“Go farther back,” she coaxed. “What is your earliest memory of him?”
He explored his memories even farther. Most were new to him. Brief flashes of feelings and intense loneliness. He suffered under the weight of a child’s pain. Memories were blurry, especially further back. If he went further, would he even remember his birth?
She touched his wrist. “Please understand, Annon. The strength of my magic is related to memories. We have memories to keep specific people in our thoughts. Our emotions bind the memories to us. Emotions like love, loyalty, or gratitude are strongest. The stronger the emotion, the more vivid and influential the memory. As you seek your greatest pains, you will find the memories that contain the greatest wisdom.”
It was as if saying the words made it true. He remembered a woman. He remembered her face—the claw marks on her face. The wounds that had barely healed. He was young—a babe, if that. A year old? Certainly less than two. He remembered her face and the fierce love he had for her. But then she was hurting him. She was making him cry. She was shaking him. He was frightened, terrified. There was shouting and screaming. He did not understand the words because he was still too young to comprehend language. But he understood the emotions and knew the woman was his mother. She was hurting him. She was shaking him. And there was Tyrus—younger but just as imposing. His face also scarred by claw marks. Tyrus had taken him, pulled him up into his huge chest and shielded him. There were blue flames, orange flames spitting at them both. His child’s heart was in a terror. He clutched at Tyrus for protection and safety. He loved his mother, but she frightened him.
They abandoned a stone hut and went into a storm. Tyrus covered him with his cloak. There were screams of rage. The home was burning. The roof was ablaze. Screams of pain. Screams of madness. Tyrus was cooing to him, trying to blot out the sound. Annon was wailing hysterically. He was lost in the moment, in the nightmare. The rain was freezing. He was hungry, cold, abandoned.
There was a horse. Tyrus mounted it, clutching the baby in his arm. Smothered in the wet smell of wool, Annon struggled and whimpered until he cried himself to sleep.
When Annon awoke, he found his head in Neodesha’s lap, her fingers gently stroking his hair. She blotted his tear stains on her embroidered sleeve. Her look was tender.
He looked up at her, his emotions nearly too fragile to speak.
“We are bound together, you and I,” she said. “I experienced your memories as you relived them.” She smiled sadly, continuing to stroke his hair. “I do not think Tyrus of Kenatos means you harm. He felt and feels a certain degree of responsibility for you. The past makes that abundantly clear. Your mother had the fireblood. She was mad. Do not judge him harshly, Annon.” Her fingertip traced the edge of his lip. “Wisdom helps us understand that we are not alone in this great world. The sufferings of others cause us to suffer too. We are all bound. More so than we realize.” She looked him firmly in the eye. “I believe it is time you faced the man you’ve known as your uncle. I do not think it coincidence that he is in Canton Vaud right now. Waiting for you.”
Nizeera began to purr. She is right. It is no accident. We face him together, you and I.
“I read this in a volume written a thousand years ago, ‘Tears at times have the weight of speech.’ They do indeed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon would never forget her face.
The Dryad’s kiss had altered him permanently. It was unsettling to realize that his memories were so sharp he could cut himself on them. Insignificant details from his past flitted through his mind as he walked back to Canton Vaud. Nizeera padded silently next to him, subdued by the experience that nearly cost them their lives.
You have powerful allies, Druidecht. And powerful enemies. Be cautious.
It was dawn again when he reached the camp, the night having passed in sullen silence. He was fatigued, weary from the march, but he first sought Reeder’s tent to see if Erasmus was still there. He was not.
He asked for directions to the Thirteen and was pointed toward a series of grand pavilions. Thin trailers of mist crept amidst the awakening Druidecht. Small dashes of light displayed the presence of the morning spirits, some carrying gossip. He was approached by several, some bowing in respect before flitting on. Nizeera’s tail began to swish again. He thought he heard the faint murmur of her purring.
As Annon approached the grand pavilions, he caught sight of Palmanter emerging from the folds. Several spirits attended him, and he nodded his head to them and offered a few words in response. Gazing around the camp, his eyes fell on Annon. He seemed surprised.
“It happened that quickly?” he asked in a low voice after approaching. “You met the Dryad?”