Phae’s heart lurched as she watched the Kishion fly at the Arch-Rike, dagger poised. There was a look of unbridled fear in the Arch-Rike’s eyes just before he vanished.
The Kishion landed in the emptiness, his face contorted with rage. He stalked back to Phae, standing over her protectively. He looked savage as a beast, his expression showing a welling of absolute hatred.
“Gather round me. Quickly!” Tyrus snapped. He held out the Tay al-Ard, holding it in front of him as if it were a rod of iron that would steady him. They all had injuries, but Khiara was healing them. One by one, they clasped an arm to his. Phae looked into her father’s eyes, seeing the torment there. His mouth was transforming into a snarl of rage.
Spirits began to swirl around inside the pavilion, coming in streamers from all directions.
“Quickly!” Tyrus barked again.
Phae touched his arm, looking pleadingly into his eyes. Shion rested his hand on top of hers, his face grim and determined, his mouth twitching.
Were they going into the Scourgelands? Her heart shuddered with fear. How could they? The blast had nearly killed them all. The Arch-Rike had deceived them and destroyed the Thirteen. They would be blamed for it.
Annon’s hand covered next, his fingers like talons. His face was shocked, his mouth gaping. “Tyrus, the tree! He’s at the tree right now! You must take us there! I must defend her!”
“We are already too late,” Tyrus muttered darkly, his countenance hardening.
“No!” Annon begged. “Please!”
Paedrin and the others quickly gathered around, adding their hands to the mix. There was nothing but death all around them. Ash and smoke drifted in the breezes that came through the slashed vents.
Annon began to wail, his eyes going wide with horror.
In some deep part of Phae’s blood, she felt two Dryad trees explode.
She squeezed her father’s arm, stifling a choking sob. Streamers of magic began to swirl around them. There were cries of warning from outside the tattered pavilion. Phae shut her eyes, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to even feel. Would they all die?
Her stomach felt the familiar unease and suddenly they were swept away, flung from the pockmarked graveyard of Canton Vaud.
“One cannot overestimate the power of persistence. It is persistence that guides a stonemason’s hands and causes mighty castles and temples to be built. It is persistence that persuades a Bhikhu to practice his forms to perfection. It is persistence that allows a Paracelsus to discover new and interesting uses of ancient magics. It is persistence that allows the Rikes to cure diseases. It is persistence that provides a sailor the hope of arriving at a destination. In truth, there is no force in this world as enduring as persistence.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Annon drowned with grief. He could see through Neodesha’s eyes, had watched as the Arch-Rike appeared in the Dryad grove. He deliberately did not look at her tree, his eyes downcast. She stared at him, trying to do anything to meet his gaze, to snatch his memory of where her tree was. He removed a glass bauble from a pouch at his waist and threw it at the tree. As the glass shattered, his connection with Neodesha and all of his reawakened memories were gone.
The Dryad’s kiss was broken.
A thick veil began to settle over his mind. The piercing intensity of his memories and his emotions were tamped down, dulled to almost oblivion. Before he had remembered every detail of his past. Now, it was sucked into a black void, impenetrable. Even worse were the feelings that he had let her down, that he had betrayed her to her fate by leading their enemy to her tree.
The young Druidecht knelt in the stiff prairie grass, clutching himself, doubled over, his stomach starting to heave with the pounding remorse. Hettie crouched next to him on one side, the illusion gone, holding him tightly, trying to soothe him. Nizeera’s tail lashed fitfully, for she could share his emotions and knew the torment he faced. It was still just after midnight, the darkest hour. How fitting to add to his misery.
His heart had been shattered like the glass orb. Already the intensity of Neodesha’s face was beginning to fade. The memories were hollow, like glass vials. The fullness was gone. He did not want that to happen. He wanted to preserve it.
Annon struggled to his feet, tears wet on his cheeks. They were all huddled together in the dark, in some forsaken wilderness somewhere. He did not recognize the land, though it seemed vaguely familiar. Before, he would have recalled it instantly.
“Is she dead?” Annon asked Tyrus hoarsely, his voice croaking. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” came the brooding reply. “My mind is dark…right now.” Tyrus kneaded his temples with his fingertips.