Page 243 of The Dryad Storm

A hard blaze of concern sizzles through our bond. We take in the Vu Trin military ships and skiffs darting along the runic border wall’s upper edge, a thick band of soldiers lining the wall’s base. How will we peacefully get pastthisand bring the East into alliance with the Natural World before the brewing Shadow attack breaks through?

“Wyn Juun!” Trystan calls out, breaking into my dire thoughts.

Following my brother’s line of sight, I spot an elderly Noi priest approaching, a purple Noi Starling perched on his shoulder. The priest clearly recognizes Trystan, a palpable warmth entering his dark eyes. Wyn Juun is garbed in the holy garments of the Eastern Realm’s Vo’lon faith, his tunic’s worn, sapphire fabric embroidered with Vo’s twelve dragon manifestations, each dragon a different color. His long, snow-hued beard is tied in a knot below his chin, a cloth marked with a purple Xishlon moon tied around his arm.

My heart twists as I take in the gravely ill Mage baby Wyn Juun is cradling in his arms. Yvan and his mother immediately launch forward to lay their hands on the baby, but I know his Lasair healing power is not equal to the vicious Grippe, even Yvan’s immense Lasair might holding only enough magic to slightly alleviate the Grippe’s cruel symptoms.

The baby’s eyes and mouth are encrusted with sores, the child struggling for breath through dangerously congested lungs. Wyn Juun looks pointedly down at the baby, then back at us, determination on his face as he raises his palm to us, displaying the mark of III.

The energy of alliance shocks through both Yvan’s and my fire as well as Trystan’s and Soleiya’s and through the power of my Dryad’khin surrounding us as we raiseIII-marked palms to the priest in instant, mutual recognition. The motion is echoed by a number of refugees moving toward us, a multitude of kindreds closing in with them. I cast Hizar’drile an appreciative look.

“Well done, Hizar’drile,” Queen Freyja Zyrr says. “Those Wyverns you sent out to bring people to the Forest seem to have made inroads.”

A deeper astonishment takes hold as I notice how many of these new Dryad’khin refugees areMagesand now possess the pointed ears and deeper forest green hue of Dryad Fae. A large number of them are also wearing the same Xishlon moon–marked armband that Wyn Juun sports. And the scattered Alfsigr refugees I can make out all possess a pale green Dryad’khin tint to their alabaster coloration.

The Forest’s call for everyone to align being taken up by so many new allies.

But my tenuous spark of hope is doused as I notice how many of the refugees are sick, many quite ill with the Grippe, Dryad’khin and non-Dryad’khin alike.

Bleddyn shoots me an alarmed look. “Holy hells,” she exclaims, “Elloren... these people need care.Immediately.”

My own concern gains traction as a chorus of congested coughing sounds all around us, our newly established Dryad’khin bonds with the surviving Natural World not able to heal the Grippe on their own.

A remembrance of the huge expanse of Norfure flowers I came upon in the Zhilaan Forest surfaces, just before Vogel captured me, my urgency sliding into a heated rebellion. There’s no reason for anyone to suffer from this sickness. We know how to treat it. All we lack is the will.

And that needs to change.

Now.

“You have joined with us, Wyn Juun,” Vang Troi somberly greets the priest as my uncle Wrenfir draws up beside us and glances around at the sick people with an expression of abject horror.

“It is true that I have become Dryad’khin,” Wyn Juun affirms. “As have so many here. More each passing hour...”

“These people needmedicine,” Wrenfir snarls, cutting him off, fire blazing through my uncle’s rootlines and practically spitting off his skin. “They need Norfure tinctureimmediately.”

Wyn Juun turns his dark eyes toward my uncle. “They do,” he agrees before both he and the purple starling on his shoulder glance up at the border wall. Wyn Juun’s gaze narrows, as if he’s sizing up a potent and insurmountable enemy. “Butour new Vo Conclave wants all those here to return to the West.”

A growl bursts from Diana’s throat. “The West would be a death sentence!” she snarls, my Lupine sister’s amber eyes ablaze as she takes in the sick baby, the look of misery in the Mage child’s bloodshot eyes positively heartbreaking.

“Access to medicine could cure this child in aday,” Wrenfir stresses.

“We need to get these children and the others who need help to the Sublands,” Ra’Ven urges as a crack of Shadow thunder booms overhead, the dank air growing chillier. “They shouldn’t be exposed to the elements like this, especially with the power of the shielding above us dissipating.”

Wyn Juun gives Ra’Ven a hard look. “The Vo Conclave has magically walled off the Sublands with the Smaragdalfar Elves’ own Varg magic. There’s no getting in or out.”

A lethal glint enters Ra’Ven’s gaze. “They’restillwarring with my people? With the Shadow about to break into the East and destroyeverything?”

“Holy gods,” Sage says to Ra’Ven, alarm flashing through her eyes and power, “Fyn’ir and Fern... and so many others... they’re all imprisoned there.”

“Effrey’s likely trapped underground, as well,” Sparrow cuts in, giving Thierren a tortured look, her violet aura taking on a static, martial energy.

“Elloren.”

Aislinn’s shocked voice beside me draws my attention, my Lupine sister’s hand clamping around my arm. I turn and take in Aislinn’s stunned, amber gaze as she stares into the crowd before us, her concern mirrored in Jarod’s gaze. “Myfamily...” she stammers.

“Linnie!” a stout, conservatively dressed young Mage woman calls out as she rushes toward Aislinn.

Recognition hits.

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