Annon’s heart clenched with shared pain as he watched Phae suffer. His own heart felt as if it would burst when he saw the oaks and realized that he had lost Neodesha forever. Mortals were banished from Mirrowen because of these trees, the barrier preventing the two worlds from communing.
It reminded Annon, very briefly, of how the sick woods around Havenrook felt. Those had suffered from neglect and the relentless gambling and commerce of the Preachán. Wagons had carved ruts into the dirt. Axes had sliced a crooked path through the forest to reach its destination. No such road greeted them into the Scourgelands. The twisted, tangled oaks were a buttress—a fortress of colossal size that stretched across the horizon in both directions.
Tyrus murmured softly to his daughter, trying to help her steel herself. Annon saw a sick pallor on Phae’s cheeks. She nodded at something her father said, but Annon noticed her arm clutching her stomach, as if her bowels troubled her.
“Why are we dawdling?” Kiranrao said with a raspy voice. His eyes glittered as he stared at the trees. “Let’s finish this madness.”
“The madness is only beginning,” Tyrus said stonily. “Remember my warning. Come to me when I yell the word Hasten. I will not wait for anyone. We must act as one.” His breath started to quicken, his eyes crinkling with worry. Clutching Phae to him tightly, he kissed the top of her head. Then letting her go, he began marching toward the maw of the wicked trees.
Annon stared at him, amazed at the courage. His own heart was teeming with trepidation.
Go, Druidecht, Nizeera thought, nudging his leg with her nose. I fulfill my oath at last.
“Why is it that we fear dark places? Even a place well trodden by us through time can arouse the greatest foreboding when un-illuminated. We tread carefully. Our ears strain at every sound. Darkness is but a pause in breath of a voice we do not wish to hear speak.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XV
Despite the limited sunlight, the Scourgelands were deep and impenetrable. The trees were huge and twisted, thick with moss and lichen. As they entered the shadowed realm, Paedrin felt his pulse quicken with dread. He scanned everywhere, gazing quickly at the trees but never lingering to stare at any one of them for longer than an instant, having been warned by Tyrus that doing so would jeopardize his memories by exposing them to the magic of the Dryad sentinels.
Phae explained that a Dryad could snatch away a single memory or purge a person’s entire remembrance of himself. It was a fearful power and Phae warned that they should avoid the complete mind purge altogether by not looking directly at any tree. Which was difficult to consider since the size of the oaks defied belief—they towered over everyone, their warped branches braided to prevent him, or any Vaettir-born, from escaping the net of hooked limbs. The power of flight would be hampered, but there were pockets of space where he would be able to maneuver and use the advantages that his race and the Shatalin blade provided.
The ground was a whorl of desiccated leaves and twigs that snapped and crunched with every step. Even as light-footed as Paedrin was, he could not pass soundlessly through such a field. The sound of Baylen’s boots filled his ears with the hissing noise of the thick ground cover. He searched from side to side, up and down, every muscle tense.
Hettie was chosen to take the lead, her bow drawn and an arrow ready in the nock. He watched her from behind, admiring her cautious gait, her deliberate movements darting from tree to tree. He would not let her slip too far ahead, for fear of the creatures waiting to ambush them.
Shortly after passing into the shadowed realm, they were met by a barricade of mossy stones, intermeshed with the trees to form a rugged form of wall that stretched endlessly in both directions.
“We called this the Fell Wall,” Tyrus said, his voice betraying tension. “We were attacked as soon as we crossed it.”
“Let me go first,” Paedrin offered. “I can glide up to the trees and see if anything lurks on the other side.”
Tyrus looked at him and then at Phae. “Are any of these Dryad trees?”
Phae’s face was ashen. She shook her head no and pointed off to the west. “Over there. I can sense her. But this way is safe.”
The Paracelsus looked back at Paedrin and nodded curtly. Grateful for the opportunity, Paedrin sucked in a steady breath. He swiftly rose, feeling the welcome giddiness that accompanied flight, and nestled on a huge, bent branch, almost forming a cradle amidst the boughs. The bark was rough with dabs of orange sap, which he avoided. Landing gracefully, he crouched and peered down the other side of the Fell Wall. He studied the ground for movement, letting his eyes linger on the gloom, trying to penetrate it.
It reminded Annon, very briefly, of how the sick woods around Havenrook felt. Those had suffered from neglect and the relentless gambling and commerce of the Preachán. Wagons had carved ruts into the dirt. Axes had sliced a crooked path through the forest to reach its destination. No such road greeted them into the Scourgelands. The twisted, tangled oaks were a buttress—a fortress of colossal size that stretched across the horizon in both directions.
Tyrus murmured softly to his daughter, trying to help her steel herself. Annon saw a sick pallor on Phae’s cheeks. She nodded at something her father said, but Annon noticed her arm clutching her stomach, as if her bowels troubled her.
“Why are we dawdling?” Kiranrao said with a raspy voice. His eyes glittered as he stared at the trees. “Let’s finish this madness.”
“The madness is only beginning,” Tyrus said stonily. “Remember my warning. Come to me when I yell the word Hasten. I will not wait for anyone. We must act as one.” His breath started to quicken, his eyes crinkling with worry. Clutching Phae to him tightly, he kissed the top of her head. Then letting her go, he began marching toward the maw of the wicked trees.
Annon stared at him, amazed at the courage. His own heart was teeming with trepidation.
Go, Druidecht, Nizeera thought, nudging his leg with her nose. I fulfill my oath at last.
“Why is it that we fear dark places? Even a place well trodden by us through time can arouse the greatest foreboding when un-illuminated. We tread carefully. Our ears strain at every sound. Darkness is but a pause in breath of a voice we do not wish to hear speak.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XV
Despite the limited sunlight, the Scourgelands were deep and impenetrable. The trees were huge and twisted, thick with moss and lichen. As they entered the shadowed realm, Paedrin felt his pulse quicken with dread. He scanned everywhere, gazing quickly at the trees but never lingering to stare at any one of them for longer than an instant, having been warned by Tyrus that doing so would jeopardize his memories by exposing them to the magic of the Dryad sentinels.
Phae explained that a Dryad could snatch away a single memory or purge a person’s entire remembrance of himself. It was a fearful power and Phae warned that they should avoid the complete mind purge altogether by not looking directly at any tree. Which was difficult to consider since the size of the oaks defied belief—they towered over everyone, their warped branches braided to prevent him, or any Vaettir-born, from escaping the net of hooked limbs. The power of flight would be hampered, but there were pockets of space where he would be able to maneuver and use the advantages that his race and the Shatalin blade provided.
The ground was a whorl of desiccated leaves and twigs that snapped and crunched with every step. Even as light-footed as Paedrin was, he could not pass soundlessly through such a field. The sound of Baylen’s boots filled his ears with the hissing noise of the thick ground cover. He searched from side to side, up and down, every muscle tense.
Hettie was chosen to take the lead, her bow drawn and an arrow ready in the nock. He watched her from behind, admiring her cautious gait, her deliberate movements darting from tree to tree. He would not let her slip too far ahead, for fear of the creatures waiting to ambush them.
Shortly after passing into the shadowed realm, they were met by a barricade of mossy stones, intermeshed with the trees to form a rugged form of wall that stretched endlessly in both directions.
“We called this the Fell Wall,” Tyrus said, his voice betraying tension. “We were attacked as soon as we crossed it.”
“Let me go first,” Paedrin offered. “I can glide up to the trees and see if anything lurks on the other side.”
Tyrus looked at him and then at Phae. “Are any of these Dryad trees?”
Phae’s face was ashen. She shook her head no and pointed off to the west. “Over there. I can sense her. But this way is safe.”
The Paracelsus looked back at Paedrin and nodded curtly. Grateful for the opportunity, Paedrin sucked in a steady breath. He swiftly rose, feeling the welcome giddiness that accompanied flight, and nestled on a huge, bent branch, almost forming a cradle amidst the boughs. The bark was rough with dabs of orange sap, which he avoided. Landing gracefully, he crouched and peered down the other side of the Fell Wall. He studied the ground for movement, letting his eyes linger on the gloom, trying to penetrate it.
