She stared at his jaw, his chin, his blazing eyes that ignored every threat. His face was so familiar to her now, so comforting. She wished she could tell him how much she needed him, how his steadfastness to her was the only source of comfort left. Her father and Hettie had been abandoned. She wondered if they were even alive. One by one the company had been brought down, all save her and Shion. In his arms, she felt a spark of hope . . . a sliver that perhaps they might survive the horrors together.
Shion pitched her with all his might toward the gap of the tree. She fell short, of course, landing with startled surprise and agony as the arrow gouged deeper. She spit dirt from her mouth as she lifted her head, shaking it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Shion locked in combat with Kiranrao, holding the dagger at bay by a strong grip on Kiranrao’s wrist. Suddenly the Romani vanished, only to reappear again on the other side, dagger midstroke. With blazing reflexes, Shion deflected it, stamping on Kiranrao’s foot and bringing an elbow around to crush his nose . . . but again, the Romani disappeared, a phantom impossible to trap and catch.
Phae watched the desperate duel for a moment, not knowing how it would end. She could not wait a moment. Clawing the ground with her nails, she pulled herself closer to the shaded gap inside the trunk. Her right leg was totally useless, but she dug her left boot up and pushed herself forward, moving as quickly as she could. She reached the edge of the trunk, saw an army of ants groping along the base, oblivious to the carnage raging not far from their spot.
A cold hand clasped her wrist and she almost looked up, but realized it would be unwise to stare into another Dryad’s eyes. She was pulled up to her feet, but kept her gaze averted, seeing only the Dryad’s bare feet and legs.
“The name of the bridge,” whispered the Dryad-born, “is Pontfadog.”
Phae heard the word with her ears, but in her mind she could understand it, could sense the deepness of the meaning. It was an alien language to her, a language long forgotten. But she could sense what it meant.
Poisonwell.
That was how her father had translated it. That was how he had attempted to define an idea, a concept that defied explanation. A bridge between two worlds, separated by death. To hear it spoken in its original tongue brought a surge of triumph into Phae’s heart. It sounded . . . familiar—as if it were a word she had learned in childhood but only forgotten.
“Thank you,” Phae said, gripping the fragile hands that had raised her. She saw the iron ring fastened to one of the fingers.
“Tell him,” the Dryad pleaded, her voice full of sadness, regret, and fringed with unshed tears, “I am sorry.”
Alarm struck Phae’s heart when she saw the iron ring. She knew it had the power to explode, to devastate her as well as the tree. She stared at it, expecting her life to be snuffed out, yet somehow it wasn’t. Could the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—not bear to destroy the source of his own Dryad’s kiss? To destroy his own ability to master memories?
Yes, came the thought to her mind. The hands folded on hers squeezed. Go, Daughter. Tell the Seneschal I am sorry. I betrayed my oath. I am banished from Mirrowen forever. I grieve for all I have lost.
The grip tightened on her hands.
Never forsake your oaths, child. Never. Now go!
Phae turned and looked back, seeing Shion backing toward the tree, daggers back in his hands. Three brown-cloaked archers were advancing, the hoods shielding their faces, gliding through the smoke of the fires Annon had started. A sense of dread and desolation exuded from their presence. Their tattered brown robes were full of decay. They were deathless beings. Phae could sense that from the tree.
Go!
“Where can I go?” Phae pleaded. “I cannot walk.”
Through the portal in the trunk. A Dryad may enter Mirrowen this way. You must go there before you seek Pontfadog. You must swear your oaths. Go, Daughter. I cannot hold off his will much longer.
The hands clasping hers were trembling. Phae raised them to her lips and kissed them. “I will free you at last, Mother.”
Phae took all the pain, all the suffering, all the hopelessness and stuffed them in a cocoon inside her heart. She released the Dryad’s hands and pulled the Tay al-Ard Annon had given her from her belt and clutched it to her bosom. With her leg throbbing, she stumbled between the gap in the trunk and found herself in another world.
XXXIV
Hettie and Tyrus backed away from the bounding Weir, drawing closer to the rugged wall of the promontory. Lukias and the Arch-Rike’s soldiers were up on the promontory above them. Both ways led to death.
“It wasn’t much of a chance,” Tyrus muttered darkly. “Grab my arm. The closer they are to us before we vanish, the longer it will take for them to find our—”
He stopped speaking, his eyes widening with shock as the Tay al-Ard disappeared from his hand.
A rumble of thunder sounded overhead.