“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.
The ringing in Phae’s ears was subsiding. She climbed over the lip of the cellar door and hurried down the ladder, surefooted. The strong smell of musty roots filled the space, reminding her of mushrooms and worms. Fabric sacks were stacked neatly along the far wall. It was a small, cozy space, smaller than Winemiller’s cabin in the mountains. She rubbed her hands together, feeling small and defenseless. She had three protectors it seemed, but she still felt vulnerable.
Tyrus came down with the lantern, revealing the supplies hanging from pegs on the frame. The floor was dirt but packed hard. Each scuff of her boot awakened a little plume. The Kishion came down last, reaching out and swinging the cellar door down behind him as he descended.
Phae walked hesitantly into the cellar, absorbing the heavy aroma in the air, feeling it sink into her bones. She saw another ladder at the far side and a trapdoor leading up to the inside of the cabin. Smart, she thought. More than one way to escape.
She looked at her father. “You are alive.”
Tyrus seated himself in the center of the floor and set the lantern down in the middle. The Prince edged toward the ladder they had descended and remained standing for a moment, searching the room with his gaze. Then he settled on the floor as well.
“I am,” he answered. “Sit. There is much we must say to each other.”
The Kishion stared at Tyrus, his face impassive. “Where are we?” he asked in a whisper-like voice.
“Alkire,” Tyrus replied. “But just for the night. It drains the rod when I bring others with me. It needs time to regain its power. We will be more difficult to track beneath the ground though. That should give us some time to rest. And to talk.”
Phae rubbed her arms, still staring at the other ladder. She glanced back at the man she knew to be her father. Her heart was jumbled with conflicting emotions. That he was even alive was a shock and a thrill. But she was also wary and concerned about his motives. He had abandoned her as a baby and now had come to make her part of some deeper purpose. If that purpose was related to the Scourgelands, she wanted nothing to do with it. What was the proper way to greet such a stranger?
“Sit, child,” Tyrus bid, motioning to the space on the other side of the lantern. “I’m sure you have many questions.”
Phae stared down at him, studying the haggard look on his face. Yet he seemed genuinely pleased to see her. His eyes were fierce yet gentle, as if he tamed great emotions churning inside of him. He did not want to frighten her. She nodded and obeyed.