Dryad-Born(33)

“The ancients were truly wise. I have read on a fraying leather parchment with faded ink what was undoubtedly a copy itself the following line: People are swayed more by fear than by reverence. It led me to ask myself—what is fear? It takes many forms. It holds sway in all of us. Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. That is my opinion.”


—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos





Trasen walked all night long, reaching the Winemiller vineyard before dawn. His eyes were puffy and dry and his left arm and wrist still throbbed from the violent way the stranger had subdued him. He had tracked Phae and her pursuer into the woods quite a distance before realizing it was utter foolishness to continue with that plan. The man had taken an arrow shaft in the chest and it had not even penetrated him. It would require cunning and speed to rescue Phae. Even better—a horse.

As he marched through the aisles of grapevines, he approached the barn from the rear and pushed open the door. He hesitated waking the family, but realized he should lest they worry about a missing stallion. Leaving his dusty pack on the dirt by the barn door, he crossed to the main door and tested it. The bolt was drawn.

Each moment of delay made his heart race with dread and worry. Phae was out in the wilderness alone, hunted by a servant of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. He did not believe she could avoid capture permanently and so he assumed she was already apprehended and bound for the island city with a dangerous man. A spasm of pain went through his heart, wondering how she was being treated. He would have given his own life to separate her from that man. Clenching his jaw, he pounded his fist on the door and then sagged against it, resting his forehead on his arm and swallowing tears. Phae—where was she at that moment? Was she terrified? Was she injured? Was she even alive? The thought of losing her was pure torment.

Footsteps tread cautiously beyond the door. “Master Winemiller?” It was Tate’s voice.

“It’s Trasen,” he answered. “Open the door, Tate.”

The bolt jostled and he saw the youth’s flushed—and relieved—face. “You are back too soon.” He looked out at the darkened porch. “Where is Phae?”

Trasen couldn’t bring himself to reveal it yet. The loss was too painful. “Where is Master Winemiller?”

“He went to Stonehollow to get help from Uncle Carlsruhe. We’re expecting them both back today. I thought you were…”

“I know,” Trasen said, anxious to depart. He saw Devin poke his head around the door. The two of them were always together. Devin rubbed his eyes blearily. “Listen, both of you. I need to take one of the horses. Fast, but sturdy. I’ll take Paden.”

“Master took her already,” Devin said.

Trasen cursed under his breath. “Willow then. I assume he didn’t take the wagon and the team?” They nodded in agreement. “Good. Fetch me some bread and another waterskin. Some food for the road. There is one way out of this valley and one road to Kenatos. I’m going after Phae.”

Tate looks horrified. “You lost her!”

Trasen nearly boxed him. “I shot a man at twenty spans in the chest and it didn’t hurt him so much as a bee sting.” He grunted and shook his head. “I…I did what I could, but he was better than a soldier.”

“Is that a bruise on your cheek?” Devin asked.

“Fetch the food, Devin. I’ll saddle Willow. We don’t have time to stand here and talk. Phae is in danger. Tell Master Winemiller I’m going after her. Tell him…I won’t come back without her.”



Phae awoke just before dawn. Her muscles were cramped, and her ear throbbed with soreness. As she blinked, she tried to remember where she was and realized she had cried herself asleep on the grass. Her eyes were swollen, her throat parched. She sat up slowly, shivering uncontrollably at the memories of the night. The sky was turning violet in the horizon and the stars were beginning to vanish, one by one. Pale dawn was coming.

“Are you cold?”

His voice came from behind her and she flinched. She nodded meekly, but what made her shiver wasn’t the bite of the morning air. She was terrified and wary of anything that might upset the Kishion now.

He shifted in the grass, rising, and then settled his tattered cloak over her shoulders. She could see his arms through the rips in his sleeves, all knotted muscles and dark hair. The smell of his cloak was musty and it did not provide any comfort.

“Thank you,” Phae whispered hoarsely.

He came around and squatted in front of her, offering her leather pack that she had left behind in the abandoned cottage. She touched it, stroking the edge with her fingers, and another shiver ran through her.