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I gasped when two emerald-green eyes opened from two leaves facing us. Trails of ivy dripped down around the eyes like hair.
“A dryad,” I whispered, though I’d never heard of one like this before.
Goll stepped partially in front of me. Her mouth was carved from the bark of the vine. Spindly legs and arms made of other vines detached from the stone as she stepped down from where she seemed to have been attached for a very long time. Her dark-green vines of hair draped to the ground and around her thin, naked body, made entirely of bark.
No one said a word as she blinked at all of us then yawned, her leaves quivering, before settling those ethereal eyes on me. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was strangely child-like, reminding me of Zu, Tikka, and Geta.
“You have?” I asked, stepping around Goll who kept a hand on my shoulder. “For how long?”
She blinked those leafy eyes, looking up as if to remember, then said, “Three thousand years. And one.”
Soryn made a sound of surprise. Vallon shifted, but no one said a word.
“That’s a long time,” I said, my heart rate speeding wildly ahead.
She shrugged a shoulder as delicate as my wrist and flicked her ivy-leaf hair over her shoulder with long, twiggy fingers. “I waited a few hundred years then realized you might not be born yet. And might not be born for a long time to come. So I decided to sleep awhile.”
“I see,” I said. Then I thought of something and suddenly turned to Goll, “Can you understand what she’s saying?” I wondered for a moment if I was speaking that old demon tongue he told me I did with the water sprites.
“Yes,” answered Goll.
“They understand me,” said the dryad, then she turned her head and looked at Vallon, her ivy hair floating unnaturally. “You are wrong, priest. What happens to the light faeisof your concern.” She pointed one of those long fingers at me. “She has a part to play. As do you, priest.”
While we’d all been thoroughly shocked by the sudden appearance of an ancient dryad, Vallon seemed cavalier and rather comfortable with the creature suddenly speaking directly to him.
“And what is mine?” Vallon asked her boldly.
She grinned, revealing a row of sharp, green teeth. “You shall see.” Then she flipped her ivy hair over her shoulder again, reminding me of the court ladies at Issos when they were putting on airs, playing haughty to the fae of the court. “For now, you shall fetch your prince. He will give her the words.” Then she turned a hardened gaze on him, her green eyes sparking brightly. “If you want to protect the mountain”—she glared and whispered eerily—“fromallthat dwell there, then you must do as I say.”
I was confused for a moment because it seemed she should’ve said, “andall who dwell there,” not “from.” But I wasn’t about to question her. She was obviously helping my cause.
Vallon dipped his head reverently to the dryad. “I will return with Prince Torvyn.” Then without another word, he bent his legs, beat his wings, and shot up into the air, leaving a whoosh of wind in his wake.
The dryad turned her green-eyed gaze on me, blinking with childlike wonder.
“He may be gone awhile,” I explained.
She shrugged her shoulder again and leaned back against the dark stone of Solzkin’s Heart. Some of the ivy still growing uponthe rock reached out and wove into her hair and around her limbs, tangling between her twiggy fingers.
“I’ll wait.” Then she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, blending and melding back into the lichen and green growth along the rock as if she were never there.
Goll didn’t waste a moment. He urged me with a hand at my back. “The Culled will be arriving over that ridge any moment.” We’d seen the line of them making their way north from Meerland when Drakmir flew us from Windolek. “I’d rather we wait near the stream. We can make camp there.”
The stream wasn’t far, so we walked. Morgolith, Soryn, and Pullo pulled their mounts behind them and walked at our sides.
“Morgolith, what is it the prince can do to help me?”
He looked ahead of us, sternness creasing his brow. “Prince Torvyn is a dubsheeva.”
I started, darting my gaze at Morgolith. “I thought those were myths.”
“They’d like everyone to believe so. There aren’t many that I know of.”
Turning to Goll, I raised my brows, “An actual shadow shaper? He’s not just one of the novgala?” The novgala were illusionists. They could use glamour and shadows to create remarkable illusions.
Morgolith shook his head. “Vallon is a novgala. He has the capability of casting illusion to a high degree. But the prince”—he gusted out a heavy breath—“I’ve seen him do remarkable things. And terrible ones.”
I now realized why the dryad thought the prince could help me. The demon runes were carved into the rock. They were basically made of shadow.
