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Memories wafted through his mind, from another time—another tree. He had saved Neodesha’s tree from the ravages of an axe. He had stood against a raiding party of Boeotians. Reeder was dead now. So was Nizeera. Even Neodesha’s life may have been snuffed out. He folded his arms, huddling deeper inside himself, uncomfortable in the presence of such painful memories. Back then, he had waited by the tree until Neodesha had revealed herself. He remembered, with growing dread, how she had tempted him to look at her. If he had succumbed, she would have snatched his memories away and he would have forgotten all knowledge of her or why he had gone to protect that tree. His resistance to her alluring words had earned him the right to know her Dryad name, and with it—the ability to command her, as Tyrus had instructed him to do now. By claiming a Dryad’s obedience, he would be able to learn where to find Poisonwell. Annon had the suspicion that Tyrus had known he would need a Druidecht on the journey for this very reason.
He glanced up at the ancient boughs above him. In his mind, he imagined the oak tree being a giant mushroom and he just a tiny crawler nestled at its base. Thinking of mushrooms reminded him of Mathon’s warning not to eat the mushrooms in the Scourgelands. The thought made a gurgle of bile rise in his throat.
Far in the distance, he heard the fierce howl of a Weir. The sound was answered by another, coming from a different direction. A third joined the chorus, the sound piercing the tree against his back. If he was judging the sound correctly, they were coming in from three different sides. His heart began pounding.
“They know you are here.”
Her voice was so soft, so faint and so sudden that Annon nearly jumped out of his skin. Her voice came from his right and he immediately shielded his eyes, burying his face on his forearm.
“Did you tell them?” Annon asked, hoping his voice wasn’t too muffled to hear.
“Yes, Druidecht. The Weir are swift. You must flee them.”
“I claim my boon,” he answered.
He heard the small crunch of a twig and felt her presence near his side. He could feel the heat radiating from her, could hear the soft breathing. His mind began to go mad with anticipation. He wanted to look at her. Was she like Neodesha? What race would she be?
“Look on me,” she said, her voice beautiful and intoxicating.
“I will not. Give me the boon.”
“What boon do you seek, Druidecht? I know the way out of the woods. With my help, I can free you from the maze.”
“I don’t believe you will help me. What is your name, Dryad? Tell me.”
Her voice became husky. “My name is ancient. It has already been claimed by another. But do not believe I have grown old and am withered. I cannot age. I cannot die. Would you bind yourself to me, Druidecht? Shall I kiss you? Would you like that?”
He felt a spasm of dread and longing rush through his blood. Tyrus had warned him not to accept a Dryad’s kiss. While it would unlock his memories again, which he craved, it would also bind them together in a way in which she could follow his thoughts, reveal their presence to Shirikant. He kept his head bowed, his cowl to protect his face. He would not let her kiss him.
“I seek your name. I preserved your tree from harm. You must give it to me.”
“It is given to another.”
“And where is he that was supposed to protect you?” Annon challenged. “Why did he not stop the flames?”
“How do you know he isn’t already here?” she whispered wickedly.
A shiver of fear went down his back, bringing on a cold sweat. He realized he was not just speaking to the Dryad. Through her voice, he was confronting Shirikant himself. He quailed at the thought.
“Come, Druidecht. I have no defenses left. What do you really seek? Revenge?” Her hand touched the crown of his head and he flinched. “Companionship?” She stroked the back of his head, gliding her fingers down to his neck. A mad gush of insanity flooded his mind, making him reel with images of what she might look like. She smelled like loam, rich and earthy . . . yet hinting of decay. The urge to look at her was nearly unbearable. Sweat dripped down his cheek.
Another series of howls started, much closer. The Weir were loping through the woods, rushing toward the Dryad tree. He would not have long to outwit her. To outwit them both.
“If I look at you,” Annon said, “would you take my memories? You are a spirit creature, you cannot lie.”
“If you looked at me, you would desire me. Such is the way of men. You are greedy and seek to possess us. I have no defenses against you. You flinch as if you were the prisoner. I am a slave to this tree. I have nothing left. Not even a robe. All is tattered and gone. Have pity on me, Druidecht.” Her hand touched the edge of his cowl. “Look on me.”
