Stonehollow. It was a deep orange color, like a sunset, with trim along the sleeves.
She felt the woman’s fingers in her hair. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Daughter, do not fear to look on me. I won’t steal your memories. I am your mother. Who else would the Seneschal have sent to greet you?” She stroked Phae’s tangled hair. “My child . . . my lost child. I see you at last!”
A well of longing opened up deep inside Phae’s heart. She was desperate to believe this woman’s voice. So desperate to embrace her, but how could she be sure? Phae felt tears sting her lashes and she dropped her head, beginning to weep, confused.
“Phae, there is no deception in Mirrowen. You come from a brooding world where people cheat, deceive, and murder each other for ducats. I lived long inside the prison walls of Kenatos. I saw it all. This is a place of rest, a place of healing, a place of unalloyed truth. Believe me, Phae. I am your mother. I was sent to heal you and prepare you to meet the Seneschal. He is a kind master, Phae.”
The words were a balm to Phae’s heart. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked up at the Dryad’s face, scarcely hoping to believe.
When she saw her, Phae’s heart leapt with joy. She looked so much like Phae’s father, as if she had taken part of his essence inside of her. Her hair was dark with natural waves, similar to Phae’s own, except without the amber tint. She resembled Dame Winemiller, with eyes expressive of a mother’s love and care. Phae hugged her fiercely, ignoring the pain in her leg, and her mother embraced her, kissing her hair and stroking it tenderly.
“Mother,” Phae panted, trying to quell the sobs that threatened to choke her. All her days she had wondered about her mother—who she was, how she had lived or died. She had always imagined someone like Dame Winemiller . . . not a girl her own age. Though she was young, her eyes were full of wisdom and deep understanding.
In the distance, she heard the deep grumbling sound followed by the sighing reply—an endless rhythm and cadence.
“Come, Phae. Let me heal you first. Lean on me while you stand. We’re going to the brook over there. It isn’t far.”
Phae felt her mother’s strength help pull her to her feet. She winced and gasped as the pain shot through her again, but she managed to hobble on one leg, supported by the Dryad until they reached the shallows of the brook. The waters were tranquil, full of life. Little colorful fish darted through. Insects skimmed the surface with beautifully hued wings—dragonflies and butterflies and ladybugs. Her mother reached over the brook to a mossy rock protruding from the waters and tore a fragment of it away. The moss was flecked with blue and violet flowers and smelled of honey. The Dryad gently touched the moss to the arrow protruding from Phae’s leg.
Phae’s blood began to sing with spirit magic. She shuddered, feeling the cuts and bruises mend and fade. The Dryad pulled the arrow free and it did not hurt. The arrowhead emerged silver, untarnished. Phae watched as the gaping wound in her leg closed and felt her bones fuse together whole. She gasped with delight, the magic flowing through her, healing every ailment and injury. It was over in moments, but the feeling was blissful and swift.
“What is that?” Phae asked, staring at the shrinking nub of moss. Her mother reached down and put the remains back on the rock. It immediately began to brighten again, the shriveling buds blooming once more.
“The vegetation is called by different names in different worlds. It is plentiful here in Mirrowen. It can cure any disease. Even the Plague.” She gave Phae a knowing look.
Phae heard steps approaching in the sand and she opened her eyes.
At first, it seemed as if the sunlight blinded her, but there was no sun in the sky. All was light and warm and pleasant, but she saw no trace of sun or moon. The sky was a rich blue, full of enormous billowing clouds.
A woman approached her, barefoot. Phae averted her eyes, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze and risk losing her memories. She saw the feet first and noticed the bracelet around one ankle. It was shaped into the coils of a serpent and wrapped around her ankle. She was a Dryad.
“Who are you?” Phae asked tremulously. “Is this Mirrowen?”
“Phae,” replied the woman.
The voice sounded . . . familiar. Her heart began to pound inside her. “Neodesha?”
The woman knelt in the sand in front of her, wearing a beautiful but plain woolen dress after the manner of Stonehollow. It was a deep orange color, like a sunset, with trim along the sleeves.
She felt the woman’s fingers in her hair. Her voice was thick with emotion. “Daughter, do not fear to look on me. I won’t steal your memories. I am your mother. Who else would the Seneschal have sent to greet you?” She stroked Phae’s tangled hair. “My child . . . my lost child. I see you at last!”
A well of longing opened up deep inside Phae’s heart. She was desperate to believe this woman’s voice. So desperate to embrace her, but how could she be sure? Phae felt tears sting her lashes and she dropped her head, beginning to weep, confused.
“Phae, there is no deception in Mirrowen. You come from a brooding world where people cheat, deceive, and murder each other for ducats. I lived long inside the prison walls of Kenatos. I saw it all. This is a place of rest, a place of healing, a place of unalloyed truth. Believe me, Phae. I am your mother. I was sent to heal you and prepare you to meet the Seneschal. He is a kind master, Phae.”
The words were a balm to Phae’s heart. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked up at the Dryad’s face, scarcely hoping to believe.
When she saw her, Phae’s heart leapt with joy. She looked so much like Phae’s father, as if she had taken part of his essence inside of her. Her hair was dark with natural waves, similar to Phae’s own, except without the amber tint. She resembled Dame Winemiller, with eyes expressive of a mother’s love and care. Phae hugged her fiercely, ignoring the pain in her leg, and her mother embraced her, kissing her hair and stroking it tenderly.
“Mother,” Phae panted, trying to quell the sobs that threatened to choke her. All her days she had wondered about her mother—who she was, how she had lived or died. She had always imagined someone like Dame Winemiller . . . not a girl her own age. Though she was young, her eyes were full of wisdom and deep understanding.
In the distance, she heard the deep grumbling sound followed by the sighing reply—an endless rhythm and cadence.
“Come, Phae. Let me heal you first. Lean on me while you stand. We’re going to the brook over there. It isn’t far.”
Phae felt her mother’s strength help pull her to her feet. She winced and gasped as the pain shot through her again, but she managed to hobble on one leg, supported by the Dryad until they reached the shallows of the brook. The waters were tranquil, full of life. Little colorful fish darted through. Insects skimmed the surface with beautifully hued wings—dragonflies and butterflies and ladybugs. Her mother reached over the brook to a mossy rock protruding from the waters and tore a fragment of it away. The moss was flecked with blue and violet flowers and smelled of honey. The Dryad gently touched the moss to the arrow protruding from Phae’s leg.
Phae’s blood began to sing with spirit magic. She shuddered, feeling the cuts and bruises mend and fade. The Dryad pulled the arrow free and it did not hurt. The arrowhead emerged silver, untarnished. Phae watched as the gaping wound in her leg closed and felt her bones fuse together whole. She gasped with delight, the magic flowing through her, healing every ailment and injury. It was over in moments, but the feeling was blissful and swift.
“What is that?” Phae asked, staring at the shrinking nub of moss. Her mother reached down and put the remains back on the rock. It immediately began to brighten again, the shriveling buds blooming once more.
“The vegetation is called by different names in different worlds. It is plentiful here in Mirrowen. It can cure any disease. Even the Plague.” She gave Phae a knowing look.
