“Will you?” she asked teasingly. Then she rested her hands in her lap and sat straight. “Now, Annon. You have recounted your troubles. Use your new gift of wisdom and begin to solve them. You likely have harbored some ill-formed notions about yourself and others. Start with your sister.”

Annon exhaled slowly. He brought her face to his mind. Almost in a moment, everything she had ever said flashed through his mind. He frowned, for a feeling of dread had begun to squirm inside his stomach.

“Why do you grimace?”

Annon stared at her. “I have a bad feeling about her.”

Neodesha gave him a knowing smile. “Why?”

He thought more. Fragments and pieces began to slide together in his mind. “Because she is Romani. She is not trying to buy her freedom. She was sent by the Romani, likely Kiranrao, to steal the blade…the dagger I told you of.” His neck prickled with anger and resentment.

Her lips pursed slightly. “Do not be too harsh in your judgment of her, Annon. If you were raised in that life, you would have done the same. But I have the feeling you are right. She is trapped in a hunter’s snare. Remember that an animal will often kill itself faster trying to escape. What it needs is another creature to free it from its bondage. That is the way with most traps.”

Annon felt the wisdom in her words. “Paedrin is who he always claimed to be. I do not know where the Kishion took him. But I feel he can be trusted.”

She wrinkled her nose and nodded in agreement. “Bhikhu are rarely duplicitous. It is easier to speak the truth all the time than to try and remember the lies told now and again. Paedrin can be trusted.”

“Erasmus. I do not know him very well.”

“Tyrus trusted him with your safety. Whether you trust Erasmus depends on how much you trust Tyrus. The same with Drosta.”

“But Drosta is a Druidecht.”

“But he was a Paracelsus first. Strange how people yearn to become holy only after years of depravity.” She smiled knowingly. “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.”

Annon chuckled softly. “So true.”

“Believe me, many a young Finder have hunted the woods in vain to glimpse a Dryad. And it was not wisdom they sought. My kind tend not to aid Finders until they are well seasoned in years and more desirous of imparting memories and conversation. Consider it a compliment that I have trusted you with my very life. With my name, you could force me to do many things I would detest.”

Annon shuddered. “I would never…”

She touched his arm. “I know.”

He sighed heavily. “I suppose I must think now on my uncle. Or the man I believed to be my uncle.” He rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully, awash in the conflicting miasma of emotions. “I do not recall him ever telling me he was my uncle.”

“Go farther back,” she coaxed. “What is your earliest memory of him?”

He explored his memories even farther. Most were new to him. Brief flashes of feelings and intense loneliness. He suffered under the weight of a child’s pain. Memories were blurry, especially further back. If he went further, would he even remember his birth?

She touched his wrist. “Please understand, Annon. The strength of my magic is related to memories. We have memories to keep specific people in our thoughts. Our emotions bind the memories to us. Emotions like love, loyalty, or gratitude are strongest. The stronger the emotion, the more vivid and influential the memory. As you seek your greatest pains, you will find the memories that contain the greatest wisdom.”

It was as if saying the words made it true. He remembered a woman. He remembered her face—the claw marks on her face. The wounds that had barely healed. He was young—a babe, if that. A year old? Certainly less than two. He remembered her face and the fierce love he had for her. But then she was hurting him. She was making him cry. She was shaking him. He was frightened, terrified. There was shouting and screaming. He did not understand the words because he was still too young to comprehend language. But he understood the emotions and knew the woman was his mother. She was hurting him. She was shaking him. And there was Tyrus—younger but just as imposing. His face also scarred by claw marks. Tyrus had taken him, pulled him up into his huge chest and shielded him. There were blue flames, orange flames spitting at them both. His child’s heart was in a terror. He clutched at Tyrus for protection and safety. He loved his mother, but she frightened him.

They abandoned a stone hut and went into a storm. Tyrus covered him with his cloak. There were screams of rage. The home was burning. The roof was ablaze. Screams of pain. Screams of madness. Tyrus was cooing to him, trying to blot out the sound. Annon was wailing hysterically. He was lost in the moment, in the nightmare. The rain was freezing. He was hungry, cold, abandoned.