Dryad-Born(54)

One breath. Two breaths.

She reached up and touched his face, feeling the grooves of the claw marks. Her touch brought his eyes down, meeting hers. She had contact with his eyes. She could snatch the memory away if she blinked. She could steal it all away.

She did not.

He stared at her in surprise, his expression a mix of anger and awe.

“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please protect me.”

The dagger fell from his hand, sinking blade-first into the road. He gave Phae a quick nod just before shoving her away from him as hard as he could, sending her backward into the air as if a battering ram had struck her. He turned on his heel, sank into a crouch, as if praying, and exploded into a deafening blast of light. Had she been standing next to him, it would have killed her.





“One of the ancient Cruithne kings carved this into a monument in his great city: He that is kind is free, though he is a slave. He that is evil is a slave, though he be a king.”


—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos





The explosion rang in Phae’s ears, the blast buffeting them all and knocking each sprawling. Heat and a tingling pressure lingered in the air, sending streamers of smoke from her clothes. A strong hand grabbed her forearm and helped her back to her feet. It was the Vaettir prince, his expression stern and forceful. He said something to her, but the ringing in her ears prevented her from understanding him.

She shook her head and shoved past him, staring in shock at the Kishion’s kneeling form. He was hunched over, head bowed, at the edge of a small crater. The blast ran out in a circle around him, charring the earth as if a stroke of lightning had landed there, though there were no clouds in the sky. Rock fragments were strewn about and pine cones and shattered branches rained from the nearby trees. The Kishion slowly stood and turned to face them.

The look in his eyes was haunted. She stared at him, realizing he had shielded her from the explosion with his own body, uncertain whether his immunity would save him from death. Her ears pierced with noise, but she approached him, staring down at his hands.

The gloves were smoking, charred with soot. He shook them off, revealing the ring on his finger. The sigils carved into it were marred and twisted. Slowly, the Kishion wrenched it from his finger and stared at it in his palm for long moments. Then he tossed it into the crater.

The Prince and Tyrus approached them.

“We must fly,” her father said, his voice husky with emotion. “Come, both of you. Hold my arm.”

Phae heard his words as if they were spoken under water. She saw him extend a cylindrical object, made of brass or gold with gems studded into the two ends. It was carved with peculiar symbols. The Prince rested his hand on the outstretched arm. Phae was hesitant, looking at the Kishion to see what he would do.

His voice was hushed. “Where do we go?”

“A safehouse. It will not take long before they start arriving. Grab my arm.”

The Kishion did and Phae joined her hand to the mix. There was a queer feeling of power, a spinning sensation that made her lose her balance and she stumbled. The sky was suddenly darker, much darker than it was a moment before. They were in the woods somewhere, but the trees were different—cedar instead of bristlecone. The flavor of the air was strange, the night full with the sound of flies and other insects. Smoke from a wood fire met her nose and she struggled back to her feet, seeing that they were just outside a sturdy cabin in the woods.

“The root cellar,” Tyrus said to the Vaettir, pointing to it.

The Kishion examined the area quickly, searching the yard and taking in the details. It was a woodsman’s home, with several cords of wood stacked neatly with a round, gouged splitting block nearby. There was a shed nearby as well, but her father’s finger pointed to the trapdoors of a cellar at the base of the cabin. Prince Aran marched to it and heaved open the doors. The hinges were well oiled and opened soundlessly.

The main door of the cabin opened, spilling out lamplight. A wizened old man emerged, thickset and brawny. He hefted an axe in his left hand and a lantern in his right. Most of his hair was gone, with only a dusting of gray slivers across his dome.

“Tyrus?” the old man croaked.

“Hello, Evritt,” Tyrus replied, stepping into the light.

The older man looked at the rest of them and then motioned for the cellar and then sat down on the rocking chair on the stoop. He cradled the axe in his lap. The chair began to creak as he slowly began to rock.

The Prince hefted the doors open and ventured down the ladder first. Tyrus strode to the porch, gripped the old man’s hand firmly and with obvious affection, and then returned with the lantern and took Phae by the arm and brought her to the ladder descending into the cellar. He shone the light down, exposing the rungs and the Prince’s waiting face.