Echoes of Time (Shadow Over Shandahar Book 2)

Winds whispered through the towering trees and silver leaves rustled, creating a melody of sound that could soothe and heal the soul. It was a summer wind full of warmth and the scents that could only be experienced at this time of the year. Soon, the heat would dissipate and the air would become cooler. The leaves of most trees would begin to turn color. Shades of crimson, orange, and yellow would suffuse the forests. But not this glen. The leaves from the silver oak never changed color.

Dremathian walked along the forest path. His people called it Krathil-lon, or “silver creation”. It was a place of power, a sinkhole for magic. Wondrous things could be done, or undone, in Krathil-lon, and Dremathian presided over it. For the past few years had he been the arch-druid of his order. His predecessor, Father Mesendric, had held his position for over eighty years. Dremathian hoped he would live just as long.

Finally he made it to his destination, a clearing surrounded by misshapen rocks of varying sizes, each with a runic symbol engraved on its surface. They were important for the ceremony, but not integral. If the person going through the ritual was gifted enough, they didn't need the runes to help them experience the full power of the tabanakh drink.

However, Dremathian wasn't there to perform a ceremony to make an acolyte into a full member of the druidic order. It was much simpler than that...

The sounds of the forest paused in response to someone's passage. He listened intently, and within the briefest of moments all was normal again. Judging by the time lapse, he knew who it was that approached.

Dremathian gathered some wood from the nearby pile and placed it into the fire pit in the center of the clearing. He looked up as his friend emerged from the surrounding trees and he nodded in greeting. As requested, the young ranger was without the customary presence of Dramati, his corubis companion. He wore the new leather vest and trousers that Dremathian had made for him, and his thick, red hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.

Dremathian pointed to the ornate flask sitting on a flat rock on the other side of the clearing. “Could you get that for me?”

Sirion nodded and sauntered across the clearing. The young man had defied ranger code when he agreed to stay in Krathil-lon longer than necessary to heal from the wounds he'd sustained while helping out with the lycanthrope crisis. Early in Shandaharian history, rangers and druids had worked harmoniously together in their care of the natural world. The druids functioned as guardians of the wilderness, and the rangers as protectors of the druids. Unfortunately over time, fighting erupted between the two peoples. Druids, with all of their many ceremonies, rules and restrictions, wanted to impose that way of life upon their less regimented, and more liberated, ranger counterparts. The rangers resisted, and eventually left the druids to their own devices.

But that was a long time ago and there were very few rangers left. Most of those hailed from the forests, especially the realm of Elvandahar. They often hired themselves out to anyone who needed safe passage through the larger forests. They continued to be protectors, focusing on the flora and fauna of the forest within which they resided. For a long time, no ranger endeavored to protect druids. Not until now.

Sirion brought the requested flask and hunkered down bedside the fire pit. Dremathian caressed the newborn flames with his breath, urging it to grow. Not much longer and a small fire licked at the wood. He looked at the position of the sun and saw that it was almost time. The power of the runes worked best at dusk, when Shandahar's first moon, Steralion, was nearing her zenith.

Dremathian settled himself across from Sirion and removed the cork from the mouth of the flask. He inhaled the scent of the drink, and that simple gesture caused flashes of the visions his gift provided when he drank of the tabanakh. He deliberated taking a sip. It would be a useful tool to see what ailed his friend, but not necessary in terms of the Brotherhood Ceremony. Dremathian looked up and found Sirion staring at him through amber eyes, eyes that reflected the pain in his soul. He made his decision.

Dremathain handed the flask to Sirion. “Take a drink. It may not show you anything, but at least you can share the ceremony with me in every way.”

Sirion nodded and placed the flask to his lips. He took a drink and passed it back to Dremathian. The druid watched his friend, knowing what to expect if Sirion received any visions from taking the drink. He doubted Sirion would, for he hadn't drank much, and even with the power of the runes, it usually took more than one drink to receive the visions, even for those who had the gift.

“You defied ranger code and ventured to aid my order with a serious lycanthrope problem. You dispatched the shirwemic with deadly aptitude. In truth, my Brothers and I were astonished by your efficiency, single-mindedness, and strength. After the threat was dissipated, I brought you to my home. I bandaged your wounds and bade you rest. For several days you stayed there, healing from the serious injuries sustained from the shirwemic leader, but when you recovered enough to leave, you chose not to do so. Instead, you took me up on my offer to show you the life of the druids within my order.” Dremathian held out his hand, palm up, over the fire. “I was blessed the day I found you Sirion Timberlyn. Over the past several moon cycles you have become like a Brother to me, and today I want to make it real before the eyes of the gods.”

Sirion placed his hand within Dremathian's. In a swift motion, the druid drew the ceremonial dagger from the sheath at his hip, flipped Sirion's hand over, and pulled the blade across his palm. He repeated the same for his own palm and gripped Sirion's hand tightly within his. Blood dripped from between their two hands and into the flames. Dremathian then dropped the dagger, picked up the flask, and took a small drink.

His gift exploded to life.

From within the fire the vision took shape in the form of a robust wemic with a thick mane. At first it was strong, wild, and free. It cavorted about in the flames, kicking up sparkling embers as it danced. But within moments it grew tired and weak. It grew sickly and lay on the ashes, its eyes barely able to open. Then it died.

Dremathian released Sirion's hand and sat back on his heels. He regarded his new Brother intently his heart filled with concern. Sirion noticed the shift in his demeanor and frowned. “Something bothers you. What is it?”

Dremathian took a moment to gather his thoughts. Within the time that Sirion had spent in Krathil-lon, Dremathian had noticed something about his friend. Anger. Sirion had a lot of anger that was just biding its time, waiting to be unleashed. It crouched, like an animal, becoming stronger and stronger. Dremathian knew Sirion had experienced difficulties in life and believed the crouching animal within was a culmination of those. He had no doubt this beast would come leaping out of the young ranger one day. He feared Sirion would be unable to control it, and as such, there would be a cost.

If left to run free, the beast would ultimately destroy him.