Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  There was a moment of silence. The Tay al-Ard was a device invented by Tyrus of incredible Spirit magic that could transport whoever was holding it to any location he or she had previously been. It was a power Kiranrao hungered for almost as much as his blade.

  “It won’t protect you from losing your memories,” Paedrin challenged.

  Tyrus leaned forward. “We will see if your plan is wise after we’ve survived our first encounter in the Scourgelands. You may be surprised by the power of our enemies. But even so, they will fear facing you, Kiranrao. The weapon you carry is anathema to them. We will not succeed without you among us.”

  Kiranrao seemed mollified by this and said nothing in reply.

  Tyrus turned to Shion and gestured.

  Phae sat next to Shion, feeling the coolness of the night air settling into her bones now that the fire was nearly burned out. Up close, she could see the faint scars on his cheek, scars that seemed to be a matching set to the ones on Tyrus’s face. Shion was the Arch-Rike’s most ruthless servant, the Quiet Kishion, a man without a name and without a past. Somehow the mystery surrounding him was shrouded in the lore of the Scourgelands. His scars, his lack of memory, his invulnerability. She had watched him plunge his hand into a swarming beehive without a single sting and then plummet from the roofline of a house and walk away as if it were nothing. The Arch-Rike had sent him to capture her. He had succeeded, but somehow her father had persuaded him to join the quest. She was afraid of him, but she was also afraid of not being near him. His very presence was a source of comfort, a man beyond the reach of death.

  “Call me Shion,” he said, his voice rich, as if he had studied in the theater. “If Tyrus’s motives are not what he claims them to be, then I will be the first to abandon him. I am Phae’s protector. That is all you need know about me.”

  “How did Tyrus persuade you to forsake your master?” Kiranrao probed. “If there is anyone here to be distrusted, it’s you, for you were his servant.”

  Shion looked at him, a little wrinkle of annoyance on his brow, and said nothing in reply, holding true to his nickname. Phae had been the recipient of his sullen silence in the past. She concealed a smirk.

  “Daughter?” Tyrus said patiently, eyes focused on her face. She stared back at him, feeling that complex mixture of emotions. They were still such strangers. She wanted to know him better, but the more she learned about him, the more fearful she was of the cost of knowing him. His enemy was the most powerful man in all the kingdoms. His quest took them into the most dangerous land. How should she feel about a man who willingly took his daughter into such a place?

  Phae saw that they were all looking at her, waiting for her to speak. With a blink of her eyes, she could steal their memories away. She could make them all forget the quest they had joined. It caused a wild thrill inside her heart. She could make them forget all about her and then she could walk back to Stonehollow and rejoin her lost family.

  It was a sad wish.

  But she could not do that. Not after each of them had suffered so much. Not after all the world had suffered.

  “My name is Phae Winemiller,” she said simply, crossing her arms over her knees. “And I am here to end the Plague.”

  “Havenrook has fallen and the Romani have dispersed. An army of the Cruithne reached the trading city before the King of Wayland could penetrate the woods. I am astonished at how swiftly the collapse occurred. Despite the great wealth of the Preachán and their Romani allies, they apparently took no thought for their own city’s defenses. I am certain they will resent the presence of the mountainfolk amongst them. But what choice do they really have but to endure it?”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  III

  Phae was not certain what sort of reaction she would get from her words. She did not enjoy being the subject of so much attention and began to fidget. “I am Dryad-born,” she continued in a low voice, grateful for the darkness that shadowed her face. “I’m of the age where I can bond with a tree and gain access to its memories. My father hopes . . . that doing so will help us understand the Plague’s origin.”

  Kiranrao leaned forward. “You hope?”

  “I’m convinced,” Tyrus replied, gesturing for Phae to say nothing more. “The place we seek is deep inside the Scourgelands. A place called Poisonwell. It’s a cave.”

  “I know that name,” Annon announced in the dark.

  Tyrus turned to him, his expression changing to alarm. “I have never spoken it to you before.”

  Annon sat up straight and picked at the whiskers on his chin. “It was in the tunnels of Basilides. There was a Rike who kept asking me what I was seeking there. He wanted to know what you had sent us to claim . . . a treasure from the sarcophagi hidden there. He was certain we were seeking an artifact, not the doorway itself. He said that word—Poisonwell—that was the source of the Plague.”

  “What else did he say, Annon?”

  The Druidecht began to rock back and forth, his face twisting with frustration. He wiped his face with his hands. “I don’t remember it well. He warned of the dangers in the Scourgelands. My memories are so faded. I used to be able to remember every word. Now I can hardly recall a thing. Erasmus said something as well. He figured out something about the Arch-Rike.”

  “Try to remember.”

  “I am trying, Tyrus.” Annon rose quickly and began to pace around the circle, his brow furrowing deeply. “Khiara? Do you recall what he said?”

  The Shaliah’s eyes were closed and she seemed to be asleep. “He spoke about the lost blood. The forgotten blood. A persecuted race.”

  “Go on,” Tyrus murmured, his eyes twinkling with excitement. The others were leaning forward as well, waiting.

  “Yes!” Annon said, stopping. He pumped his fists in concentration. “He spoke about the fireblood. No one knows the name of our race. We look Aeduan, but there was once a name for our kind. It is lost now. But there were crypts, you see. Around in a circle, filled with treasures.”

  “Treasure?” Kiranrao murmured inquisitively.

  Khiara nodded in the darkness, the moonlight starting to reveal her face. Her eyes were wide open. “There were crypts for each of the kingdoms—”

  “Yes, but the names on the crypts were of the living.” Annon stopped, his face brightening. “The one with Kenatos had the name Band-Imas on it. The current Arch-Rike, not one of those from the past. Erasmus said the Arch-Rike was masquerading. Wasn’t that the word he used?”

  “Yes,” Khiara answered. “A disguise. The crypt marked Wayland had the current king’s name. Again . . . the living.”

  Tyrus was deathly still.

  Annon shook his head in frustration. “He’d realized a truth, Tyrus. You know how Erasmus was always making predictions. He perceived something about the Arch-Rike. There was a pattern there amidst the stone boxes that he understood. Before he could explain it to us, he died. There were serpents everywhere. Several bit him before attacking us.”

  “There are serpents in the Scourgelands as well,” Tyrus said. He steepled his fingers, drawing deeply into himself. “Is that all you can remember?”

  Annon began pacing again. “I’m trying . . . but we nearly died too. I had not even thought of it until now, when you said the word Poisonwell. It triggered the memory.”

  “And where is this hidden temple the Arch-Rike is so secretive about?” Kiranrao asked.

  “You’ve lost your treasure and so you are seeking a new one now?” Paedrin mocked.

  “You test my patience, boy. I could go there and seek new information. I can get past its defenders.”

  Tyrus shook his head and waved his hand. “It is probably the place the Arch-Rike expected us to flee to from Canton Vaud. Undoubtedly there is an overwhelming force awaiting us there. Your magic is strong, Kiranrao . . . I do not doubt that. Because Annon was there, we can
go to the tunnels whenever we wish. I chose Boeotia because it is the one place the Arch-Rike cannot hunt for us unmolested. He is expecting us to enter the Scourgelands right away out of desperation. Our advantage lies in being unpredictable.”

  “The Uddhava,” Paedrin said.

  Tyrus nodded. He rose to his full height and Phae felt insignificant in his shadow. “Poisonwell is our destination. It is a strange nexus between our world and Mirrowen. The entire forest of the Scourgelands exists to thwart us. My plan is simple. We will pass the Arch-Rike’s defenses by being unpredictable. We will skirt the borders of the Scourgelands north, testing its boundaries, bringing its defenders after us. Then, with the Tay al-Ard, we will come back to the different points we have been to, causing some fires and attacking its defenders, and then come away again. The Tay al-Ard is critical because it can bring us to a place where we have been before. It will allow us to flee quickly when the beasts threaten to overpower us. By moving constantly, we will penetrate the woods at various points. The defenders will not know where we will strike next. If we focus carefully and don’t gaze at the trees, we’ll avoid the eyes of the Dryads, which will try to trick us into looking harder. That is the secret Declan began to deduce before we abandoned him. Any tree with mistletoe must be avoided at all costs.”

  Baylen spoke up. “You won’t kill a bear if you keep poking its hide with needles. You will only make it angrier. We want to kill this one.”

  Tyrus shook his head. “No, Baylen, we cannot kill this one. You do not understand or appreciate the number of defenders in the forest. We must distract them. Make them hunt us. And we must stay out of their reach. If the King of Wayland marched his entire army into the Scourgelands, they would be decimated. There is no weapon we could use, not even the blade Iddawc, for there is no single enemy to slay. A smaller force will stand better odds of slipping through. When we’re attacked on all sides, we will gather around me and disappear. This is the part where you will all have to trust me. I will be the judge of when it is time to flee. The creatures who oppose us are driven by an intelligence. They do not always fight to the death. Sometimes they flee and then come again soon after. I have faced these threats before and survived.” His look was hardened with the experience. “I will decide when to flee. When I give the command—Hasten!—you need to come to me immediately. Grab my arm or grab each other and I will use the Tay al-Ard to bring us to another place. When I say the word, I will count in my mind for five seconds. Like this . . . one—two—three—four—five. You must be with me by the end or you will be left behind.”

  Phae felt coldness go down her spine. She looked up at her father in shock.

  Kiranrao snorted.

  “You do not appreciate the savagery of our enemies. You do not comprehend how lethal they can be.” He sighed. “I do not expect that all of us will survive. That would be foolish in the extreme. We must have faith in each other and you must trust me fully to know when the right time is to pull away. Our foes are powerful. The Scourgelands have been a land of death for too long. In the city of Kenatos, there is a game the Paracelsus play called Bad-kejon. It moves very quickly and often turns unpredictably. Once we enter that place, we are playing Bad-kejon with a ruthless enemy who seeks our death. I won’t have time to explain my motives or my thinking to you. I won’t have time to persuade you why I’m trusting my instincts in a given situation.” His voice grew ragged and he took a leather flask from his belt and gulped down some water. “Those who survive this ordeal will do so if you obey and observe to perform every word of command from me . . . with exactness.”

  There was stillness in the night after he spoke. Phae felt herself starting to shiver. Shion nudged closer to her, giving her a look of concern. She shook her head, biting her lip. Her father’s words conjured images of blood and death in her mind. How many of those joined around a smoldering fire would survive to the end? She did not know them, but she cared about the welfare of each of them. She believed some might die. The thought that most of them would was a price too horrific to consider.

  “Taking into account that the last group you brought there met such a terrible fate,” Kiranrao said disdainfully, rising to his feet with the grace of a cat, “I supposed we cannot expect any better.”

  Prince Aransetis rose as well. “If you are not up to the challenge, you are permitted to withdraw.”

  Kiranrao looked over the Prince skeptically. “I do not fear you. I fear no one. There is nothing those haunted woods can send at me that I cannot handle. Know that.”

  “Proudly spoken,” Paedrin quipped. “My master always accused me of arrogance.”

  Kiranrao’s face contorted with anger. “Why do you waste our time, Tyrus?” he seethed. “If you do not trust giving me the Tay al-Ard, then let us go together. Just the two of us. I will get you to the center of that maze and then you can bring your daughter there in an instant. All this talk and worry is madness. None of these fools need die. I will bring you there myself. I swear it.”

  Phae felt a shiver of fear go through her at the Romani’s words. She stared at her father with worry. Don’t trust him. He only wants the Tay al-Ard. If you go with him, he’ll kill you.

  “We cannot succeed without you, Kiranrao,” Tyrus said softly. “I’ve known that from the beginning. You are impatient because of what is happening in Havenrook. Ending the Plague will do more to aid your people than anything else you do. We all go together. We will succeed if every person does his part. Including you.”

  Kiranrao scowled and muttered something under his breath. He looked at Tyrus fiercely. “Are we going to wait around the coals all night? It will be dawn soon. What then?”

  “We leave now. Hettie, conceal the traces of our camp. We go deep into Boeotia.”

  There were no roads in the wastes of Boeotia. Annon had wandered through many valleys surrounding the kingdoms, but he had never entered such an inhospitable land before. There was no prairie grass, only dirt and rocks and stunted shrubs. The trees were gangly and full of thorns, with wispy leaves and pollen that drifted when the wind shook the branches. There were occasional pockets of denser vegetation clustering around tiny rivulets of water. Annon rubbed the sweat from his neck, craning his head to gaze up at the burning sun.

  There were spirit creatures, however, in abundance.

  As he walked, Annon reached out to the life populating the prickly shrubs and weed-choked hills. Most were in the form of brown-skinned lizards that concealed themselves and studied him from the shade, or grasshoppers that hopped and flew. He sensed spirits in the millions of tiny red ants that came from clods of cracked dirt. They greeted him warily but deferentially, recognizing him for who he was. They gave him conflicting sentiments.

  Welcome, Druidecht. Beware this land. They will hunt you.

  Beware, Druidecht. You will not be harmed.

  Your friends will all be killed.

  One of Nizeera’s ears twitched as she padded near him, sniffing the air and testing it for the scent of Boeotians. His heart was heavy as stones, and he walked with a feeling of ever-mounting dread. He glanced back at the others, watching the order that Tyrus had assembled for their march through the region. Tyrus was in the center with the Kishion and Phae. Aransetis covered one flank and Paedrin the other. Baylen walked with Khiara ahead of Tyrus. Kiranrao and Hettie came up the rear, with Hettie doing her best to cover their trail and watch for signs of pursuit. Tyrus had sent Annon and Nizeera to go out in front and survey the land and find the trail. Should trouble find them, all sides would pull in toward Tyrus and await his instructions.

  You are grieving.

  Annon glanced down at Nizeera, seeing her saucer-like eyes boring into his. I am.

  I fear that you will be reckless because of it. Do not seek your own death, Druidecht.

  He sighed deeply, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and denial at her intruding thoughts. Tyrus’s speech had not f
illed him with dread. If anything it brought a promise of respite from the terrible pain inside his damaged heart. He dreaded the thought of never seeing Neodesha the Dryad again. Was she in Mirrowen at that moment? Was she dead? Was there a way he could be reunited with her? Would death separate them forever? He did not know. Not knowing made the pain all the worse.

  The more they walked, the less the gravelly ground and shrubs bothered him. It was dusty, to be sure, and the air was dry and made his throat parched, but he found a strange beauty in the land, especially the shape of the rugged mountains deep to the north. There were no signs of dwellings, but he understood that the Boeotians lived in movable tents. They were wanderers and did not plant or harvest crops. They lived off the land and raided the kingdoms to the south when they needed more. Theirs was a guttural language and he recalled, having faced Boeotians twice in his wanderings, that they were not to be reasoned with. Their warriors were quick to attack and assume danger. Annon did not expect that he would be able to cross their kingdom without stumbling across their clans.

  Nizeera, do you smell anything on the wind? Any trace at all?

  She growled softly. Nothing but our own scent. The wind comes from all sides. I will smell something if it approaches us.

  Annon wondered how far they had penetrated into the Boeotian lands. The day was long and hot and his legs throbbed from the pace of the walk. He glanced back repeatedly to make sure he was not outdistancing the others. He saw several talking amongst themselves as they traveled, but he felt no desire for companionship. Perhaps Tyrus knew his heart couldn’t bear it, that it was one of the reasons he had been chosen to lead the way.

  A bird fluttered in the gray-blue sky, soaring overhead. He heard its thoughts come down to him as it passed. Your band is being followed, Druidecht. Others are summoned to join the pursuit. They will come at night when you cannot see them in the distance. Be warned, Druidecht. They will come at night.