Page 83 of The Ruin of Eros

“You do see us,” the voice protests. “We are here. Around you. Above you.”

I stare. There’s nothing here but this great ring of spruce trees. As I look at them more closely now, I see there is something different about them. Despite the wind and rain, their boughs do not sway and saw, and their leaves appear to be dry. Each trunk is lithe and long, unusually perfect. I thought when I entered that this circle seemed a protected place. But perhaps I did not understand the nature of that protection.

I clear my throat, my fist tight on Ajax’s bridle. “Are you dryads?” I demand.

There’s a faint hiss, almost like a sigh, that seems to drift from many places at once.

“Weweredryads, lady,” the voice comes. “Hunting companions to the goddess Artemis. She had many, but we were her favorites. We were the nimblest, the fastest, and…” The voice becomes coy, then: “deemed by all, the prettiest.”

A stray raindrop trickles from my scalp and down my forehead, blurring my vision. Dryads are much like nymphs, I tell myself. And certainly, the nymphs in Eros’s gardens meant no harm. The childlike voice goes on:

“When a mortal poet stumbled across our party, he wrote great ballads in our honor. The goddess—youknow of whom we speak, lady—became jealous. All because the mortal poet praised us so lavishly. All because he called some simple tree-nymphs the finest of goddesses.”

The finest,the other voices chime, like whispers.

“And so she cursed us,” the voice resumes, tinged with longing. “While other dryads may roam among their forests and transform at will,we, lady, know no freedom now. These trees are our cages. We must stay here forever.”

Forever,the echoes ebb and flow.Without end.

I swallow, the hairs on my neck prickling, and not just from the damp and cold. These plaintive voices are so melancholy and strange—beautiful, in fact. But there is something cloying about them too, something that seems to fill the air too thickly, making my thoughts move slower than before.

“I am very sorry,” I say. Indeed, it is a painful story.

“Yes, we have suffered at the hands of the goddess too, you see.” The voice pauses, and I hear a note of excitement now, a shiver that seems to ride the gusts of wind from outside. “But now we can help each other, lady. We will help you, and you will help us.”

I stick close to Ajax; his warmth soothes me. I feel hisbreaths through his flank.

“I have little to offer,” I say. “I am just a mortal. I came here for a moment’s shelter. All I want is to wait out the storm and continue on my path.”

“But we will show you a quicker path,” the voice says. “We can tell you how to reach the summit before nightfall.”

Before nightfall.I shiver. I still see no end to this mountain. How many more hours, how many nights, must Ajax and I ride?

“You do not want to be here at nightfall,” the voice says, as though it knows something I don’t.

There’s a quivering and fluttering around me. The trees are restless and unquiet now, almost nervous.

Nightfall!the eager echoes come. I hesitate.

“We were supposed to stay on the path. The oracle told me.”

“It is a safe path, a protected one,” the voice persists. “Known to the dryads but not to mortals. It will be our gift to you.”

I stroke Ajax’s mane. His head butts against me, soft and restless. He is not comfortable among these voices, this strange glade. I cannot blame him. And yet what they’re offering…

“And what is it,” I say, “that you seek in return?”

“Petition for us,” the voice says. She pauses. “We know whom you seek, lady. We know the one you journey to reclaim.”

The son, the son. The voices stir with excitement.The goddess’s son!

“State our case to him,” the leader says. “Ask for his help.”

I look away, out past the safety of the leaves. Water cascades down the canopy outside. So it is not really my help they seek, but his. I am only to be a messenger.

“And what if he cannot help you?” I say. “Or will not?”

She pauses.

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