Reeder licked his lips, keeping his voice low, “Now for the Boeotians’ purpose. The Boeotians are not coming into Silvandom to harvest firewood. They hunt the Dryads and destroy their trees. How do they know of them? How do they know which trees to cut down?” He gave a big shrug. “This is Druidecht lore, and we do not share it. But they have a way to know which tree belongs to a Dryad. And they come to hew it down with axes and then burn it.”
A chill went down Annon’s spine. As Reeder spoke, a memory stirred to life in his mind. A twisted, aging oak in the courtyard within the Paracelsus Towers. An old, desiccated tree. Unusually placed in such a vast throng of humanity.
Annon swallowed, his stomach fluttering with the memory and its implications. “Is there a certain kind of tree the Dryads choose, Reeder?” He felt he already knew the answer. But it was confirmed from Reeder’s lips.
“The oak, my boy. The mighty oak is their home.”
The hour was late, and Erasmus continued to quietly snore on the stack of blankets in the corner of the pavilion. Annon waved away another offer to fill his cup with wine. His head throbbed dully and his stomach was queasy with information and the lateness of the hour. Reeder finished off his cup with a mighty swallow and wiped his mouth with his arm.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that has happened to you,” Reeder said, for Annon had changed his mind about revealing all to his mentor. He shook his head in disbelief. “You are caught in a snare, to be sure. The more you wriggle, the tighter the noose.”
“But what should I do?” Annon said, trying to quell the evil feeling. “Should I believe what Drosta told me? What my uncle told me? What the Arch-Rike believes? What the order has trained me to believe? My mind is tangled in knots right now! I do not know which to unravel first.”
Reeder held up his hand, shaking his head. “Lad, it comes down to who is telling the truth. That is the state of the matter. Truth is knowledge. Things are or they are not. You and I are here. We are sitting and sharing wine in Canton Vaud. One may say you are in Havenrook. One may say you are in Alkire. One may say you still hide in Kenatos, but that is not the truth. You are here.” He leaned forward. “The trouble with truth is that people are unwilling to be convinced that they have been deceived. It impugns their judgment. It stains their character. People love themselves above all.”
Reeder sighed deeply, staring at the slow-burning wick of the oil lamp. “They hate truth for the sake of whatever it is that they love in its place. When truth benefits them, they love it. When it rebukes them, they hate it. They love truth when it reveals itself and hate it when it reveals them.” He shook his head wearily, his countenance falling. “As one of the Thirteen once told me, ‘Thus, thus, truly thus: a mind so blind and sick, so base and ill-mannered, desires to lie hidden, but does not wish that anything should be hidden from it.’ And yet the opposite is what happens, does it not? Yet even so,” he said with a sad chuckle, “for all its wretchedness, the mind still prefers to delight in truth rather than in known falsehoods. Lies never satisfy us, Annon. They do not satisfy our internal hunger for truth.”
His gaze pierced Annon. “I cannot tell you whether your uncle’s story is true. I lack the knowledge. In the morning, I go to defend a corner of Silvandom where the Thirteen say a Dryad is hidden. Come with me. They live for hundreds of years. She may have the knowledge you seek. Your uncle told you to find the oracle Basilides. Perhaps the Dryad knows where the oracle may be found and whether your uncle tells the truth.” His eyes narrowed. “Or not.”
The suggestion startled Annon. His eyes were getting drowsy, but he sat up and stared at his mentor, his friend. “Go with you?”
“I would enjoy the companionship. Most of the raids are happening in the northern borders of Silvandom via the mountain passes. I seek to safeguard the western edge. If there is trouble, we will send for others to assist. That is, if you will join me.”
Annon thought it over quickly. What he had been told about Dryads fascinated him immensely. There was something about them, some connection to his uncle that he had not revealed to Reeder. The oak in the Paracelsus Towers. That was not a coincidence. Did his uncle know the tree likely contained a Dryad? Had he anticipated the distrust Annon would have? Likely so. If the mysteries of his uncle could be revealed in a manner that would satisfy a Druidecht, he would be more likely to believe his uncle’s version of events.
“I see you hesitate,” Reeder said. “I will not push you. My older bones are ready for a blanket. Decide in the morning if you wish to accompany me.”