Page 89 of The Dryad Storm

“My sister,” Cael says, his voice splintering.

“The Center of Life is calling us home,” Wynter says to them all as she raises her palm. There’s an image of an Ironwood tree wrought in dark lines there, Wynter’slightning horns forking out a cavern-brightening light. “There is nothing to fear,” she states serenely. “We are being called, all of us, to join with the Natural World’s power. To amplify it and save it from Shadow destruction.”

Wynter fans out her wings just as Yyzz’ra, Gavryyl, and Valkyr emerge from the gigantic root beside her. The three Smaragdalfar soldiers stumble to their knees, and Gwynn, Mavrik, and their allies immediately fall into defensive positions.

But the three Smaragdalfar make no move to attack. They look dazed, all of them clutching what look like tangles of purple roots in their fists, the Verdyllion grasped tight in Yyzz’ra’s alternate hand.

Yyzz’ra looks at Wynter, a shaken expression on her usually fierce visage as she sheathes the prismatically glowing Verdyllion and lifts her palm, turning it outward, Gavryyl and Valkyr displaying their palms, as well.

Gwynn draws in a tight breath.

The same tree image imprinted on Wynter’s palm is emblazoned on the palms of the three Subland Elves.

Yyzz’ra’s expression shifts to one of intense remorse. “I waswrong,” she chokes out to Wynter before turning to Gwynn and Mavrik and the others. “I was wrong to shut you all out. Oo’na’s Tree, III, bonded us to this kindred.” She holds up the tangle of purple roots. “We’ve been bonded to the Sublands beneath a great Eastern Pine Forest.” Yyzz’ra glances in that direction, as if her gaze is being drawn by some internal compass. “The Sublands... it’s not a cutoff territory like I imagined. It’s part of awhole. A cradle to Life’s root connections. If the Sunlands fall, the Sublands fall, as well.”

“The Mages and the Alfsigr,” Valkyr roughly manages to say, and Gwynn is startled to hear the brooding Elf speak, “they’re killingtoo muchof the Forest in the West. If we don’t stop them from destroying both this Forest and the Forests of the East, the entire Natural Matrix willunravel.”

“We saw images of suffering people from every group on the continent,” Gavryyl puts in, his silver eyes haunted. “Children.From every group on Erthia. Dying of hunger and thirst as the Shadow poisons the land... the water...everything.”

“I thought our fight was only for the Smaragdalfar,” Yyzz’ra forces out, her silver eyes glassing with tears, “but it has to be for usall. Or we’re going to lose everything to the Shadow.” Yyzz’ra looks to Valasca and Sparrow as she retrieves a runic stone from her tunic’s pocket and holds it up, sliding her thumb over the rune and pressing along its edge.

The imprisonment collars around Valasca’s and Sparrow’s throats vanish in a spray of emerald sparks.

“I should never have imprisoned you both,” Yyzz’ra admits. She pockets the rune stone and rises, unsheathing the Verdyllion and holding it out to Wynter. “Here, Wynter’lyn,” she offers, her voice tight with feeling. “It wants to return to you.”

Gwynn exchanges an astonished look with Mavrik as Wynter smiles, steps toward Yyzz’ra and accepts the Verdyllion, its chromatic glow brightening as soon as the Icaral makes contact with it, a sense of the momentous circling down.

Mythological in its potency.

A shivering sense of rightness blooms in Gwynn’s breast, drawing her and Mavrik’s lines and power toward the Source Tree’s roots with undeniable force.

Gwynn’s eyes lock hold with Mavrik’s, unspoken agreement spiraling through their lines before they step forward, together, along with Cael and Mynx’lia’luure, Rhys, Valasca, and Sparrow, all of them bringing their palms to the Great Tree’s roots.

Gravity gives way beneath Gwynn’s feet, her and Mavrik’s magic seizing in a shock of multicolored light. They grasp protective hold of each other as they fall straight into the root, suddenly enveloped by darkness and hurled into a shocking free fall. Gwynn’s pulse explodes as they plummet through darkness that feels like it has no end.

Then slow to a sudden halt, suspended in the void.

Disoriented, Gwynn clings to Mavrik, his arms clutching her close as they take in the vision shivering to life all around them.

They’re standing in a purple forest, its spectacular autumn coloration lit up with dream-vivid intensity. Its brilliant fall hues ray out light at the edges, the leaves’ riot of fall color encompassing not just the Western Realm hues of reds, golds, and rusts, but also the fabled autumn coloration of the Eastern Realm—magenta and sapphire, vivid lavender, and bright swaths of turquoise.

Gwynn’s lightlines expand, a euphoric shiver rippling over her skin as she drinks in the tapestry of color, the hues so rich they make her Light Mage heart ache.

Watchers shimmer to life, perched throughout the forest’s branches, and Gwynn and Mavrik’s twinned lines are suddenly flowing down, down, into Erthia and linking into a vast network of tree roots all leading to the Great Tree.

The Great Tree’s true name strobes through Gwynn’s mind—

III.

The Center of Erthia’s Natural Matrix.

The scene morphs into a swirl of color, and disorientation overtakes Gwynn again as they’re thrust into an aerial vision of an entire continent surrounded by ocean, green and golden trees blanketing its expanse. The image of Vogel’s Shadow Wand flashes through Gwynn’s sight as a wave of gray closes in over the densely forested continent, the steely mass of corruption filled with black, curling lightning.

And then they’re being yanked toward the continent’s ground and assaulted by image after image of tree-witnessed horror, the forests burning with steely fire as Shadow armies ravage everything and a toxic gray storm rolls in like a demonic tide and collapses the Living World.

Farms destroyed.

Water poisoned.

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