He turned to the tree with an expression of helplessness and aggravation. “Show her! She thinks I am crazy. Please!”
Phae was ready to run when a girl stepped around the side of the tree. She was no older than herself, young and pretty, wearing a fine gown from a dressmaker in Stonehollow. The designs on the sleeve and the ruff at the trim marked it as such. Her eyes were as green as the oak leaves. Phae stared at the old man and then at the much younger girl. The girl was barefoot and had a bracelet fashioned into the shape of a twisting serpent around one ankle.
“Hello,” the girl said timidly. “This must be very strange to you. But I can sense what you are. You are not bound yet.”
Phae stared down at the ground. She had felt a strange feeling of intimacy after glancing at the girl’s eyes. Phae knew that the other girl could steal her memories, that they shared the same power.
“Tell her!” the old Druidecht implored. “She doesn’t know!”
“This is your wife?” Phae said, still looking at the ground. Her stomach filled with revulsion. An old man and a young girl. It was disgusting.
“Well…yes, but you don’t understand. Are you going to tell her?”
“Listen to me,” said the girl. “Listen to my words if you will not look into my eyes. You must know the truth. You have great power. And there is great danger. You must listen.”
Phae shook her head and backed away. “Stay away from me.”
“You are Dryad-born,” the girl said. “And you have the fireblood. There has never been such a combination of powers. You must stay here and learn. You must let me teach you about your heritage. I have never heard of another like you. You are powerful. And dangerous. To yourself as well as to others of our kind. You must stay and let me teach you. I can guard you from the man chasing you. You are part of Mirrowen, child. It is in your blood. If you do not choose it soon, you will forever lose your magic. Please, child. Look at me. Let me share my memories with you. Let me help you understand.”
Phae did not look at her, only at the bracelet around her ankle. Why a serpent? Was there significance to the tail and how it forked? She was so confused and afraid.
“I am a Dryad?” Phae asked. She had never heard that word before. “Is that a race? What is it?”
“Look into my eyes.”
“No,” Phae insisted. “You can steal my memories if I look at you.”
“True. But I can share mine with you as well,” she answered. “I can teach you how to control the magic. You must go soon to Mirrowen, child. You must visit the garden and eat of the fruit. I need someone who can care for this tree. I need you, child.”
Phae continued to back away. “I don’t want any of that.”
“He’s coming!” the Druidecht warned, his eyes tracking the erratic flight of a moth nearby. “He’s coming back this way!”
Phae whirled and ran, fear pounding in her heart. She heard the Druidecht calling after her. She did not care. That forest glen was a trap. The luring words were meant to harm her.
She ran as hard as she could, sprinting through the dead leaves that crackled and split as she passed over them. She ran farther, passing mammoth boulders and dwarf bristlecone. She ran hard until her legs and hips finally revolted and she collapsed in the woods, lost and sobbing.
Exhaustion robbed her completely. Her lungs burned with fire. Her chest heaved and she choked. There was no strength left. She had pushed herself too far. The forest floor seemed to pinwheel beneath her. Dizziness. Somehow, it felt as if she were flying, even though she knew she was not. Spots danced in front of her vision. Her fingers clenched around twigs and leaves.
She wept softly, hearing the crunch of boots approach from behind. Her muscles throbbed and ached. She could not move.
Phae waited, her ears ringing and legs twitching. She heard him stop nearby and waited in anguish to die. The fear, hunger, and fatigue stole away the last of her strength and she fainted.
When she revived, it was dark. The moon had just risen, bathing the world in silver light.
The scar-faced stranger sat by a boulder, staring at her.
“In Silvandom, there is a form of magic, though they do not use that word to describe it. In that kingdom, it is called keramat—a Vaettir word that can be translated into our tongue as ‘miracle.’ They are more open in discussing their beliefs than the Druidecht are. I have come to learn that there are various powers of keramat. Some can heal by touch. Others are known to travel great distances in a short time. One might even say that the Vaettir’s ability to float in the air is keramat. But the greatest gift they possess is the power to revive the dead. It is an awesome power but it comes at a dreadful cost.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos