Page 70 of The Dryad Storm

It’s a formidable advantage.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Mavrik assures Yyzz’ra, pulling his gaze from Gwynn’s with what seems like great effort to focus back on the portal. He touches the tip of his golden wand to the portal’s frame, tracing one of the runes in a way Gwynn knows will measure the portal’s charge and lag. “We’ve amplified the charging process with quickening runes from multiple runic systems,” he adds, “which should speed both the portal’s charging time and our journey through it.”

Gwynn glances at Yyzz’ra and her cohorts, still glowering beside her. Cael and Mynx are leaning against one of the narrow cavern’s rough walls, and Gwynn’s focus briefly snags on how the portal’s color dances over Cael’s snow-hued featuresand Mynx’s billiantly emerald visage, the two lovers boldly holding hands in blaring defiance of the near constant censure Yyzz’ra, Valkyr, and Gavryyl hurl their way.

Cael’s Second, Rhys, is hanging back to their left, one pale hand resting on an outcropping of crimson stone. Serious, watchful Sparrow stands by his side, the two having struck up a quiet friendship over the past days.

Gwynn considers how sympathetic Yyzz’ra, Valkyr, and Gavryyl initially were toward Sparrow, the three Smaragdalfar soldiers vocally outraged over the oppression Sparrow’s Urisk people suffered at the hands of both the Magedom and Alfsigr. But every trace of their sympathy was whisked away the previous night, when Sparrow grew incensed over the verbal abuse they were yet again aiming at Mynx’lia’luure and Cael.

I’m not so good at purity myself, Sparrow announced, rising to her feet, her violet eyes fair burning with confrontational light.I’m in love with a Mage.

It was like a runic explosive had detonated, Yyzz’ra, Gavryyl, and Valkyr glaring daggers at her. Sparrow promptly went to sit beside the blaringly Alfsigr Rhys, and now Sparrow and Rhys are near inseparable.

A small firework of prismatic sparks bursts from the tip of Mavrik’s wand, yanking Gwynn from her fitful thoughts as the portal frame’s runes whir into a faster rotation.

“This portal will be charged in about six hours,” Mavrik postulates. “Give or take. In any case, we should arrive at the Northern Forest’s southernmost Subland edge before tomorrow eve.” He glances at Wynter. “That’s close to when you sensed Elloren Gardner Grey and Yvan will arrive there.”

“And well before Vogel arrives with his Shadow storm bands,” Wynter adds with a look of genuine gratitude, a Crimson Cactus Wren landing on her shoulder. Wynter’s silver eyes flash worriedly toward the bird, and Gwynn guesses she’s getting another reading on the Shadow storm bands’ locations through the vibrations the birds can detect in the overhead root system.

Gwynn glances up at the root network interspersed amongst the ceiling of crimson Subland stone, the glowing, prismatic runes of the net-barrier she and Mavrik twinned their power to hugging the ceiling, the dark runes of Vogel’s Shadow net fused to its back, the Magedom angling to outpace them to the Forest...

“We’ll have a strong lead,” Wynter assures them all, seeming to read Gwynn’s worries, “thanks to the Verdyllion’s twinned Light Mages.”

Mavrik turns his head slightly and casts an almost-glance toward Gwynn, aspark of emotion flashing through their fused firelines once more, an echoing line of feeling shivering through Gwynn, her heartbeat quickening.

“Our weapons are charged,” Mynx states, and Gwynn glances around at the rune-marked blades, swords, and bows and arrows strapped on the Smaragdalfar soldiers.

“Well, that’s a good thing,” Mavrik says. “Because in a few hours we’ll portal to the Sublands just outside the Northern Forest, break down its Dryad warding and surface inside the Forest. Hopefully amidst an army of Dryad Fae.”

Valasca coughs out a laugh. “Who might try to kill your Crow ass on sight.”

Mavrik’s lip twitches as he shoots her a sardonic look. “I’d appreciate it if you intervened, if it comes to that.”

Valasca shrugs. “They might try to slay my ass, as well. Folklore has it the Tree Fae are about as charitable toward intruders as, well, we Amaz are toward men...” Her grayed, angular face tenses, a tremble suddenly kicking up along her lips. Gwynn’s heart tightens, certain Valasca is being swept up in the horrible remembrance of her destroyed country... and the Magedom’s murder of thousands of Amaz.

Mavrik’s eyes narrow on Valasca, and his jawline firms as he stands. “Amazakaraan will rise again,” he insists, adamant, his eyes blazing with a defiant compassion.

Valasca draws in a sharp breath and nods. Straightening, she makes the Amaz Goddess symbol on her chest, kisses her fist, and thrusts it toward the heavens, meeting Mavrik’s unwavering gaze once more in a flash of alliance.

“When we get to the Northern Forest’s Sublands,” Mavrik says to everyone, “Gwynnifer and I might be able to draw on the elemental power of the roots of a primordial Ironwood tree that Wynter’s kindreds spotted near the Forest’s southern border.”

“The Great Tree of all Erthia’s myths,” Wynter murmurs, the image of the Sacred Ironwood Tree shivering through Gwynn’s mind.

Mavrik nods. “If some of the myths are true, we might be able to further amplify our power via the Great Tree’s fabled light magic—”

“Not fabled,” Yyzz’ra snaps, grimacing at Mavrik. “That magic is the Goddess Oo’na’s own, emanating from her Sacred Roots. Her Holy Tree has been unjustly cut off from my people forgenerations.” Yyzz’ra spits out a disdainful sound. “Because the Dryad Fae know we will wield the Subland magic of Oo’na’s Roots to return the entire Sublands to its rightful dominion—ours.” She scowls at Mynx and Cael,her thoughts about their linked hands blisteringly clear.

Valasca lets out a beleagured sigh and stares at the Subland ceiling for a moment, her lips moving, as if she’s either cursing or praying for her Goddess’s strength, before she levels her gaze at Gwynn and Mavrik both. “You two should get some rest,” she prods before glancing at everyone else. “Everyone should. We’ve done what we can for the moment, and we’ll need everyone in fighting form when we get north. Let the portal charge. I’ll stand guard.”

“I’ll join you,” Cael offers.

“I will, as well,” Mynx chimes in, prompting a chilly look from Yyzz’ra.

“No,” Wynter states with calm authority. “Everyone go, rest. My wingeds will patrol the surrounding caverns and routes, and I’ll read what they see. I’ll sound an alarm if danger comes.”

A beat of hesitation ensues before everyone concedes. The Verdyllion, still glowing in Gwynnifer’s hand, gives a sudden, tingling pull toward Wynter, and Gwynn hands the Wand-Stylus off to the Icaral while most everyone departs into the small side caverns surrounding this larger area.

Gwynn sets off for the circular cavern where she and Mavrik have grabbed a few fitful hours of sleep in the past two nights, hyperaware of Mavrik following her, the rich crimson of the stone surrounding them triggering a sizzle of ruddy sparks through their fused lightlines.

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