Annon clasped his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes shut deliberately. Waiting. Breathing.
“I am here, Annon,” she answered.
He looked up in surprise, his heart trembling with emotions. She smiled at him, that curious smile. It was a secret smile, one she only gave him. At least he hoped it was that way.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Thank you for your aid during the fight with the Arch-Rike’s people. I heard the spirits bring your message. I did not know they could travel so fast.”
She smiled and sat down in the turf near him, her dress a different color but the same style. “Of course I would help you, Annon. I did not want you to die.”
He flushed, trying to control his feelings. “Thank you for saving my friend. I would not have risked removing the Kishion ring without that message you sent me.”
“You will find that most prisons are forged in someone’s own mind. And they invariably possess the key to their release if they could but think to use it. But some prisons are forged by others and it requires another intervening on our behalf to open the lock. Such is the case with the Kishion magic. It would not have worked if he had shed someone’s blood. The ring would have exploded and killed you. What did you wish to ask me? Why did you summon me here?”
“I was not certain you would come,” Annon answered.
“I cannot leave my tree for long. What would you ask me?”
“Two questions.”
“Name them.”
He nodded quickly. “I need your advice. I am not a leader of men. I am not a manipulator like Tyrus, who pretended to be my uncle. It is pretty certain that I’m young and inexperienced, yet Tyrus seemed to place the burden of leadership on me. You know the ways of mortals. Give me your counsel on how I may lead them.”
She gave him an appraising look. “My kiss has certainly improved your thinking. A very good question. Will you hearken to my counsel, if I give it to you?”
“I will. I promise.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Being a leader is not about rank or power. It is not even about skill or cunning. The best leaders, Annon, serve those they lead. You are united to a common goal. They will not follow you because Tyrus said so. They will follow you if they believe in their hearts that you care about them. That you sincerely desire their good regard. That you treat them with honor and respect and humility. The more of yourself you give away, the more they will flock to you. They will heed you. They will sacrifice for you. They will suffer with you.” She smiled and touched his arm. “That is how to lead men. That is how to earn the respect of Mirrowen.”
He nodded, remembering every word. “I must serve them. Be sure their needs are met. Show them that I care. I can do that, I think. A Druidecht believes in serving others.”
“I know,” she replied.
“I’m frightened,” he confessed. “The Arch-Rike will send everything he can to stop us. I do not understand why, but I will do what I can to stop him. Without my uncle…I mean, without Tyrus, I do not know how much of a chance we stand.”
She nodded sympathetically but said nothing.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. “I do not think you would know where Basilides is, since it is within the Arch-Rike’s sphere of control, and he does not control the woods west of Silvandom.”
“You are right,” she answered. “I cannot help you. Was that your second question?”
He shook his head. They had not known each other for very long, but he felt connected with her in a way that defied explanation. Their time together in the woods had created a bond. The thought of anyone damaging her tree again and banishing her from the world filled him with horror. He did not know how she felt about him.
He swallowed his nervousness. When the trouble with the Scourgelands was over, he hoped to be able to return to Silvandom. He hoped to learn more of her and of the spirits in the land. “Do you have any jewelry that you wear? A bracelet, say. Around your…your ankle?”
There was that smile again, a very personal smile. She looked pleased and a little startled.
Instead of answering, Neodesha smoothed the hem of her skirt away, revealing her bare feet. And bare ankles.
Tyrus’s words floated through his mind, his memory perfect from her kiss. 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.
It was not lost on him that the Dryad chose the man. He stared at her face a while longer, knowing he would see it always in his mind.
“Thank you,” he offered, hoping they would all survive the challenges ahead. Unlike Tyrus’s previous group.