Poisonwell
Page 111
The tree was unguarded.
Smoke and crackling heat pressed through the woods as Shion staggered up to the misshapen split trunk. The ground was uneven, the base of the tree lumpy with roots that made each step treacherous. She could feel the wild hammering of Shion’s heart, she was pressed so tightly against him. He cradled her, taking another round of arrows in the back that nearly made him stumble and pitch her. But he did not, he would not give way, he would not relent from his purpose. In her mind, she remembered on the mountaintop near the cabin where Trasen’s arrows had failed to bring him down. His ruthless determination to hunt was part of his character, was part of who he was. A moment of panic began to grow inside her, a fear of what she might learn when she came to know him fully. She stared up at his face, at the claw marks that had always been there . . . sealed into his skin as part of his immortality. The seed of her Dryad self was beginning to bud. She felt it responding to the Mother Tree, unfolding, beckoning to join the roots and earth and light, to drink the rain and taste the fragrances carried on the wind. To be trapped in this horrible place—a prisoner herself if she took the oath. Part of her longed for freedom, a chance to return to Stonehollow, to seek out Trasen and remind him of the feelings she had stolen from him along with his memories.
All these thoughts and feelings bubbled inside of her, tremulous and raw. But as she looked up, it wasn’t Trasen’s face she found comfort in. He would have perished during the first attacks in the Scourgelands. This man, Shion, whatever his history, had been forged inside this horrible forest. This was his home. His essence was tied to the roots. She could sense his memories seething inside the tree in front of her, clawing desperately to get out.
She stared at his jaw, his chin, his blazing eyes that ignored every threat. His face was so familiar to her now, so comforting. She wished she could tell him how much she needed him, how his steadfastness to her was the only source of comfort left. Her father and Hettie had been abandoned. She wondered if they were even alive. One by one the company had been brought down, all save her and Shion. In his arms, she felt a spark of hope . . . a sliver that perhaps they might survive the horrors together.
Shion pitched her with all his might toward the gap of the tree. She fell short, of course, landing with startled surprise and agony as the arrow gouged deeper. She spit dirt from her mouth as she lifted her head, shaking it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Shion locked in combat with Kiranrao, holding the dagger at bay by a strong grip on Kiranrao’s wrist. Suddenly the Romani vanished, only to reappear again on the other side, dagger midstroke. With blazing reflexes, Shion deflected it, stamping on Kiranrao’s foot and bringing an elbow around to crush his nose . . . but again, the Romani disappeared, a phantom impossible to trap and catch.
Phae watched the desperate duel for a moment, not knowing how it would end. She could not wait a moment. Clawing the ground with her nails, she pulled herself closer to the shaded gap inside the trunk. Her right leg was totally useless, but she dug her left boot up and pushed herself forward, moving as quickly as she could. She reached the edge of the trunk, saw an army of ants groping along the base, oblivious to the carnage raging not far from their spot.
A cold hand clasped her wrist and she almost looked up, but realized it would be unwise to stare into another Dryad’s eyes. She was pulled up to her feet, but kept her gaze averted, seeing only the Dryad’s bare feet and legs.
“The name of the bridge,” whispered the Dryad-born, “is Pontfadog.”
Phae heard the word with her ears, but in her mind she could understand it, could sense the deepness of the meaning. It was an alien language to her, a language long forgotten. But she could sense what it meant.
Poisonwell.
That was how her father had translated it. That was how he had attempted to define an idea, a concept that defied explanation. A bridge between two worlds, separated by death. To hear it spoken in its original tongue brought a surge of triumph into Phae’s heart. It sounded . . . familiar—as if it were a word she had learned in childhood but only forgotten.
“Thank you,” Phae said, gripping the fragile hands that had raised her. She saw the iron ring fastened to one of the fingers.
“Tell him,” the Dryad pleaded, her voice full of sadness, regret, and fringed with unshed tears, “I am sorry.”
Alarm struck Phae’s heart when she saw the iron ring. She knew it had the power to explode, to devastate her as well as the tree. She stared at it, expecting her life to be snuffed out, yet somehow it wasn’t. Could the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—not bear to destroy the source of his own Dryad’s kiss? To destroy his own ability to master memories?
Smoke and crackling heat pressed through the woods as Shion staggered up to the misshapen split trunk. The ground was uneven, the base of the tree lumpy with roots that made each step treacherous. She could feel the wild hammering of Shion’s heart, she was pressed so tightly against him. He cradled her, taking another round of arrows in the back that nearly made him stumble and pitch her. But he did not, he would not give way, he would not relent from his purpose. In her mind, she remembered on the mountaintop near the cabin where Trasen’s arrows had failed to bring him down. His ruthless determination to hunt was part of his character, was part of who he was. A moment of panic began to grow inside her, a fear of what she might learn when she came to know him fully. She stared up at his face, at the claw marks that had always been there . . . sealed into his skin as part of his immortality. The seed of her Dryad self was beginning to bud. She felt it responding to the Mother Tree, unfolding, beckoning to join the roots and earth and light, to drink the rain and taste the fragrances carried on the wind. To be trapped in this horrible place—a prisoner herself if she took the oath. Part of her longed for freedom, a chance to return to Stonehollow, to seek out Trasen and remind him of the feelings she had stolen from him along with his memories.
All these thoughts and feelings bubbled inside of her, tremulous and raw. But as she looked up, it wasn’t Trasen’s face she found comfort in. He would have perished during the first attacks in the Scourgelands. This man, Shion, whatever his history, had been forged inside this horrible forest. This was his home. His essence was tied to the roots. She could sense his memories seething inside the tree in front of her, clawing desperately to get out.
She stared at his jaw, his chin, his blazing eyes that ignored every threat. His face was so familiar to her now, so comforting. She wished she could tell him how much she needed him, how his steadfastness to her was the only source of comfort left. Her father and Hettie had been abandoned. She wondered if they were even alive. One by one the company had been brought down, all save her and Shion. In his arms, she felt a spark of hope . . . a sliver that perhaps they might survive the horrors together.
Shion pitched her with all his might toward the gap of the tree. She fell short, of course, landing with startled surprise and agony as the arrow gouged deeper. She spit dirt from her mouth as she lifted her head, shaking it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Shion locked in combat with Kiranrao, holding the dagger at bay by a strong grip on Kiranrao’s wrist. Suddenly the Romani vanished, only to reappear again on the other side, dagger midstroke. With blazing reflexes, Shion deflected it, stamping on Kiranrao’s foot and bringing an elbow around to crush his nose . . . but again, the Romani disappeared, a phantom impossible to trap and catch.
Phae watched the desperate duel for a moment, not knowing how it would end. She could not wait a moment. Clawing the ground with her nails, she pulled herself closer to the shaded gap inside the trunk. Her right leg was totally useless, but she dug her left boot up and pushed herself forward, moving as quickly as she could. She reached the edge of the trunk, saw an army of ants groping along the base, oblivious to the carnage raging not far from their spot.
A cold hand clasped her wrist and she almost looked up, but realized it would be unwise to stare into another Dryad’s eyes. She was pulled up to her feet, but kept her gaze averted, seeing only the Dryad’s bare feet and legs.
“The name of the bridge,” whispered the Dryad-born, “is Pontfadog.”
Phae heard the word with her ears, but in her mind she could understand it, could sense the deepness of the meaning. It was an alien language to her, a language long forgotten. But she could sense what it meant.
Poisonwell.
That was how her father had translated it. That was how he had attempted to define an idea, a concept that defied explanation. A bridge between two worlds, separated by death. To hear it spoken in its original tongue brought a surge of triumph into Phae’s heart. It sounded . . . familiar—as if it were a word she had learned in childhood but only forgotten.
“Thank you,” Phae said, gripping the fragile hands that had raised her. She saw the iron ring fastened to one of the fingers.
“Tell him,” the Dryad pleaded, her voice full of sadness, regret, and fringed with unshed tears, “I am sorry.”
Alarm struck Phae’s heart when she saw the iron ring. She knew it had the power to explode, to devastate her as well as the tree. She stared at it, expecting her life to be snuffed out, yet somehow it wasn’t. Could the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—not bear to destroy the source of his own Dryad’s kiss? To destroy his own ability to master memories?
