Phae grabbed Shion in a fierce hug, whispered something to him, and then she rushed to where Annon had fallen. Paedrin and Shion joined her, watching sharply for a sign of Kiranrao, but the thief had not materialized since his stricken look.
The Dryad knelt by the Druidecht and produced a small, damp pouch. Digging her hand into it, she withdrew a clump of vibrant green moss with little flowers—the same kind Paedrin had found in Khiara’s belt that he had used to heal Baylen. Paedrin stared with wonder, realizing the Dryad had gotten it from Mirrowen somehow, and then watched as she pressed the moss into the savage claw wounds on Annon’s bloodied back. The magic swept over the Druidecht, bringing color back to his pallid cheeks. Annon lifted his head, then pulled himself up on his elbows.
“Phae?” he questioned, his voice raw but his strength returning.
“We must reclaim the Scourgelands,” she said, gripping Annon’s shoulder. Then she pointed into the woods toward the stark hillside where the ruins were. “It’s time to rebuild Canton Vaud. The ruins there . . . built by our ancestors . . . I know all of it now. I know the history. The gate to Mirrowen was closed by cruelty. We go to open it again, to open the bridge. To cross it, you must know its name. I give it to you. Pontfadog. Gather the others and fight your way in. Shion and I will go into the depths to counter the Plague. I know how. Meet us there. Go!”
Paedrin’s heart nearly burst with joy. He wanted to rush to Hettie, to save her before it was too late. Phae had changed completely, but she was still vulnerable to the blade Iddawc.
“Kiranrao is still loose,” he warned her.
She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember anything right now. I took all his memories. When our task is done, he will be hunted down and that blade taken and hidden until its binding has ended. I understand what Iddawc is now. Trust no man to wield it.”
Paedrin nodded. He didn’t need any more reason. Invoking the power of the Sword of Winds again, he flew up into the branches and crashed through the thicket and pierced the sky. He soared up to the clouds that lowered over the crumbled ruins.
“I can’t walk,” Hettie said to her captors, sitting on the ground near a pile of rubble and massaged her leg. There were three of them, wearing tunics bearing the symbols of Kenatos. They were soldiers, not Rikes, and she could see the fear emanating from their eyes. None of them dared look at her, for she still wore the illusion of Phae’s countenance and they had assumed she was Tyrus’s daughter.
“Grab her beneath her arms,” one of the soldiers ordered, beckoning to another. He sheathed his sword and came up behind her.
Suddenly Hettie swiveled on her ankle and extended her injured leg, a simple Bhikhu leg sweep, and two of them tumbled to the ground. Hettie did a quick forward roll and leapt up at the third, striking his chin with her palm, snapping his head back. She watched his eyes roll back as he staggered backward and fell. Gratified by the easy victory, Hettie spun around and stomped on one of the soldier’s arms as he reached for his fallen sword and she felt the bone crack. The other scampered away from her and she kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking him over.
Gazing down at the crumpled men, she nodded with satisfaction and slipped into the ruins, moving stealthily as she could, hiding behind slabs of lichen-speckled stone. The ruins were ancient, the stone pitted and ravaged by time and the elements. Only the barest suggestion of design and purpose could be observed. It was a lofty structure, with some tall buttresses still intact. She grazed her fingers on the rough stone, trying to imagine past the dimness of time to what the structure had originally been. The past was a secret here, a secret she yearned to know.
Voices ghosted through the mist and she stopped, hiding behind a broken column.
“I don’t know where Band-Imas is!” the man said in desperation. “His orders went silent.”
“What should we do, Lukias? Tyrus made it up the rampway in the fog. What do we do?”
“I don’t know, man! I’m trying to contact the Arch-Rike, but the aether is empty. Like nothing is there. Did he abandon us? I don’t know.”
Hettie maneuvered closer, trying to get a look at the two who were approaching quickly. Two sets of black Rike cassocks appeared, two men hunched over in conversation.
“Do you think he abandoned us?” one whispered dreadfully.
Hettie saw the one—Lukias. She recognized him and scowled.
Another shape appeared out of the mist, one of the hulking Cruithne bodyguards.
“Over here,” Lukias called, gesturing. “I want you with us when Tyrus arrives. He’s a Paracelsus with the fireblood. The man is deadly and aggravated. He may already be mad.”
“I know,” the Cruithne said and Hettie beamed, recognizing his voice. It was Baylen.