Page 247 of The Dryad Storm

“For too long,” she finally says, “we have let ourselves be divided, forgetting the source of all our magic and forgetting our connections to each other.”

Yulan, Vang Troi, and Sylvan exchange looks of staunch alliance.

“We stand on a threshold,” Yulan calls out in her melodic voice, her Ironflower tresses glowing bright, the three grayed herons flying in and alighting on the stone beside her and her healed heron kindred. She casts a worried look toward the skies as Shadow lightning cracks against the graying shield. “The old ways of division and fracture are about to bring the destruction of the entire Natural World.”

“Our only hope,” Sylvan booms, “is to forge a new path, and come together as Dryad’khin to fight for each other. And to fight for the trees.”

Sylvan raises his III-marked palm and looks at me as a flood of magic breaksloose and streams toward the Verdyllion from all sides.

I draw in a hard breath and stiffen, the entire surviving Forest and every Dryad’khin suddenly pouring their power into my rootlines via our Dryad’khin linkage to the Forest in a potent, gathering tide, and I join my own power to it all, like rapids converging.

The Verdyllion warms in my hand, its spiral green form flashing prismatic light before settling into a luminous green burn, as bright as a verdant star. As if it was meant for this moment. As ifI’mcoming into the best use of my Black Witch power at this moment.

Heart expanding with so much communal love it aches, I stride toward the runic wall.

Silence descends, save for the strengthening storms above us as Dryad’khin part to allow me passage to the wall’s interlocking sapphire runes. And then I raise the Verdyllion, murmur the spell the Forest is whispering through us all, and press the tip of the Verdyllion to the border wall’s surface.

Our collective power shocks through me, and my pulse leaps as the border wall’s sapphire runes blast into every prismatic color on Erthia, bright as a million stars, and we watch, together, as the runic wall harmlessly explodes in a flash of shimmering multicolored light.

And falls.

Chapter Nine

IV

Elloren Guryev

Noilaan

Together, my Dryad’khin and I fan out through the city and the adjacent shielded lands, a group of us assembling in Voloi’s war-battered Voling Plaza, where an expansive Wisteria Forest and gardens once stood, the Forest’s huge, central Wisteria tree almost completely grayed. But it’s still standing, a trace of prismatic fall foliage color shining in the centers of scattered leaves.

I can sense the Wisteria’s cry of relief, feel its embracing energy as we touch down beside it and join our Dryad’khin in pressing our III-marked palms into the soil.

Saplings rise all around, our joint magic surging with each newly established grove.

Throughout the day and into the night, we manifest trees and channel their energy into the Vo River’s shielding, keeping the Shadow storms at bay while my allies set up an extensive field hospital on the plaza’s rough ground, Dryad’khin of every background streaming in to help.

Cabinets, storerooms, and what remains of cropland are gleaned to secure ingredients to fabricate Norfure tincture and locate food to share with the refugees streaming into Voloi from the West.

The former Noi Vo Conclave has been disbanded, and a temporary new Noi Conclave formed under Sylvan’s and Vang Troi’s leadership. And the Shadow Wand is newly encased in a stone box and kept under heavy Dryad’khin military guard, no trace of its power detectable, its continued dormancy unnerving.

“What will happen to her?” Aislinn’s sister Liesbeth frantically presses Wrenfir as night descends. Pale and sickly, Liesbeth keeps fierce hold of her child’s handas Erin struggles to pull in each breath. A number of my loved ones and allies are gathered with Liesbeth, Aislinn, and their sister, Auralie, beside Erin’s cot in a tent under the battered and grayed Wisteria tree, Jarod standing a discreet distance behind Aislinn.

My uncle Wrenfir cradles Erin’s back, and she wheezes, her eyes bugged out and locked on his in a silent, panicked plea for breath as he gently murmurs to her and brings the vial of Norfure tincture he just finished concocting to her lips, coaxing her to drink it.

Erin downs the medicine and goes frighteningly still, a shiver coursing through her. My own breath catches tight in my throat, and the entire world seems to pause. Suddenly, the child lets out a series of rattling coughs then draws in a long, hard breath.

Shock blooms on Erin’s expression as well as Liesbeth’s, and a broad smile overtakes my uncle’s normally dour face.

Wrenfir gently lowers Erin to her pillow before turning to a frozen, wide-eyed Liesbeth and holding out another vial of Norfure tincture to her. “She’ll sleep,” he assures Liesbeth, eyes brimming with compassion as he nods toward both Erin and the newly medicated Mage baby who slumbers in a cradle beside her, small spots of pink returning to the baby’s cheeks, the little one’s breathing growing less labored by the minute. “And then,” Wrenfir assures Liesbeth as she shakily accepts the vial, “she’ll heal. And so will you.”

An emotional sound erupts from Liesbeth’s throat before she devolves into heaving sobs.“Thank you, thank you, thank you,”she weeps to Wrenfir again and again, teetering a bit, seeming on the verge of collapse.

Wrenfir rises and takes hold of her, gently coaxing her to take the medicine while assuring her that she’s very welcome. Liesbeth downs the medicine, and Aislinn draws her into an embrace that she returns, murmuring through her tears, “I’m sorry, Linnie. I’mso sorry. Can you ever forgive me, my sister?” Liesbeth turns and looks at Jarod. “Can any of you ever forgive me?”

“I can,” Jarod says, pain and compassion shining in his amber eyes.

Tears misting my gaze, I turn and look at the multitude of makeshift beds. Yvan sends an embracing line of fire through our bond, warming my every line and drawing my gaze to him where he’s working with Soleiya, Iris, and other Lasair to heal injuries and other maladies as the Norfure tincture begins to turn a portion of the Red Grippe tide. His mother glances up at me as Yvan sends awarmer rush of fire straight through me.

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