Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

Annon shook his head in amazement. “And you say you are thousands of years old? You were here before the founding of Kenatos?”

“Certainly. It is young compared to me. But there are Dryads even older than I. There are groves even more ancient.” She gave him a meaningful look.

He swallowed. “The Scourgelands.”

She flinched at the word. “That is not what we call it, Annon. Something happened there. Something long ago. A taint. An injustice. I am only a child compared to those Dryads. But they no longer speak to their sisters. They hide away. Something was done to injure them. A betrayal. That is what Tyrus seeks. That is the knowledge he is after. He is a protector of Dryads.”

It came to Annon’s mind immediately. “There is an oak tree in the middle of the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos.”

Neodesha smiled at him and twisted her fingers together. “She is a Dryad tree. One who was doomed to die because of her proximity to that city. He saved her.”

“The tree looked dead to me,” Annon said.

“Oaks are very resilient. It would surprise you. Was there a clump of mistletoe in the branches?”

He remembered it perfectly though he only recalled seeing it once. His memory was astonishingly clear. “Yes.”

“That is one of the ways you can tell. The mistletoe is a sign of our presence. In some kingdoms, it is a tradition during the winter festivals to kiss beneath a sprig of mistletoe.” Her smile was offset by a dimple. “The tradition was created by the Druidecht, of course, who alone know the truth of it.”

Annon shifted uneasily, uncomfortable from the intensity of her gaze. There was a power in it still. “And by looking at a person, you can take their memories.”

She nodded. “Tell me of your world,” she said, shaking his knee. “What kingdom do you come from?”

He shrugged, feeling awkward. “I am an orphan, but I was raised by the Druidecht in Wayland. Reeder was my…my mentor.” He felt the crushing weight of the loss suddenly, so powerful and violent that tears stung his eyes.

“Your memories are powerful,” she said comfortingly. “They will be from now on. They will burden you, it is true, but they will also serve you. You will remember things that others have forgotten. Tell me of Wayland. Where is it?”

“Several days south of here,” Annon said, struggling to control his feelings. He brushed his eyes on the back of his hand, amazed to see tears glistening on his skin. “The kingdom is sparsely populated due to the Plague. Small villages here and there, spread far from each other. Farms mostly. They grow much of the food that feeds the other kingdoms.”

“And how do they treat the spirits of Mirrowen?”

“They are mostly ignorant of them. Unwittingly, they destroy their lairs and homes. The Druidecht try to teach them, but they are more interested in the price of wheat.” He reached out and touched her hair, surprising himself. He jerked his hand back.

She smiled. “It’s the magic, Annon. Keep talking. It will help you if you keep talking.”

He wanted to. The look she gave him was so eager, he could not resist. He told her about his childhood. He explained his feelings of abandonment by Tyrus and how he had thrown himself into Druidecht lore. He revealed the fireblood and asked if she knew about it. She shook her head and implored him to keep talking. So he did. He explained the summons of Tyrus to Kenatos, the quest for Drosta’s lair. Even meeting Drosta himself and the encounter with the Kishion. He held nothing back. It was a relief to talk about it to someone. To purge the emotions and confusion he had been carrying for so long.

It was midnight by the time he finished.

The air was cold, but her presence warmed him. They sat so close their knees often touched. As he finished his story, she nodded in understanding and covered his hand with hers.

“There,” she said. “Speaking our troubles to another lessens them. Some seek me to purge their memories. They do not wish to know my name, only to speak of their troubles and thus pass them to me. When they leave, they have forgotten that portion of their lives. Some say too much and forget who they even are when they leave. They abandon a wife or children because they no longer wish to be bound by the connection or feel the hurt that comes with it. But those kinds of men leave weaker, not stronger. They feel an ache that they cannot salve. Part of them is missing. Part of them is left at the tree.”

Annon felt the softness of her hand. He looked in her eyes and nodded slowly. “I do not wish to be rid of my memories. You were speaking the truth to me, though? I will not forget that this happened when I leave?”