Poisonwell
Page 65
Speak to us, Sister!
You are Dryad-born.
You must swear the oaths. You must before it is too late.
“I hear the voices as well,” Annon said in a strangled whisper. “They are truly all around us. Tyrus, it is madness going this way.”
“Press on,” Tyrus replied. “Keep their thoughts at bay.”
“How?”
“Yank off the talisman, you fool.” He muttered something else under his breath.
Silver light expanded the area’s details as the dawn grew more pronounced against the skeletal boughs. Phae wanted to look up and feast her eyes on the light, but she dared not.
Look at us.
Be one of us.
Only you can free me, Sister. Please . . . I have waited so long.
You brought men. Thank you, Sister.
We will each claim one.
Phae tried to cover her ears, but that did not help in the least. She felt Shion squeezing her shoulder, digging his fingers into her skin.
“Can you not hear them?” she gasped in desperation.
“No—not a word.”
He will betray you, Sister. We know him.
You cannot trust him.
He betrayed us all.
“Talk to me, Shion,” Phae said, feeling desperate. The urge to look at the trees was maddening. “Anything. I can’t stop the voices in my mind.”
“Baylen!”
The shout came from Paedrin.
Phae turned and saw the Cruithne had stopped. He was gazing off toward the trees, his expression confused. They had nearly walked off without him.
“Baylen!” Paedrin shouted again.
The Cruithne did not seem to hear him. He took a step away from them, a hesitant one.
Paedrin swept into the air and landed near him, grabbing at his tunic sleeve. “Can you hear me? Baylen!”
The Cruithne turned and looked at Paedrin, his expression full of distrust and confusion. He shook his arm free, his face deepening into a scowl.
“What is your name?” Paedrin asked.
The Cruithne stared hard at the Bhikhu. “I don’t remember.”
“You are Baylen of Kenatos. You are my friend. Now follow me away from this place. Come!”
Baylen turned back and looked at one of the trees, a hulking shape with branches loaded with mistletoe. Phae averted her eyes, feeling the urge to stare at it gnaw inside her. The cramping became worse and she bent over, gasping.
You can hear us, Sister.
We’ve already taken his mind.
He is useless to you now.
Leave him to us.
To me.
Phae panted with pain. “They’ve taken Baylen’s memories.”
“Leave him then,” Tyrus barked. “Come! We must get past this barrier. Further.”
“I have an idea,” Shion said. “Hold a moment, Tyrus.” He helped Phae sit, which eased some of the stabbing pain inside her. She rocked back and forth, starting to moan. Looking up, she saw Shion withdraw the little golden locket. He opened it and laid it in his palm and the grove filled with the haunting music. She had forgotten about the locket. The memory of the first time she had heard the tragic song came rushing back. Almost instantly, she was transported back to the shell of the stone house that they had rested in. It was as if she could smell the dust and dirt, remember the taste of the pears she had plucked from the abandoned orchard.
The melody filled the air, swirling around them with its plaintive, beckoning sounds. It was the song of lost love, the death of a friend, the anthem of an old widow asleep in her grave.
The song banished the voices of the Dryads.
Phae could sense them withdraw, as if the melody were anathema to them. The compelling thoughts no longer troubled her mind, though the pain had not lessened much. Shion could see the effect it was having and quickly slung the locket around his neck.
“Now!” Tyrus ordered. “Before the music ends. We must go! Quickly!”
The giant Cruithne shook his head, his expression clearing. “What happened to me?”
“Do you remember who you are? What is your name?”
“I’m Baylen. I can’t remember how I got here though.”
“Later, my friend,” the Bhikhu said with a grin. “You are fortunate not all of your memories were stolen. Come on!”
Shion helped Phae rise and pulled her with him as they started after Tyrus, trying to get through the maze of trees. Fog thickened somewhat as they walked, dulling the sounds of the wood. The smell of rotting flesh grew stronger, the scent making her gag.
“What is that carrion smell?” Hettie said. “Can anyone tell?”
You are Dryad-born.
You must swear the oaths. You must before it is too late.
“I hear the voices as well,” Annon said in a strangled whisper. “They are truly all around us. Tyrus, it is madness going this way.”
“Press on,” Tyrus replied. “Keep their thoughts at bay.”
“How?”
“Yank off the talisman, you fool.” He muttered something else under his breath.
Silver light expanded the area’s details as the dawn grew more pronounced against the skeletal boughs. Phae wanted to look up and feast her eyes on the light, but she dared not.
Look at us.
Be one of us.
Only you can free me, Sister. Please . . . I have waited so long.
You brought men. Thank you, Sister.
We will each claim one.
Phae tried to cover her ears, but that did not help in the least. She felt Shion squeezing her shoulder, digging his fingers into her skin.
“Can you not hear them?” she gasped in desperation.
“No—not a word.”
He will betray you, Sister. We know him.
You cannot trust him.
He betrayed us all.
“Talk to me, Shion,” Phae said, feeling desperate. The urge to look at the trees was maddening. “Anything. I can’t stop the voices in my mind.”
“Baylen!”
The shout came from Paedrin.
Phae turned and saw the Cruithne had stopped. He was gazing off toward the trees, his expression confused. They had nearly walked off without him.
“Baylen!” Paedrin shouted again.
The Cruithne did not seem to hear him. He took a step away from them, a hesitant one.
Paedrin swept into the air and landed near him, grabbing at his tunic sleeve. “Can you hear me? Baylen!”
The Cruithne turned and looked at Paedrin, his expression full of distrust and confusion. He shook his arm free, his face deepening into a scowl.
“What is your name?” Paedrin asked.
The Cruithne stared hard at the Bhikhu. “I don’t remember.”
“You are Baylen of Kenatos. You are my friend. Now follow me away from this place. Come!”
Baylen turned back and looked at one of the trees, a hulking shape with branches loaded with mistletoe. Phae averted her eyes, feeling the urge to stare at it gnaw inside her. The cramping became worse and she bent over, gasping.
You can hear us, Sister.
We’ve already taken his mind.
He is useless to you now.
Leave him to us.
To me.
Phae panted with pain. “They’ve taken Baylen’s memories.”
“Leave him then,” Tyrus barked. “Come! We must get past this barrier. Further.”
“I have an idea,” Shion said. “Hold a moment, Tyrus.” He helped Phae sit, which eased some of the stabbing pain inside her. She rocked back and forth, starting to moan. Looking up, she saw Shion withdraw the little golden locket. He opened it and laid it in his palm and the grove filled with the haunting music. She had forgotten about the locket. The memory of the first time she had heard the tragic song came rushing back. Almost instantly, she was transported back to the shell of the stone house that they had rested in. It was as if she could smell the dust and dirt, remember the taste of the pears she had plucked from the abandoned orchard.
The melody filled the air, swirling around them with its plaintive, beckoning sounds. It was the song of lost love, the death of a friend, the anthem of an old widow asleep in her grave.
The song banished the voices of the Dryads.
Phae could sense them withdraw, as if the melody were anathema to them. The compelling thoughts no longer troubled her mind, though the pain had not lessened much. Shion could see the effect it was having and quickly slung the locket around his neck.
“Now!” Tyrus ordered. “Before the music ends. We must go! Quickly!”
The giant Cruithne shook his head, his expression clearing. “What happened to me?”
“Do you remember who you are? What is your name?”
“I’m Baylen. I can’t remember how I got here though.”
“Later, my friend,” the Bhikhu said with a grin. “You are fortunate not all of your memories were stolen. Come on!”
Shion helped Phae rise and pulled her with him as they started after Tyrus, trying to get through the maze of trees. Fog thickened somewhat as they walked, dulling the sounds of the wood. The smell of rotting flesh grew stronger, the scent making her gag.
“What is that carrion smell?” Hettie said. “Can anyone tell?”
