There was so much pain that Annon welcomed death. He sank into its folds, embracing the weightless submission. His senses became acute. He stared down at his own body, collapsed against the base of the damaged oak tree, and saw blood trickling down his fingers. It was an odd feeling, staring at himself. And then he saw the spirits swarm.
He almost resisted, afraid of the agony awaiting him, but as he felt himself thrust back into his body, his eyes blinked wide, and he felt air fill inside his chest. Tingles of pleasure shuddered through the core of his being. He stared at the craggy bark of the oak, blinking furiously, unable to speak.
“He’s still alive!” one of the Bhikhu said in surprise. “Khiara! This one lives! Hurry!”
Annon tried to push himself up, but his legs and arms were void of energy. He wobbled and nearly collapsed when a Vaettir woman caught hold of him.
She had long black hair, a sharp contrast to the short black stubble of the men nearby. Her eyes were angled and her skin dark. She did not wear Bhikhu robes, though. Her shirt and pants were the color of saffron with wide sleeves and colorful embroidery on the hem and edges. She wore a charm around her neck that first made him think of a talisman, except it was made of bone or shell. She touched the side of his face to steady him and gazed deeply into his eyes. Then she closed her eyes, and he felt a surge of power come from her body and infuse him with strength and vitality. The weakness melted away.
Annon trembled. His emotions became giddy with excitement and energy. He felt as if he could run for leagues without tiring. Her touch summoned a gush of warmth that suffused throughout him.
Her eyes opened. Her expression turned sad, her mouth drooping. “I am sorry I could not save your companion. Sooner, I may have. But his spirit form has passed beyond to the other world. He would not be called back.”
A stab of anguish struck Annon like a blade. “I know. He was already dead.”
As the girl nodded, Annon felt the sobs finally break loose. He knelt as he wept, ashamed to be seen like this, but unable to withstand the painful emotions engulfing him. Memories of Reeder flooded his mind. Sharing a moment with Dame Nestra and her stew. The warning about visiting Tyrus. He clutched his head and tried to control the choking feeling in his throat.
The girl remained with him in his grief. Her hand touched his shoulder and she squeezed it. “We pass through sorrow. We remember the good. He is not gone forever, just from our sight. In another world, they greet him and bid him welcome as we bid him good-bye. This is death.”
She removed her hand from his face and stood. The Boeotians were retreating, fleeing through the smoke. Many writhed in pain on the forest floor, their bones broken by the efficient brutality of the Bhikhu who had come to help.
“You are not a Bhikhu,” Annon said in a broken voice, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“I am a Shaliah. A healer. A keeper. A penitent.” She gazed at him sorrowfully and bowed her head. “I did little to aid you. She saved you. Do you…remember?”
Annon saw the subtle flick of her eyes toward the tree.
He struggled to remember. It was only a voice. He remembered her voice.
“Yes.”
The Vaettir girl nodded slowly. “That is rare, Druidecht. My name is Khiara Shaliah.” She bowed her head to him in respect and responded to the call of a Bhikhu who had been slashed by a Boeotian ax.
She is wise, Nizeera said, butting his arm with her nose. You may see Reeder again. In Mirrowen. Her fur was made whole and her teeth were sharp and almost grinning. You fought well, Druidecht. You showed courage.
Annon’s mind was in a fog of despair, and he did not want to accept the compliment. Smoke from the fires that he had started diffused in the air. The stench was acrid. He lingered by the tree, stroking Nizeera’s ears, hearing the shrill voices of the spirits thank him for rescuing the Dryad tree. Little flitting streaks of light zoomed past him. He felt their emotions, the joy mixed with sorrow. They had lost many of their own as well.
He slowly stood and walked around the craggy trunk to the spot where the axes had ripped into it. His stomach lurched at the damage. The wood was pale as splintered bone. The cuts were jagged and crisscrossed. It would have taken more time to fell the tree. But the damage was severe.
Annon nearly wept again. He stared at the gaping hole and then down at the dismembered arm. Would the Black Druid survive his injury? Would a spirit heal him? Sinking to his knees, Annon stared at the pale hand. He had seen flames from those fingers and knew the man had the fireblood. His derangement had come from losing himself in it. His actions were certainly that of a man who had lost his mind. He had called himself the Reaper. The Plague. Gibberish. Or was it? He dreaded the thought of meeting him again and shuddered with fear.
He was unsure how long he knelt by the tree. Other Druidechts arrived, including Palmanter. His expression was hard. His eyes full of emotion. He crouched down next to Annon, running his meaty hand across the bark of the oak.