He glanced where she was looking and then looked down at his hands. She could see him wrestling with himself.
“What is it?” she whispered, touching his sleeve.
“I’m conflicted,” he murmured softly. “Something Lukias said gnaws at me.”
She remembered the comment perfectly. She tightened her grip on his arm. “Promise me, Shion. When this is through, you will confront your memories. You will face your past.”
“Do I dare?” His voice was just the ghost of a whisper.
She lowered her face closer to his. “You must. I feel your anguish. Not knowing is certainly worse than any deeds you have done. You did not do those things on your own. If other men paid for the deeds, they are the ones who bear an equal share of the blame.” She frowned, angry at the men who had dominated his life. “There is some hope. If the truth is so unbearable…I can take it away.” She looked him in the eyes pointedly.
He shook his head. “I would not want you to carry my burdens. You least of all.”
“I’m not sure how it works. I learned much visiting the Dryad tree. But if I can help you, I will.”
He met her gaze. “Something tugs at me when I look at you. A memory buried away.” He sighed deeply.
She patted his arm. “I trust you, Shion. You will not let anyone hurt me.”
He nodded gravely, his expression suddenly concealed by a shadow as Tyrus stood. Her father approached and settled down on a cushion next to the pallet.
“Did you learn what you need to know at the tree?” Tyrus asked her.
“I believe so,” she replied. She paused. “I do not think I am meant to share it.”
He held up his hand, smiling inwardly, and made a motion to forestall her. “I would not ask it of you. If you need to return and visit the tree, you can later.”
“Why don’t you sleep, Father?” she asked him. “Shion can guard us.”
He nodded sagely, glancing from his daughter to her protector. “They will call for us soon. There is something about midnight that strengthens a Druidecht’s power. They seek every advantage in this confrontation.” He brushed something from his pants. He looked at Shion shrewdly. “We may have to fight our way out of Canton Vaud. I would ask you to spare their lives. I hate to bind you, and you will need to use your own judgment. But I would prefer not confirming their worst opinions about me.”
Shion shrugged noncommittally then motioned for the pillow. “Sleep,” he bid her.
Phae shook her head. “I’m not tired.”
A dark scowl came across Tyrus’s face. “You will be,” he said softly. “We must be well rested when we enter the Scourgelands. We will get little or no sleep once we do.” She saw his expression harden and felt the sparks of memory exploding in his mind.
“What will we face?” Shion asked.
“I will tell you all later,” he replied. “I would not brook fears until we are ready to face them. It is a dark place. It is a terrible place. Fire seemed to work the best. I hope it will still.” He reached out and took Phae’s hand. “You will need to fight as well, Phae. Not even your friend here will be able to protect you from all dangers. You must use the fireblood to protect yourself.”
Phae felt a shiver of fear go down to her boots. “I’m frightened of it,” she whispered.
“If you weren’t, I would worry even more. Use it. Do not overuse it. That way leads to madness.”
The look in his eyes showed her that he knew what he was talking about. He was haunted by his memories. Slowly, he turned and stared at Annon’s sleeping form. Nizeera’s head popped up, her whiskers twitching, her ears alert.
“They’ve come for us,” Tyrus said, his voice black with dread.
“The Vaettir have a saying that is ripe with wisdom: The gods judged it better to bring good out of evil than to suffer no evil to exist. They will not willingly take a life for fear of destroying that potential inside us. We all have tendencies toward evil, some more than others. Each of us must constantly root away those evil tendencies lest they prevail into our character. We each carry within us the bud of true goodness as well as evil. Which we nourish determines our destiny.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
As they were escorted into the grand pavilion of the Thirteen, Annon swallowed hard, not certain what to expect but fearing the outcome. It was just past midnight, according to the stars peeking from amidst the tree branches, but there was still a general buzz about the camp. He noticed streamers of magic lingering in the air, and the flames of several of the torches fastened to iron poles sticking around the perimeter of the pavilion burned a strange blue color and chased away shadows. There were several Bhikhu guarding the main entryway.