Dryad-Born (Whispers From Mirrowen) Read online

  He sighed, shaking his head slowly. What a mismatch of loyalties. How was he ever going to unite them into a common purpose? Tyrus’s goal had been straightforward from the start. The land was troubled by devastating Plagues that happened every generation. Eighteen years earlier, Tyrus had led a group into the Scourgelands, which he believed contained the secrets of the Plagues’ origins. The group had been massacred. Only Tyrus had survived because of the Druidecht woman who was Annon and Hettie’s mother. She had explained the lore of the Dryads to him, how they could steal memories and were guarding the Scourgelands. Tyrus had also deduced that the Arch-Rike had surreptitiously foiled the expedition. From that ultimate betrayal came the seeds of his latest plan.

  The secrets of the Scourgelands could only be learned by someone who was Dryad-born.

  Tyrus himself had sired the one chance they had to uncover the secrets. Prince Aransetis had been sent to find the girl in Stonehollow and bring her to learn her destiny. Paedrin and Hettie were sent to uncover a weapon of power to help them survive the dangers of the Scourgelands. Kiranrao had been tasked with causing mischief with the Arch-Rike’s plans. And himself? Tyrus had given Annon the most difficult challenge of all. At the conclusion, they had agreed to meet at the Dryad tree that Annon had protected from an attack by Boeotians. Annon had charged and dispatched several spirits to watch for the arrival of the others and to lead them to the Dryad tree.

  He felt Nizeera nuzzle against his leg.

  They are ready.

  Annon glanced down at the sinuous cat, part mountain lion, part spirit creature. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of silver. Through the talisman he wore beneath his clothes, he could hear her thoughts. She had made an oath to protect him. Her claws and teeth would savage anyone who tried to harm him.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, stroking the fur near her ears. He walked back to the table where the dead Rike from Kenatos lay prostrate. Khiara spoke in low tones, in her tongue, to a wizened old man who had been summoned to perform the ceremony. He did not have many years left to live, but the gift they were asking of him was enormous. Part of his life would be required to revive the dead man. It had taken all of Khiara’s persuasion and the Prince’s reputation to secure his cooperation in the end.

  Annon stared at the body. The man on the table was fair-haired with streaks of silver. Erasmus had used his great abilities of observation to conclude that he was the one most likely to know the information they needed. It was a risk though. There was a great chance he might not know anything useful.

  The skin was pasty and white and he was lying as a man on a bier, hands clasped over his heart. They had not removed his black cassock or his possessions, though nearly all had been rendered useless by Tyrus during the battle. Only the black rings still worked, the infamous black rings that allowed a Rike of Seithrall to know the truth.

  “Are you ready, Annon?” Erasmus asked, rubbing his mouth. He shook his head slowly. “He will not be easily deceived. He may even know he died. He will be disoriented and wary. I think you have a one in five chance of being able to convince him you are from the Rikehood.”

  “Is that really all the chance I have?” Annon asked wryly.

  “I was feeling generous. You’re a stripling. At least with the rings we’ve taken, we’ll know if he is lying to us.”

  Khiara nodded to the old man, patting his shoulder affectionately, and looked over at them. She nodded that all was ready.

  Erasmus retreated to the shadows of the room. He wore the black cassock as well, but his eyes were peculiar enough that he felt it unwise to be too near, lest they give him away. Annon sent Nizeera to join Erasmus in the alcove. She enjoyed tormenting Erasmus and licked his hand as if preparing to take a bite.

  Annon rested his palms on the table, breathing deeply to calm himself. He was the only Waylander among the group, an Aeduan, and they all felt that provided him the best chance to deceive the Rike. The task that Tyrus had given him was to learn the location of the Arch-Rike’s secret temple, the oracle of Basilides. It would be heavily guarded and possibly contain information on when the next Plague would strike.

  The old man smiled at Annon and then raised a trembling hand over the dead man’s chest. He began murmuring softly in the Vaettir tongue. It had a lilting quality to it, almost a melody. Annon stared at the face of the Rike. He waited, knowing that even Druidecht magic took time to manifest.

  The body convulsed. It jerked once, then again, spasms rocking through it. Then slowly the chest swelled with an intake of breath. Annon glanced at the old man, who was breathing in deeply. The two bodies were in rhythm together. The old man winced and his hand trembled even more. Khiara clutched him, holding him upright as he continued the ceremony. Another deep breath. Then another. Annon watched the throat of the dead man swallow.

  His eyes fluttered open.

  Suddenly, he was gasping and choking, sitting up quickly, hand clutching his chest as if in great pain. Annon grabbed his shoulders.

  “You made it back,” Annon said. “You’ve been dead for two days. Another day and we’d have lost you forever.”

  The Rike coughed ferociously against his own forearm. He shook and trembled, his body twitching and convulsing. “I was dead,” he said hoarsely. “The light. The pain. I still remember it.”

  “You have information the Arch-Rike needs,” Annon said, swallowing his nervousness. He needed to be sure he phrased his words so that the ring would not alert the Rike of a lie. “What happened in Silvandom?”

  The Rike shook his head, as if his neck muscles were suddenly twitching. “Where am I?”

  “You’re still in Silvandom. We arranged for a healer to revive you. How do you feel?”

  “How do you think it feels to be dead?” the man snapped impatiently. “My muscles are tingling. The blood is sluggish. I’m lightheaded.” He lay back down quickly. He stared up at Annon, his eyes suddenly confused. “Nausea. A bitter taste in my mouth. Are you writing this down? This is important to record for the Archives. Blasted fool. I cannot move my legs yet. Ugh, the pain of blood circulating. I have no memory of what happened after my death. I cannot recall anything about the afterworld. I probably was not there yet. Two days, you say? Interesting. Did any of the Paracelsus survive?”

  “None of them,” Annon answered. “All were killed.”

  “Even the Kishion?” the other asked doubtfully. “That cannot be.” He held up his hand with the ring.

  “No, of course he wasn’t killed,” Annon replied. He stared down at him. “Do you know of the place called Basilides?”

  The man swung his head around sideways, staring at Annon, aghast. “How do you know of Basilides? You are no more than twenty, if that. How could you know of it?”

  “I don’t know exactly what it is,” Annon replied carefully. “Only that it is spoken of in hushed tones. A Paracelsus told me it’s an oracle.”

  “You dare to even speak of it?” the man said warily.

  “I see,” Annon said, nodding apologetically. “Then you do not know where it is. We were ordered to go there, but lack the information to carry out the request.”

  “Why would you be ordered to go there?” he demanded. He twisted slightly, easing himself up on his arm. His eyes began darting throughout the room, gazing at Khiara and the old Shaliah healer and then at Erasmus in the corner.

  He looked at Annon suddenly, his gaze intense. “Who are you?”

  “You wouldn’t know my name. I’m from Wayland originally,” he answered, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He was losing the man’s trust by the mere mention of Basilides. He cursed himself for asking about it so soon.

  “Where did you say you were from?” he asked, his expression suddenly perplexed. His eyebrows twisted with confusion and his face grimaced as if he were experiencing great pain. He tried to lean closer to Annon.

  “Are you sick?” Annon asked. “If you need to rest a moment…”

  “Help me,” he said, shaking his head. “
My legs still don’t work.” He reached down and tried to pull his leg up a little. Annon was not sure what to do.

  Then the Rike grabbed a fistful of Annon’s shirt and dragged him on the table. He stumbled, losing his footing, and planted his hands on the table. A silver knife swung around and pressed against his throat.

  “Your carotid artery is right here, alongside the slope of your neck. If you or any of your friends attempt anything foolish, I swear I will cut it open and you will bleed to death in moments. Your ring confirms I speak the truth. Now you will answer my questions, boy!”

  “The very essence of instinct is that it’s followed independently of reason. Sometimes it is those instincts that serve us best.”

  —Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  The edge of the table cut into Annon’s stomach. He reflexively grabbed the Rike’s wrist, to pull away the dagger, but the man’s strength was increasing and he felt the blade nick his throat.

  “Struggle and I’ll kill you,” he seethed. “Now answer my questions. What is your name? Say it!”

  “Annon of Wayland,” he answered, his heart hammering.

  “The Druidecht. Tyrus’s nephew. Visited the city very recently and was foolish enough to tell the Rike at the gate who you were. Lad, I pity you. The Arch-Rike will not excuse your treason easily, but if you surrender to me…”

  Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

  Blue flames appeared at Annon’s fingertips, still clenched around the Rike’s wrist. The sudden sting of scorching heat made the man start with pain and jerk his hand away, dropping the blade. He scooted away from Annon, his eyes wide with fear but his legs were still not working.

  Annon struggled to control his fury. “You were dead for two days,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “You were only brought back because I thought you might have useful information. Whether you live or die makes little difference to me.”

  The Rike stroked his burned wrist, which was bright red from the burn and blisters were already appearing on the skin. “I can be useful to you, Druidecht.”

  “I doubt it,” Annon replied. It was a battle controlling his anger. “I seek the location of Basilides. As you just said, you are forbidden to speak of it.”

  “I did not say that,” the man replied with a calculating grin. “What were my words? You bear the ring. I could not lie to you.”

  Annon’s memory was perfect. He could remember every word that anyone had ever spoken to him in his life. A Dryad’s kiss had unlocked his mind completely. “Clever. Few dare to even speak of it.”

  “You remembered. Well done. I’ve heard the Druidecht have good memories. I know the location of Basilides. If that knowledge will save my life, then we can discuss terms. I cannot tell you where it is—that is forbidden—but I will take you there if you spare my life.”

  Annon glanced at Khiara. She stared at the Rike with disgust and wariness, her hands clenching the tapered oak staff. She was ready to use it against him. Erasmus moved from the shadows, approaching.

  “It costs a great deal to revive someone from the dead,” the Rike said. “I can also guarantee you that no other man who came with our force has the information you seek. You chose wisely to seek me out.”

  Erasmus rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “You would only give us the information we seek if it would benefit you in some way. You would benefit most from our capture. Leading us into a trap.”

  The Rike turned around to look at him. “Ah, Erasmus of Havenrook. Well met. You bet foolishly throwing in your lot with Tyrus.”

  “Not if we succeed,” he answered blandly.

  “Even you cannot tally the odds of that happening,” the Rike replied with disdain. “This is Prince Aransetis’s manor still? I promise you, whatever resources this prince of Silvandom has, it will be paltry compared with what the Arch-Rike brings to bear against you. For my life, I will give you the information you seek. But may I attempt to persuade you to surrender yourselves to my custody? If you return with me to Kenatos, I swear to you that I’ll plead your cause with the Arch-Rike personally. He may be lenient.”

  “How comforting,” Khiara said, her expression void of compassion.

  “What’s your name?” Annon asked.

  “I am Lukias, a Provost-Rike of Kenatos.” He closed his eyes, squinting against pain, and started to move his legs. He grunted as they began to twitch and buck. “Amazing powers the Shaliah have. I have seen someone dead a few hours brought back to life through our arcane methods, but I have never…” He paused, overwhelmed by pain, and straightened his legs until they dangled off the table edge. “I need camphor leaves. The pain is excruciating. I see why, after three days, one cannot be revived. This knowledge would be useful to have in the city. There are no Shaliah there.”

  “Nor will there be,” Khiara responded. He nodded for the old man who had revived Lukias to leave. His expression was quizzical and Annon believed he could not understand the nature of the conversation, but that he was disturbed by what he had seen.

  “Before we agree to terms, we must ask you a few questions to judge the risk,” Annon said.

  Lukias smiled brazenly. “The risk? You have no chance of success. The Arch-Rike is aware of you, he is aware of your quest, and he managed to subvert one of your group beneath your notice. You have no chance. None.”

  “Then you risk nothing giving us the information we need. Is the oracle inside the city of Kenatos?”

  Erasmus held up his hand. “We must be more precise, Annon. Words are too slippery. Is Basilides in the city of Kenatos?”

  “No,” Lukias answered. “Its location is a carefully guarded secret. But it is not in the city.”

  “Why would you bring us there then? What motive do you have?”

  Again, Erasmus held up his hand. “Let me ask the questions, Annon. A man has many motives. Any of which would not break the ring’s prohibitions for lying.” He studied the Rike for a moment. “Tell us what you can of Basilides.”

  Lukias’s mouth twitched into a frown. “A good question.”

  Erasmus smiled at the compliment.

  “Basilides is often referred to as an oracle. Do you know the concept of the mastermind?”

  Annon nodded. “My uncle spoke of it, yes. He learned it from the Arch-Rike himself.”

  Lukias smiled shrewdly. “Good. It is a group of individuals united together in a common purpose. They embrace a common goal. Basilides is the Arch-Rike’s mastermind. You approach it at your peril.”

  “My uncle said it’s a pool or a grove,” Annon said.

  “He was well informed, but never given the full information. It’s located near a pool. You must understand that the Arch-Rike’s mastermind are the dead. They are the rulers of the past. His predecessors in rank. Centuries of wisdom preserved from destruction. It is considered the highest of honors to be granted permission to visit Basilides. It is a mark of the Arch-Rike’s favor. That is why I know of it. As you can already discern, he trusts me.”

  “And yet you tell us these things?”

  “Only in a sincere effort to persuade you that it is madness trying to go against him. Tyrus of Kenatos is a brilliant and calculating man. He is a Paracelsus without peer and wiser than most. He was once the Arch-Rike’s ally. But he turned against him and provoked the Arch-Rike’s wrath. I have seen what happens to those who incur such displeasure. I can only imagine what lies you have been told.”

  Erasmus held up his hand subtly to forestall Annon. “What have you been told about Tyrus’s intentions?”

  “His stated intentions or his true goals?” Lukias sneered.

  “Both, if you please.”

  “Overtly, Tyrus of Kenatos has pursued a single-minded goal. His research into the Archives has been monitored and evaluated. His accomplishments are legendary. He says that he seeks to end the Plague. This is probably how he persuaded you to join him.”

  “It is so,” Erasmus replied. “But you say that he has another agenda?”

/>   “It is equally obvious. He seeks to hide and control the learning of the Paracelsus order. He has deliberately falsified Archive records and obscured references, even forging addendums in the texts to mislead his peers. He destroyed his own tower in order to prevent his knowledge from being studied by others. It was not the Arch-Rike that destroyed the tower, it was Tyrus’s own doing! A heap of rubble. Millions of ducats worth of magic shattered and devalued. He is on a quest to abolish his own order!”

  Erasmus pursed his lips. “And so you have been told.”

  “More than told!” Lukias said defiantly. “I have helped lead the investigation into his crimes. I have known Tyrus of Kenatos for many years. I have seen these records myself. I know Tyrus’s handwriting. I am an expert on the Paracelsus order and their rituals. Do you know how many books were in his tower before it exploded? How much knowledge was disintegrated in an instant due to his pride and reckless ambition?”

  Annon’s temper flared white-hot. The flames in his fingers began to swell. “The entire Paracelsus order was formed around the slavery of spirit beings,” he said angrily. “The lights that power your great city shine because they are beings trapped into servitude!”

  “Spare me these Druidecht sensibilities,” Lukias answered patronizingly. “There is no servitude or bondage. It is only because you do not understand the principles of matter involved that you scorn it. In the past, the Druidecht developed superstitions to explain forces of nature. You are jealous because you do not understand the truth. Wayland is a backward kingdom in every sense. You know nothing about it.”

  Annon stepped forward. Khiara shot him warning look. “I have been to Kenatos, as you well know. I have seen this imprisonment with my own eyes. I visited my uncle’s tower. I took a blade from a Preachán in Havenrook, one that had been constructed by a Paracelsus, and released the spirit trapped inside. Does your ring tell you that I am lying?”