There was a feeling in Annon’s heart, a cruel blackness that swelled up like a giant shadow. He felt desire so intense that it nearly drove all thoughts from his mind but the desire to see her, to pledge himself to her, to stand as a guardian in the sickly woods for the rest of his days. One look at her was all it would take. Flames of heat pulsed inside his heart, rending his composure. He started to tremble, unable to keep the shivering from his body, feeling the yearning intensify into sordid and unclean emotions. It was like the blade of Iddawc, a gnawing demand to defile and betray. Somehow she had unleashed a terrible shadow into his being. He felt his will begin to crumble.

“Look on me,” she repeated, her breath brushing against his ear.

“I will not,” Annon answered, nearly choking.

“You will,” she mocked. “No man can resist that part of themselves. All succumb eventually.”

“Even you, Shirikant?” Annon snarled. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her off-balance. She stumbled into the brush, twigs snapping, and exhaled with a gust of surprised breath. Forcing his eyes to remain closed, he felt along her wrist to her fingers and there, fastened to her skin, was a cold iron ring. She began to thrash and pull away, but Annon clamped her arm against the side of his body, shifting so that his back was to her. He grabbed the ring and pulled it off, just as he had freed Paedrin. He released her instantly and hurled the ring into the woods. For a moment, he wondered if the ring would explode, killing them both. He had gambled, though, gambled that a Dryad had not stained herself with murder. She could not remove the ring herself, but another could free her.

Annon stood cautiously, whirling to face her, yet kept his eyes closed. He unfastened his cloak. His heart pounded with heavy thuds. Swallowing, he extended the cloak.

“Take this,” he offered. “Cover yourself.”

He breathed heavily, unnerved by the silence.

More leaves crunched as she rose. Her fingers grazed his and she took the cloak from him. Annon tried to calm his breath, focusing on the task at hand. His heart sorrowed for the girl, wondering what prison she had experienced and how long she had endured it.

“You . . . you freed me?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Annon collapsed against the tree trunk, bending over to calm his rattled nerves. “Yes. That is my purpose for coming. I seek to set you all free. What is your name, Dryad?”

She did not hesitate. “Ruhamah.”

A thrill of success trembled inside his stomach. “I charge you, Ruhamah, to speak the truth. Is your mind your own?”

“Yes, Druidecht. You have severed his thoughts from mine. I am truly free. I did not lie about the Weir. They are coming. He seeks to force you to flee again.”

“I would speak with you first,” Annon said. “But I cannot trust meeting your gaze. May I blindfold you? Then we can speak briefly. I will not tarry long.”

“You may compel me in all things, Master.”

“I am no master,” Annon replied. He knelt and opened his travel pouch, keeping his eyes averted from her, but he saw the hem of his cloak and her toes poking from beneath it. He rummaged through the contents and withdrew a strip of linen for bandages.

“Turn around,” he bid her. “I will be quick.” She obeyed him and he cautiously peered through lidded eyes to be sure. She had long black hair, wavy and clotted with leaves. With care, he wound the linen strip around her eyes.

Another set of howls came and he felt his heart pounding. Time was running short. There was specific information Tyrus had charged him to get. He turned her by her shoulder to face him. Her mouth was drooped in a frown, as if she were experiencing great pain.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I am weary of my life,” she whispered.

“You are free,” Annon said. “You may go where you wish.”

She shook her head gravely. “I am bound to this tree. All is lost, Druidecht. All is lost. Even if you agreed to be my husband, it would not free me from this bondage.” She sagged to her knees and began to weep bitterly.

Annon knelt near her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Why do you cry?”

“What happens to me is no concern of yours, Druidecht. Ask me your questions. Quickly, they come near.”

“Where might I find Poisonwell? It is the heart of this forest—it is the bridge to Mirrowen.”

“Mirrowen is destroyed.”

A rush of gloom went through Annon’s heart. “Why do you say that?”

“I saw it,” she replied mournfully. “The garden is ruined. The walls of the keep are all broken down. It is a myth you seek, Druidecht. A myth that is no more.”