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“You will see, Phae. You will see it all. Several years have passed since you last saw the young prince, Isic Moussion. He is a Druidecht, but it is a primitive version of what you are familiar with. He studied the spirit creatures from all the lands, taking copious notes of his observations. He began to name the spirits, to understand their powers and properties. To enlist their aid. He roamed the woods with a band of friends from the mastermind. The Cruithne . . . his name was Kishion. He was one of the first teachers of that order, back when they were protectors of kings and not killers. When Isic and his companions came here, to these hallowed woods, they met the protections left to guard here. You can imagine how frustrating it was when they returned to Stonehollow with no memory of why they had even come. Shirikant was wise and realized that spirit magic was robbing their memories. They did not understand the nature of the Dryads. Not yet. But after several years, they began to understand that the bridge to Mirrowen—Poisonwell—was here all along. They set up small outposts to help funnel supplies and men to help narrow the search.”
Phae looked up at his face, saw the curious expression. “Why not let them come, Seneschal? Why all the obstacles?”
“There is a price to pay for knowledge, child. Some mysteries must be earned. I test the persistence of mortals. Only those who persist discover the way. Isic was not easily discouraged.”
Phae smiled at that, remembering how he came across to her so many times. Relentless.
“Indeed,” the Seneschal said, responding to her thoughts. “Soon you will see the next turning point. The next crucial pivot. During his wanderings in the woods, Isic began to rely on his insights. He understood a little about my nature. He understood that there was a Gardener in Mirrowen. He reasoned it out that I could hear his thoughts. He began to speak to me from his mind as he scoured the woods for clues. I began to teach him through the whispers. I warned him not to share the knowledge, not to write it down, but to print it in his heart. He began to journey alone, searching the woods for hidden trails. Eventually, he began to trust me. He could not find Mirrowen by searching for it. Not with his eyes. I suggested to his mind, through a whisper, that he would find me if he closed his eyes.”
Phae’s mind expanded with the thought. “Yes,” she said, growing excited. “By keeping his eyes closed, he could pass the Dryad protectors without losing his memories. He would not be able to see the direction, but you would lead him on the right path!”
“Yes. After sufficient time, he trusted me enough. He blindfolded himself and took leave of his friends, warning them not to follow him. Through the whispers, he made it to your tree, the one you are bound to now. From that tree one learns the word to cross the bridge. You remember it.”
“Pontfadog,” Phae repeated. “So the Dryad I met was protecting the tree even then?”
The Seneschal stopped, his face turning troubled, if slightly, as if a heaviness passed over him—a cloud momentarily veiling the brilliance of the sun. “No. He met my daughter.”
Phae turned to look at him, her expression showing concern. “Your daughter?”
“She was still growing. Fourteen years old . . . just a little thing. She was being raised to replace her mother as the guardian of that tree. When Isic approached it, she was the one who received him. Do you see them? Over there.” A delighted smile broadened his face.
As they continued to walk and passed another row of trees, Phae could see the looming mound of rock and stone just beyond the grove, tall and imposing. There was the forked oak tree, its branch split in two with the gap in between. Shion sat near the tree, a blindfold covering his eyes. He was bigger, sturdier, more weather-beaten than the youth she had seen before. In his hands, he strummed a lute, bringing a lovely melody from the strings that reached in and pulled her heart. He sang softly, coaxingly, his voice and the instrument weaving a spell that struck her forcibly. There was magic in his hands and silk in his voice.
From around the tree, she saw the Dryad-born staring at him. She was beauty itself, so young and innocent. She crouched behind the tree, watching him, her eyes filling with wonder at the sounds coming from Shion’s instrument. She had auburn hair, Phae noticed. Her gown was a deep brown with gold threads. She looked wary, nervous.
The Seneschal and Phae approached, observing from the ring of trees. She could sense his magic concealing them.
The music died.
“Play again, Druidecht,” the Dryad girl pleaded.
“Tell me your name first,” he answered, keeping his head bowed.
“I cannot tell you my name,” she answered. “It would give you power over me. Tell me yours, Druidecht.”
