She felt his thought burn inside her heart, searing her with its power and the gift of recollection. The Romani stopped, cocking his head, hand poised on the stopper.
“Aye, master,” the Romani said with a chuckle. “Marriages are all truly happy. It’s having breakfast together that causes all the trouble.” He laughed to himself and began working again on Shion’s wounds. “You’re an awful mess, lad. But it looks like I’ve stopped the bleeding a bit. You’ll need some stitches ere we are done, but this isn’t the place now, is it? A windy day is the wrong one for thatching. Best get you to the village yonder. Are you ready Roke, you old beast? You never plow a field by turning it over in your mind. Best to get back there, even if the casks of salmon spoil. Not worth a man’s life, anyway. I know, Roke, you old beast, everyone lays a burden on the willing horse. That’s your duty tonight. Let me lift him up . . . ugh, he’s a heavy one even without all his blood.”
Shion moaned and the man clucked his tongue. “It’s all right, lad. Worst is over. It’ll be dawn before you know it. Up with you, lad. Let’s set you on the driver’s box. I can walk alongside. Up you go!”
Phae watched him hoist Shion up on the wagon seat. He wrapped him in blankets, gave him small sips of wine and bits of cheese. He used ropes to hold him in place and immobilize him and then turned the cart around and headed back the way he had come, ignoring the mist that hung thickly in the trees, mist that had never descended low enough to dim the man’s lantern.
The Seneschal took Phae next to Stonehollow, back to the castle where she had first laid eyes on Shion. He was wrapped in heavy blankets, sitting on the window seat. Daylight illuminated his face and streaks of water came down outside as the rain lashed against the panes. His face was nearly healed, but she could see the puckered scars still livid and young with tender flesh.
In his lap, he had a book and she could see him sketching on the pages. One was the profile of a girl, a picture he had been working on for some time. As Phae looked at the page, she saw the face, the nose, the calm eyes of the Dryad from the tree. Next to the image, he had fashioned a circle with the Druidecht symbol represented. There was a thick circle in the middle followed by six designs, each with three points that budded from the center circle like a wreath of flowers. Another circle enclosed them all. He stared at the symbol, running his finger on it.
“Why did he draw the Druidecht symbol?” Phae asked the Seneschal.
“He’s inventing it,” came the reply. “Notice that he’s not wearing a talisman. Nor did the Druidecht you saw coming up the road. It’s an idea that came from him. He’s going to work with a blacksmith and forge one before returning to the woods. He wants to be able to focus his thoughts, and having the symbol will help him.”
“So he invented the talisman then?” Phae asked, startled.
“Oh yes. Here is the conversation you must hear. His brother comes.”
There was a gust of wind as the door opened and Shirikant entered the room. He was wearing an elegant tunic with intricate stitch work. It contrasted to Shion’s more humble garb. Even though he was a nobleman himself, Shion looked the part of the Druidecht and seemed uncomfortable being ostentatious. Quite the opposite for his brother. He approached Shion and stood behind him, watching him sketch with the nub of charcoal. The king waited patiently.
Shion blew on the page, staring at the symbol he had drawn. His fingers were smudged black.
“Are you certain you want to go back?” Shirikant said softly, his voice concerned. “I won’t make you, Brother. I will face the dangers alone, if I must. You’ve suffered so much already.”
Shion smoothed the paper. “I must return. I owe that Romani trader a king’s ransom for saving my life, yet he will not accept it. I promised to sing for him and his wife. That was the only compensation he would accept. He has a great voice, Brother.”
“Better than yours?” Shirikant said with a smile. “I don’t believe it.”
“He can tame beasts with his voice. But it’s not his voice that does it.” He leaned his head against the glass. “He loves his wife. Her name is Morganne. What they have between them . . . what they have is stronger than death. It’s stronger than fear. I told you that I heard a voice in a mind while I was nearly dead on the road. Perfect love is more powerful than fear.” He swallowed, staring at the drips of rain. “I love her, Brother.”