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Her mother patted her arm. “We are safe here,” she murmured softly. “So long as our thoughts remain vigilant. The Seneschal will explain it all better than I can. He is over there with the children. Do you see him?”
Phae followed her gaze and she saw the Seneschal. His back was to her, but she recognized the description she had received from Neodesha. He was easily two heads above her own father, and Tyrus was a tall man himself. His hair was dark and long, like a Vaettir’s, except brown and not black. He wore an interesting mix of robes and armor and Phae saw twin blades strapped to his back, crosswise. A supple golden cloak fluttered in the breeze. A small diadem crowned his head. At his feet were several children digging with shells, creating a castle out of the wet, compact sand.
“Come with me,” her mother said, pulling Phae closer.
As they approached, Phae cast her eyes to the hills on her left. They were not full of buildings or structures. Small footpaths had been carved into the hillside and slender stone steps helped travelers ascend to the various heights. Sculptured stone benches sat at various places and Phae could see many people sitting on them, some gazing and pointing out to the sea. Some had even seemed to notice her walking and she thought she could spy one of them waving at her.
Everyone she saw was dressed in elegant robes. Not ostentatious, but each of a variety of color and design, marking a different era or country. There were people from every race she could tell, and again—seeing some that were new. The beach was not full, but neither was it empty. She saw other Dryads as well and felt a kinship with them.
“Is Neodesha here?” Phae asked her mother.
“You want to know if she survived the blast that destroyed her tree?”
“Yes.”
Her mother nodded and smiled. “The blast destroyed our link to the mortal world. But it did not destroy us. She is here, if she is not off on a task from the Seneschal. There is no time here, as you remember. There will be opportunity enough to see her as well. But first, you must make your oaths. You are Dryad-born, Phae. It is a choice you must make alone.”
“I feel so dirty,” Phae said self-consciously. Her clothes were filthy and her hair a tangled mess. She rubbed her arm, gazing at the others on the beach. None of them looked at her askance, but she did feel different, singled out.
“You will receive a robe when you take your oath,” her mother said. “With it, you can look like anyone or appear wearing anything you desire. My ancestors came from Stonehollow, and so I fancy their attire the most. Deep down, our childhood impresses us most significantly. I have watched you grow up, Phae. I knew you were coming, which is why I let your father take you away from me.” A mix of sadness and pride crossed her face. She touched Phae’s cheek. “You are the one who can correct the wrong that was done. And in so doing, give rebirth to your fallen world. But I speak of things I ought not to. It should be the Seneschal who explains this to you and the oaths you must take.”
“Am I doing the right thing, Mother?” Phae asked, squeezing her hand strongly.
“Soon you will know enough to answer that for yourself,” came the enigmatic reply. They approached the children digging, and one of them looked hauntingly like Brielle. Phae stared at her in surprise. No, it was Brielle, from the Winemiller orphanage.
Her mother smiled and stroked Phae’s hair again. “Not her. Not Brielle. Her twin sister who died. They are still connected. That is why Brielle does not speak. She can see shades of Mirrowen in her dreams and longs to be here.” She smiled, squeezing Phae’s hand, and faced the Seneschal, who began to turn to greet them.
“My lord, I have brought Phae as you bid me to. I healed her injuries and have taught her a little portion of Mirrowen, which you instructed me to. She is here to learn about her oaths so she may decide by her conscience whether she will or not. Thank you, my lord, for sending me. You are kind and thoughtful.” She bowed deeply.
Phae saw the massive swords strapped to his back with intricately carved leather sigils. Each buckle was precise, each cut of cloth the work of a deep master. She could not see his hands, for they were folded in front of him. But something struck her attention immediately. From his wide belt, he bore a series of ancient keys, the metal so pitted that they seemed older than the stars. The shape of the keys was nothing like she had seen before. The head was rectangular with a strange cross embedded into the top, but it was hollow in the middle, and that hollow part was fastened by a ring to other keys of similar design. The shaft of each key was thick and solid. The end was shaped into a circle with two nubs pointed from the side of each. The circles were also hollow. The metal looked to be iron, raw iron, but old and pocked. The Voided Keys. That’s what Neodesha had called them.
