The dairbvali tree grew in thickly forested areas of the continent. Long and spindly, like a brown snake, its wood was bendy and fibrous, perfect for crafting. Every frequent traveler in the woods knew how to coax the wood into submission, a skill not easily learned but wisely mastered by the desperate and the cunning. Riona did not have to venture far from Ollivan’s unconscious form to spot a patch of dairbvali, spiraling upward to the shaded sky above. Three thin trunks grew like vines, nearly as tall as Riona herself. Using Ollivan’s sword, she hacked them down unceremoniously, ever vigilant for enemies in the shadows. This was not the first time she had crafted dairbvali rope. Fingal had shown her years ago, and he must have learned during the war. She deftly sliced the thin dairbvali trunks in two and tested their meddle over her knee. They bent easily and did not crack. At each end, she slit the bark further, to twine the pieces together. The earthy smell of the tree wafted into her nose and reminded her of Fingal, and although she wished he was here, to guide them, Riona felt strong enough—ready—to handle this problem on her own.
She collected her supplies and trudged back to Ollivan, still slumped where they’d left him. Riona sighed. Connor was not here to help her tie up his friend—although his cooperation was not assured. She sensed him nearby, though where, she couldn’t pinpoint. To be more precise would require expending her magic, and that would leave them vulnerable to the fae militia, who may be scouting these woods for them. Connor would be fine for a few minutes. The shock of everything had only just settled upon him….