Tyrus shook his head. “No. I am determined. I relied on others far wiser than myself. Drosta, for one. He knew the truth about the gilded prison of Kenatos. He managed to escape it as well. I am bound to that tree in the Paracelsus Towers just as she is bound to me. The Dryads have a ceremony for when it is time to reproduce their kind. They choose their mates. I was chosen. In our culture, when a man and woman marry, they wear a ring on their finger as a symbol of their union. When a Dryad chooses a mortal, she wears a bracelet around her ankle until the man is dead. It is an ancient custom. She does not choose a man very often. Only when she senses a need to reproduce her kind. The Dryad in the tower is my wife. I never forced her. Annon—what you need to understand is that I do have a daughter.”
Annon nodded slowly. He understood that each kingdom had its own tradition of marriage. It was even so among the Druidecht. Why should the immortals be any different?
“Where is she?” Annon asked.
“Stonehollow. That is where my family came from. It is where those of the fireblood came from. Our people, Annon. I knew that I would not be able to seek her out and teach her what she needed to know. I entrusted her to people who would protect her and teach her at the right time. She was to be raised an orphan. She is sixteen. She is the age when she must choose whether or not to bond with a tree. The stones I sent Hettie after are the way she will be found. She should have a necklace with a blue stone embedded in it. The other stones will be drawn to it. That is the only way I can find her.”
Erasmus sat on the bench, playing with an apricot. “Stonehollow is almost beyond the Arch-Rike’s reach. They are wary people and slow to trust outsiders. A wise location.”
“Thank you,” Tyrus said. He then reached across the table and rested his hand on Annon’s. The gesture was remarkably tender. “I cannot tell you how it relieves me to share this burden with someone else. If the Kishion had killed me, the secret would have been lost for another generation or two. The Plague will come again. This may be the chance to stop it. I know you have hated and despised me, Annon. I have not been a good father or a good uncle. I accepted this when I decided to enter the prison of Kenatos. To be honest, you were the one who first gave me an idea of the solution.”
Annon was startled. “What do you mean? How could I have possibly done that? We have hardly ever met.”
“I know. But you marked me deeply, Annon. I once heard a Rike say something that described the experience I had at your birth. It was spoken at the marriage ceremony he conducted for two love-struck fools who were poor enough to be truly pitied. He said this after commissioning them to start a family without delay. Parents—be they Vaettir, Cruithne, or Aeduan—realize that the most powerful combination of emotions in the world is not called out by any grand celestial event, nor is it found in archives or histories. The most powerful combination of emotions is caused merely by a parent gazing down upon a sleeping child.”
Tyrus paused, his voice thickening. “I cannot tell you the anguish and torture it was to let Hettie be stolen by that Romani midwife. I hated myself for not predicting it. I helped you enter this world and was the first to hold you. Your father was a good man. He trusted me. He lost his life because of me. As I watched you sleep for the first time, curled near your mother’s breast, I felt a surge of emotions that were completely alien to me. It was that experience which helped me understand that I needed to be willing to sacrifice something important in order to repair the damage of the Plague. A child would be required. A Dryad child to bond with a tree in the Scourgelands and learn the truth about the past. How could I ask that sacrifice of anyone else other than myself? How could I expect a mother to suppress her feelings if I was not willing to? You see it all now, Annon. You see my secret. You know my plan. The Arch-Rike realizes I am up to some mischief. He has no idea what. By telling you both what I have, I increase the odds of my success.”
Erasmus rubbed his mouth. “Along with our likely demise,” he muttered. He sighed heavily. “You could have warned us, Tyrus.”
The Paracelsus smiled smugly. “I did when we first met, old friend. But you wanted to make a difference in this world. You have ambitions of making it a more just and equitable place. Not to mention this would be the greatest political upset in a thousand years.”
Annon stared at the platter of food and realized how famished he was. Tyrus watched him begin to devour the meal. He looked calm and peaceful. The frantic edge in his eyes had been replaced by a look he could almost call tender.
“So what do I even call you?” Annon asked at last, unsure of his own feelings. “You are partly my uncle. Partly my father. Partly a total stranger to my family. What are you to me?”
“You may call me whatever you like. There is more to family than just blood. Is there anything else you would know of me?”
Annon thought a moment. “My mother. What became of her?”
Tyrus pursed his lips. “When I returned to the stone hovel later, I learned of her death. Her madness made her unleash the flames in their full power. The roof burned and collapsed. The fire could not harm her. A wooden beam did. The villagers were unnerved that her skin was not burned after the blaze ended. They realized she had the fireblood. When I came back, they tried to kill me.”
It sickened Annon to hear it. “You always warned me to tame my anger.”
Tyrus smiled weakly.