Dryad-Born(28)

The Kishion stopped to let her rest several times during the day, for which she was grateful. His pace was punishing but not impossible. He would pause by streams to let her drink and foraged berries and roots from the surrounding woods for her to eat. She noticed that he rarely ate—a few berries, if that. He’d suck on a root for a good while before eating it. He also knew the differences in edible mushrooms, which he promptly gave to her. She thanked him, but he did not answer.

Who was this man who had caught her? Why had he not seen her by the oak tree? He was strange and enigmatic and rarely glanced at her face for more than an instant. It was as if the Arch-Rike had warned him about her gaze. She wished she knew more about her race, whatever she was. Dryad-born, the Druidecht had called her. What did that mean? Twice she tried engaging him in conversation. He refused to speak or answer her. On they plodded, crossing meadows along the fringe of the valley, near the rim of mountains. If they were journeying to Stonehollow, they would have been going east, but instead, she discerned a northerly bend to their journey. They were crossing the lowlands along the northern edge. Each step took them farther away from the Winemiller’s vineyard. Her heart yearned to see it again.

In the late afternoon, they encountered an abandoned homestead. That it was abandoned was plain to see because the roof had caved in, the fence was rotting and dilapidated and the grasses had grown as high as their waists. It was a large stone cottage and the walls were intact, though the windows were missing, and Phae could see a hive of bees in the roofline, the swarm buzzing in the late afternoon.

The stone cottage was sullen and lonely and Phae pitied it immediately. There was an unkempt fruit orchard beyond the broken fence and she could see the branches laden with wild fruit.

“Can we stop a moment?” Phae implored, gazing hungrily at the trees. He glanced back at her, saw where she was looking and shrugged his indifference.

She walked through the high grass, enjoying the new smells on the breeze. The house looked so lonely and forlorn. How long had it sat empty of life? How long had nature laid claim to its seams and mortar? Trasen wanted ducats to buy a farmstead in Wayland. This one could be taken and rebuilt. A new roof could be put on, the grasses cut with a thresher. It was a sturdy-looking place and it seemed to weep in the light, begging her to stay. What if Trasen and she could fix it together? The thought of it sent a subtle thrill through her bones. Just the two of them, starting a homestead together.

When she reached the orchard, she discovered it was laden with dark, leather-skinned pears. They did not look very inviting, but she plucked one and sank her teeth into it. The flesh beneath the peel was as sweet as treacle and the flavor surged into her mouth. They were delicious! The skin was dark and rough, but the flesh was white and sugary. She devoured three quickly, appeasing her ravenous hunger. She quickly plucked several more and began stuffing them into her pack.

Turning, she spied the Kishion climbing the roof toward the beehive and gawked. He maneuvered up the corner of the cottage, his gloves tucked in his belt, and moved up the surface like a spider. The small seams in the stone and mortar were very small, but his fingertips and boots seemed to have no problem tracing their lines and finding suitable handholds. She stared at him as he reached the edge of the roof and slung himself up on the edge. He walked a few paces to where the beehive was fastened to the eaves.

Phae stared at him, chewing and swallowing. Was he mad? Brushing some hair from her face, she watched in shock as he crouched near the edge of the roof and then plunged his hand into the hive.

The bees reacted in a chorus of angry buzzing and darted at the Kishion’s face and arm in response to the invasion. She watched the stinging creatures and nearly cried out to him, but the little stabs apparently meant nothing to him. He did not flinch or swat them away. He let them sting him. His hand withdrew a dripping gob of honeycomb. Then he leaned over the edge of the roof and plummeted to the ground.

Phae started in surprise, nearly rushing to help him, and saw him straighten from the impact. He had landed on his feet and looked as hale as ever. He strode toward her, breaking off pieces of the honeycomb and eating them. There were no welts on his face or hands, only the strange scars that had always been there. It was impossible. He should have broken his legs falling from that height.

He nibbled on another cluster of honeycomb and then offered the rest to her. She was almost too afraid to take it.

“What are you?” she whispered, staring at him in confusion. “Bees cannot harm you. Neither did the fall.”

He offered the honeycomb again with a gesture and she took it, careful of its dripping. He wore a ring on his right hand.