Annon drowned with grief. He could see through Neodesha’s eyes, had watched as the Arch-Rike appeared in the Dryad grove. He deliberately did not look at her tree, his eyes downcast. She stared at him, trying to do anything to meet his gaze, to snatch his memory of where her tree was. He removed a glass bauble from a pouch at his waist and threw it at the tree. As the glass shattered, his connection with Neodesha and all of his reawakened memories were gone.
The Dryad’s kiss was broken.
A thick veil began to settle over his mind. The piercing intensity of his memories and his emotions were tamped down, dulled to almost oblivion. Before he had remembered every detail of his past. Now, it was sucked into a black void, impenetrable. Even worse were the feelings that he had let her down, that he had betrayed her to her fate by leading their enemy to her tree.
The young Druidecht knelt in the stiff prairie grass, clutching himself, doubled over, his stomach starting to heave with the pounding remorse. Hettie crouched next to him on one side, the illusion gone, holding him tightly, trying to soothe him. Nizeera’s tail lashed fitfully, for she could share his emotions and knew the torment he faced. It was still just after midnight, the darkest hour. How fitting to add to his misery.
His heart had been shattered like the glass orb. Already the intensity of Neodesha’s face was beginning to fade. The memories were hollow, like glass vials. The fullness was gone. He did not want that to happen. He wanted to preserve it.
Annon struggled to his feet, tears wet on his cheeks. They were all huddled together in the dark, in some forsaken wilderness somewhere. He did not recognize the land, though it seemed vaguely familiar. Before, he would have recalled it instantly.
“Is she dead?” Annon asked Tyrus hoarsely, his voice croaking. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” came the brooding reply. “My mind is dark…right now.” Tyrus kneaded his temples with his fingertips.
“Where did you bring us?” Kiranrao demanded coldly. “Where are we?” He was pacing restlessly, his expression toward them full of contempt. “Is this the Scourgelands? Where are the trees?”
Tyrus held up his hand warningly. “This was always a risk,” he muttered. “One cannot play such stakes as these without risking everything you hold dear.” He winced with pain. “I knew Band-Imas might do this.”
“How did he?” Paedrin asked, stepping forward. Khiara had healed his injuries already and he gave Annon a look of sadness. “I recognized the Arch-Rike the moment he arrived. I know the magic he used, for Hettie has the same charm that provides the disguise. How did he slip in amongst us?”
Annon looked at him, his heart melting with pain. Pain was a teacher. What a terrible lesson to learn. “It is my fault,” Annon said miserably. “We revived Lukias after the battle in Silvandom. He was a corpse. I saw him revived with my own eyes. But when Erasmus tied him up, we left him and went into Basilides.” He shook his head with self-loathing. “Then he appeared to rescue us. It was Band-Imas, of course.”
“Ah,” Paedrin said sympathetically. “He can speak in your mind. Yes, that makes it clear. He helped you escape Basilides. Because he wanted to see where you would take him.”
“And the Tay al-Ard,” Tyrus continued, “can only take you to a place you have been before. He knew about the Dryad tree in the Paracelsus Towers. He knew about Annon’s tree but did not know exactly where it was.”
The pain was unbearable. “I failed her. It’s my fault.”
Hettie squeezed his hand.
“Yes, you did,” Kiranrao said derisively. “Look at them, Tyrus. Look at the heroes you’ve summoned.” He scanned the group with contempt. “Send the striplings away. They will only hinder us. I would fight alongside the Kishion. A Shaliah is always helpful. But really, we don’t need any of the others. Leave them behind.”
Paedrin bristled at that. “And where would we return to, I ask you? Where would we find shelter from the Arch-Rike now? Tyrus, I know you desire to end the Plague, but we must end the Arch-Rike’s rule as well. He murders the innocent. Silvandom must be told of his treachery. The Bhikhu shield him unwittingly.”
Tyrus frowned and shook his head. “No one will believe us. But I will not be distracted, not even by such a loss as this.” He approached Annon and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I feel your hurt, lad. Believe me that I do. But we must go on. We must face the Scourgelands. All of us.” The last comment was said with a sidelong look at the Romani.
“Where are we, Tyrus?” Kiranrao asked again, an edge in his voice. “Answer me.”
Annon saw the big man swallow, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Where not even the Arch-Rike will dare follow us. We are on the borders of Boeotia.”