The face that Annon saw was young—a girl not even his own age. Her hair was the color of wheat and her eyes such a pale blue-green that they were almost ivory. She smiled at him, almost timidly, and he noticed that she wore a rich green wool gown. There was an embroidered pattern on the thin wrist cuff that extended up the side of her arms. She could have been any damsel in Wayland by the look of her.
He was startled and supposed it showed on his face, for her expression turned impish seeing his reaction.
“And what were you expecting, Annon? A gown made of oak leaves or moss? Twigs in my hair? Claws instead of fingers?” Her smile was mischievous. “I am Aeduan, just as I told you. But I have lived for several thousand years.”
Annon stared at her in surprise. “How is that possible?”
She smiled demurely. “There is a tree in Mirrowen, Druidecht. One taste of its fruit grants eternal life. I have bitten its fruit as part of my binding. I was sixteen. That is the age one becomes a Dryad, you see. That is the age we are reborn.”
Her pale eyes were transfixing.
Annon cleared his throat. “So I am immune to your magic now?”
She nodded intently, pleased. “Rarely do I get to speak to another Aeduan. To learn about the world and how it has changed. Many have misperceptions about my kind. Everything I tell you, you will remember. You will come back here again, Annon. We are connected now, you and I. You will tell me about your world. I will tell you about mine.”
She knelt in front of him, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her. She looked eager to talk to him.
“The damage to your tree,” Annon said. “It did not harm you?”
She shook her head. “The tree is injured. But I am not. We are not connected that way. I do not feel her pain. She does not feel mine. What we share is much deeper.” Her voice fell lower. “We share memories. She is the receptacle. I am the engraver. You would not understand how it works, but I will try and explain it. I can take a man’s memories and implant them into the tree. What he no longer remembers, I hold safe. We are the guardians of great secrets, Annon. The past long forgotten. Yet the spirit magic that makes this work is very vulnerable. As you saw, I could not defend the tree from deliberate attack. I can only rely on others to protect me. Had you not come, I would not have died. I cannot die. But those memories would have been lost forever and I would have been trapped in Mirrowen with no way to return to the mortal world. This is my home, after all.”
Annon shook his head in amazement. “And you say you are thousands of years old? You were here before the founding of Kenatos?”
“Certainly. It is young compared to me. But there are Dryads even older than I. There are groves even more ancient.” She gave him a meaningful look.
He swallowed. “The Scourgelands.”
She flinched at the word. “That is not what we call it, Annon. Something happened there. Something long ago. A taint. An injustice. I am only a child compared to those Dryads. But they no longer speak to their sisters. They hide away. Something was done to injure them. A betrayal. That is what Tyrus seeks. That is the knowledge he is after. He is a protector of Dryads.”
It came to Annon’s mind immediately. “There is an oak tree in the middle of the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos.”
Neodesha smiled at him and twisted her fingers together. “She is a Dryad tree. One who was doomed to die because of her proximity to that city. He saved her.”
“The tree looked dead to me,” Annon said.
“Oaks are very resilient. It would surprise you. Was there a clump of mistletoe in the branches?”
He remembered it perfectly though he only recalled seeing it once. His memory was astonishingly clear. “Yes.”
“That is one of the ways you can tell. The mistletoe is a sign of our presence. In some kingdoms, it is a tradition during the winter festivals to kiss beneath a sprig of mistletoe.” Her smile was offset by a dimple. “The tradition was created by the Druidecht, of course, who alone know the truth of it.”
Annon shifted uneasily, uncomfortable from the intensity of her gaze. There was a power in it still. “And by looking at a person, you can take their memories.”
She nodded. “Tell me of your world,” she said, shaking his knee. “What kingdom do you come from?”
He shrugged, feeling awkward. “I am an orphan, but I was raised by the Druidecht in Wayland. Reeder was my…my mentor.” He felt the crushing weight of the loss suddenly, so powerful and violent that tears stung his eyes.
“Your memories are powerful,” she said comfortingly. “They will be from now on. They will burden you, it is true, but they will also serve you. You will remember things that others have forgotten. Tell me of Wayland. Where is it?”
“Several days south of here,” Annon said, struggling to control his feelings. He brushed his eyes on the back of his hand, amazed to see tears glistening on his skin. “The kingdom is sparsely populated due to the Plague. Small villages here and there, spread far from each other. Farms mostly. They grow much of the food that feeds the other kingdoms.”