Phae turned to look at him, her expression showing concern. “Your daughter?”
“She was still growing. Fourteen years old . . . just a little thing. She was being raised to replace her mother as the guardian of that tree. When Isic approached it, she was the one who received him. Do you see them? Over there.” A delighted smile broadened his face.
As they continued to walk and passed another row of trees, Phae could see the looming mound of rock and stone just beyond the grove, tall and imposing. There was the forked oak tree, its branch split in two with the gap in between. Shion sat near the tree, a blindfold covering his eyes. He was bigger, sturdier, more weather-beaten than the youth she had seen before. In his hands, he strummed a lute, bringing a lovely melody from the strings that reached in and pulled her heart. He sang softly, coaxingly, his voice and the instrument weaving a spell that struck her forcibly. There was magic in his hands and silk in his voice.
From around the tree, she saw the Dryad-born staring at him. She was beauty itself, so young and innocent. She crouched behind the tree, watching him, her eyes filling with wonder at the sounds coming from Shion’s instrument. She had auburn hair, Phae noticed. Her gown was a deep brown with gold threads. She looked wary, nervous.
The Seneschal and Phae approached, observing from the ring of trees. She could sense his magic concealing them.
The music died.
“Play again, Druidecht,” the Dryad girl pleaded.
“Tell me your name first,” he answered, keeping his head bowed.
“I cannot tell you my name,” she answered. “It would give you power over me. Tell me yours, Druidecht.”
“Do names hold such power? Then I give you power over me,” he answered. “My name is Isic Moussion. I am from Stonehollow. Are you from Mirrowen?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of spirit are you? You have a lovely voice. A sparrow perhaps?”
Phae thought about his name—the name of his race. Moussion. So very near to Shion. How strange. She felt a prick of jealousy listening to their conversation. It was an uncomfortable squirming feeling inside her breast.
The girl laughed. “I’m not a bird. I’m Dryad-born. I am mortal, like you.”
“Tell me of your race,” he pleaded. “You are the guardians of the woods?”
“We are the guardians of the portals to Mirrowen.” She stayed half-hidden behind the tree, well beyond his reach in case he tried to grab her.
“I won’t harm you,” he said softly. “Tell me of your people. Why do you steal our memories?”
“Why do you cut down our trees? Why do you spoil the forests? Why do you kill and spoil for sport?”
“I do not do those things,” Shion said, affronted. “I am Druidecht. I protect the woods.”
“I know. But you asked why the Dryads steal memories. To protect ourselves from mortals who would harm or steal our secrets. We guard the mysteries of Mirrowen, Isic. Do you seek them?”
“I do. It is why I came.”
“Take off your blindfold.”
Shion stiffened. “I would rather not.”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
“Yes, but I know if I look at you, I will forget. I don’t want to forget you, Dryad. You have the most lovely voice. It tortures me that I cannot see you.”
She laughed softly. “You are doing well, Isic. You are enduring the effects of my magic. A little longer and it will get easier.”
“Talking helps distract my mind,” Shion said. “Tell me of the Gardener?”
“He is called the Seneschal. He is the oldest servant. He is the master of Mirrowen because he is the servant of this world. He is . . . he is my father.”
Shion started, turning to look back at her, even though he was blindfolded. “I would meet him, Dryad. Can you bring me to him?”
“No,” she answered. “I cannot bring a mortal there through this tree. There is a bridge to Mirrowen nearby. Beyond this grove, there is a large mound of stone, with broken fissures and caves. If you follow the whispers from my father, you will reach the bridge in the center of the rocks. You must know the name in order to cross, but you cannot write it down. Do you agree, Isic? Will you safeguard the name?”
He sat up, his face growing quite excited. “I do swear it on the soul of my father—”
“No need to swear on anything,” she interrupted. “I just need your oath.”
He looked confused, but nodded in agreement. “Yes, I swear it.”