“The sentinels!” Paedrin shouted. “They have bows. From behind us. Do not look into their eyes. It is death to do so! They cannot be slain!”
With the warning just past his lips, an arrow hissed and struck Annon’s shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him down.
An arrow shot at Paedrin, but he twisted and it sailed past, embedding into a tree. Annon scrabbled at the ground, groaning with agony, and she saw the tip of the arrow that had struck him protruding from his chest. Half-bent, he raised one arm, fingers hooked, and sent off another blaze of fire, spraying it wildly around them, setting fire to the trees and brittle brush. Soon flames were crackling and smoke obscured everything. Another arrow pierced Annon in the middle and he sagged to his knees.
Shion yanked on Phae’s arm, drawing her with him toward their goal. Annon’s face, twisted with excruciating pain and black with soot, was etched in her mind, his mouth gaping with an unfulfilled scream. She felt every rushing beat of her own heart. She could not hear Shion’s words, though she saw his lips moving. He slashed the throat of one of the Weir hurtling at him, ducking the heavy body as it sailed past and killing the creature in a stroke. The fire was spreading. Paedrin stood in a maelstrom of Weir, his blade spinning in lethal arcs—in front, behind, in front, behind.
Suddenly Kiranrao appeared again, right next to Shion, and Phae tried to scream in warning. The blade lifted and fell just as an arrow pierced Phae’s leg, shattering the bone. The pain engulfed her and she went down, unable to breathe through the torture of it, watching Shion evade the lunge and kill another Weir after rolling to his feet. He slashed at Kiranrao with his blade, but the Romani vanished again. Shion saw she had fallen and even though she couldn’t walk, she clawed her way closer to the tree, pleading with the Dryad to aid them. Help us! Please!
Another arrow struck right by her breast, sticking into the dirt where a moment earlier she had collapsed. Shion scooped her up. She heard another arrow hit, only it struck him instead. She felt the jarring force of it stagger him, but he did not fall. Nor did the arrow stick. With a grimace of determination, he began to run toward the tree, and every movement made the pain in her leg more violent. She saw more Weir skulking by the tree, waiting for them, their eyes hungry. Where was Kiranrao? Swallowing the taste of bile in her mouth, Phae knew Shion could not carry her and fight them. There were still too many. She shot forth her hand and let loose another stream of flames, incinerating Weir.
The tree was unguarded.
Smoke and crackling heat pressed through the woods as Shion staggered up to the misshapen split trunk. The ground was uneven, the base of the tree lumpy with roots that made each step treacherous. She could feel the wild hammering of Shion’s heart, she was pressed so tightly against him. He cradled her, taking another round of arrows in the back that nearly made him stumble and pitch her. But he did not, he would not give way, he would not relent from his purpose. In her mind, she remembered on the mountaintop near the cabin where Trasen’s arrows had failed to bring him down. His ruthless determination to hunt was part of his character, was part of who he was. A moment of panic began to grow inside her, a fear of what she might learn when she came to know him fully. She stared up at his face, at the claw marks that had always been there . . . sealed into his skin as part of his immortality. The seed of her Dryad self was beginning to bud. She felt it responding to the Mother Tree, unfolding, beckoning to join the roots and earth and light, to drink the rain and taste the fragrances carried on the wind. To be trapped in this horrible place—a prisoner herself if she took the oath. Part of her longed for freedom, a chance to return to Stonehollow, to seek out Trasen and remind him of the feelings she had stolen from him along with his memories.
All these thoughts and feelings bubbled inside of her, tremulous and raw. But as she looked up, it wasn’t Trasen’s face she found comfort in. He would have perished during the first attacks in the Scourgelands. This man, Shion, whatever his history, had been forged inside this horrible forest. This was his home. His essence was tied to the roots. She could sense his memories seething inside the tree in front of her, clawing desperately to get out.