Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Thank you,” Tyrus answered, his expression softening. “They are my people and they believe I’ve betrayed them. I will never be welcomed back to the city again. I knew this would happen. But the lead Archivist is named Possidius Adeodat. I do not believe he has seen through the Arch-Rike’s web of lies. But he may be the most reasonable man you can influence. In fact, he may make a fair Arch-Rike himself if given the chance. He’s never desired leadership, which probably serves him well.”

  “I will seek him out,” she replied, lowering her hand. Annon noticed it was her right hand. “Is there anything else I can do to assist your journey?”

  “You’ve already done so much,” Tyrus demurred.

  She shook her head. “Do not think of it like that, Tyrus. You are bearing the greater burden. When you faced the horrors there before, you barely survived.” She reached over and took Mathon’s hand, squeezing it tenderly. “Going back will bring a flood of memories.”

  “It already has,” Tyrus said.

  She nodded. “That is your greatest danger. Those memories will attempt to unman you. They will rob your courage. They will wilt your resolve.” Her eyes burned with fiery determination. “Take with you my blessing. Take with you my strength. I know you can do this, Tyrus. I know that you can defeat the evils that roam that land. For all our sakes, you must. There has not been a man . . . not in a thousand years, who can do what you must do. Death will hunt you. Defy it. Hunger will threaten you. Defeat it. I have seen a man waste away for forty days without food and still not perish. When you are past the need for hunger, your mind will open to new truths. Expect it. Heed those truths. You are facing a horrible task. But you do not face it alone. My blessing goes with you. Should you need to regroup and heal, return here immediately. These caves will shelter you. What else can I do for you?”

  Tyrus stared at her, his eyes shining with renewed determination. “Your faith in my cause was what I needed most to hear.”

  “It is all that I have to give you,” she replied. “Bend your head. Let me give you my blessing.”

  Tyrus obeyed, dipping his chin. The Empress stood on the tips of her boots and kissed the crown of his head. “Fare you well, Tyrus Paracelsus. When next you come to Kenatos, all the spirits your kind have trapped will be set free. Think of it, Tyrus.” She gripped his hands with both of hers. “Think of what that freedom will mean to the people. I long to loosen the bonds around the minds of my own people, to set them free of enmity and hate. In the end, that is the best we can do for one another. We set each other free.”

  Tyrus looked at her, his expression almost startled. “My friend Drosta shared such a conviction. He saw the imprisonment of the spirits of Mirrowen as a great evil.”

  “So it is,” she added, nodding. “There is nothing we crave so much as truth. And what did the ancients always say? The truth shall set you free.”

  “Farewell, Dame Larei,” Tyrus said, bowing deeply. “You are the wisest of women. You have earned my trust.”

  “You did not need to say it for me to know it,” she replied gravely. “Thank you, Master Tyrus, for saving my life. I hoped . . . we hoped . . . that you would choose to do so.” She took Mathon’s hand, her smile dazzling.

  With that, Tyrus mounted the stirrups of the great beast and swung up onto the huge leather saddle. Four Boeotian drovers had been sent to assist them in caring for the camels and bringing them toward the Scourgelands.

  Annon’s heart was afire with emotions and he stood staring at the Empress, unwilling to break the spell she had cast on him. Tyrus had won over his loyalty and trust. But the Empress had captured Annon’s devotion. He stared at her until she looked at him, her eyes curious and thoughtful as she read the expression on his face. It only took a moment. Nodding to the Druidecht with a look of respect and honor, she hooked arms with Mathon and turned away.

  Stars twinkled in the vast, cloudless sky, a garment made of countless tiny jewels. A small fire crackled amidst the camp they had set up. Annon stared at the broad expanse above, his mind lost in the magnitude of it. He wondered what those pinpricks of light really were—distant candles? The shroud obscuring Mirrowen from view? He breathed in the cool night air, unable to sleep. Nizeera nestled against him, her eyes open and glinting with the reflections. They had traveled by camel for several days and he knew they were nearing the dreaded forest.

  You are restless.

  I am, he answered with his thoughts. We face death.

  I will protect you. With my last breath.

  He scrubbed his fingers into her deep fur. I should hate to lose you, Nizeera. Tell me of Mirrowen.

  She was silent, luminous eyes blinking slowly. You would not understand it. When you were Dryad-kissed, you may have endured a glimpse of it. It is too much for a mortal mind to comprehend.

  Annon sighed, continuing to stroke her fur softly. A faint purring noise came from her throat. Every Druidecht dreams someday of being welcomed there. I am young still, so I have not expected it. But we travel to the bridge between our worlds. What if we succeed? Would I be able to enter Mirrowen from Poisonwell?

  If you survive.

  A knot formed in Annon’s stomach. Survive the Scourgelands . . . or survive entering Mirrowen?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that.

  Nizeera was thoughtful, her ears lying flat. No more questions, Druidecht. You must earn the privilege of entering Mirrowen on your own merits. A king may not be able to enter, yet a peasant might. Few wealthy men can shrink small enough to enter.

  Annon shook his head, baffled. I should have no problem with that. I have nothing.

  Her head lifted, her muzzle turning to face him. Possessions matter not. What you bring matters. You bring who you are. Are you worthy to enter Mirrowen? Are you willing to die to test that worthiness?

  Annon grimaced.

  Nizeera laid her head back down on her paws, her tail beginning to sway like a serpentine thing.

  Boots crunching in the sand approached. Annon turned to face Tyrus as he settled down next to the Druidecht.

  “How are you feeling?” Tyrus asked him, which was an odd question. Tyrus had never seemed to care how Annon was feeling.

  “Does it matter?” he replied. “I am well enough. I meant to thank you earlier . . . for letting me overhear your conversation with the Empress. She’s a remarkable woman.”

  “I can see why the Boeotians worship her.” He sighed. “She is deft at manipulating men. I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or pleased that she played us so well.”

  Annon’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you trust anyone, Tyrus?”

  A reserved smile appeared before the reply. “The Romani have a saying: It is no secret that is known to three. While the Empress told us a great deal about what she wanted us to know, she did not reveal all of her motives. Notice she did not ask for mine either. If she had, I would have lost all trust in her immediately. Sensing this, she did her best to coax me into revealing it voluntarily. I nearly did, so powerful was her persuasion. But I have a duty to all of you, to protect your lives the best that I can. There are some secrets we must not share.” His voice dropped further. “Even from the others.”

  Annon watched as Tyrus withdrew, surreptitiously, a ring from his finger. With one hand, he reached out and gripped Annon’s shoulder. As he did so, he dropped the ring into Annon’s lap.

  A cold feeling welled up inside Annon’s heart. “What is that?” he whispered.

  “A piece of Paracelsus magic,” he replied. He glanced over Annon’s shoulder, his eyes roving the camp. “I fashioned it myself. When you put it on, magic veils it and it cannot be seen, but you will feel it on your hand. It is connected to the Tay al-Ard, Annon. It will summon it into your hand directly. Do you remember when we faced Shion in Prince Aransetis’s manor and I vanished with him?”

  Annon nodded.

>   “I used the Tay al-Ard to bring us to the waterfall where the Fear Liath keeps its lair. Because of the water and the pressure, I dropped it into the churn and swam free of the waters. I let Shion think I was dead so that the Arch-Rike would not feel the urgency to kill all of you. But I used that ring to summon the Tay al-Ard back into my hand from the bottom of the waterfall. I’m giving it to you.”

  Annon swallowed, his eyes widening. Again he was struck by the amount of trust that Tyrus had placed in him—a boy. He breathed slowly, trying to understand what was going on.

  “You would only give it to me if you felt you were in danger of losing it,” Annon whispered. His throat tightened with fear.

  Looking into his eyes, Tyrus nodded. “It is important that you know about the ring and what it can do.” He bowed his head, his expression very grave, his teeth clenched with suppressed emotion. “Merinda went mad in the Scourgelands, Annon. She used the fireblood to save my life and keep me from dying. In return, she asked me to save your life. Yours and Hettie’s, it turns out.” He paused, building up his words. “If I must, I will do the same for you. Do you understand why I do this now? Kiranrao may kill me for the Tay al-Ard. If he does and slips away, you can bring it back to your hand with a thought. Be sure he is far away, though. And if I go mad in the woods—” He coughed, covering his mouth on his forearm. His steeled himself again. “If that happens to me and I’m holding the Tay al-Ard, then I will be too dangerous to confront. I must not keep the Tay al-Ard if that happens to me. The damage that I could do . . . I shudder to think on it. But if it happens, Annon, if I lose myself in there, I want you to send Shion after me. He is the only one of you who could do it without being destroyed himself. And I don’t want to burden any of the rest of you with such an awful task. Let him be the one. I don’t want to be left in the madness, Annon. Not like my sister.”

  Tyrus dropped his arm, his shoulders sagging. He hugged his cloak tightly about his bulky frame, shivering in the dark. Annon stared at Tyrus, shaking at the revelations given. His insides roiled with pain and sorrow. How could Tyrus expect him to do these things? To face such heavy burdens?

  “I need you, Annon,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely. “Promise me.”

  Annon wanted to weep. He wiped his mouth, trying to master his emotions. “If there is another way—” he started to say, but Tyrus brooked no refusal.

  “There is none. The madness is irreversible. Even Tasvir Virk. His memories were taken away fully, but he’s a babbling lunatic still. I do not wish that for myself, Annon. I saw what it did to my sister. I saw what it did to your mother. You must have Shion do it. It isn’t murder. It’s my will. Promise me.”

  Annon knew he could not escape Tyrus’s implacable will. He felt the other’s strength of mind bearing down on him. Annon could see he had already given this great thought, that he had delayed burdening Annon with the task until the last possible moment.

  He sat shuddering under the starry sky, overwhelmed by the thought of ordering Tyrus’s death. His own mother had faced that madness to save his and Hettie’s life. Tyrus promised to do the same. Perhaps he had realized already that he would not return to Kenatos to seek fame for what he had done. Annon wished he had thought of this earlier.

  “Promise me,” Tyrus insisted, gripping his shoulder once more.

  Annon stared down at his lap, looking at the round eye of the ring. He scooped it up and slid it on his finger.

  “It pains me,” Annon said, his voice choking, “but I will.”

  The look of relief on Tyrus’s face made it hurt all the worse. He stared at Tyrus—a man who he thought was his uncle most of his life—and realized he could never be like him. A man of secrets. A man plotting to overthrow the strongest power throughout the kingdoms. He looked across the sheltered campsite, the kneeling camels and sleeping bundles. They were amidst a vast plain full of scrub and stones. The air smelled of dust and camel scat. Shion was also awake on the other side of the camp, staring up at the vast, starlit sky. What a pitiful few straining at the lever to overturn such a huge boulder. Would it even be enough?

  “Thank you,” Tyrus whispered. He squeezed Annon’s shoulder and rose, slipping away into the shadows.

  Annon stared down at his hand. The ring was gone, though he felt it still.

  “One of the ancients once said that the face is the mirror of the mind, and the eyes—without speaking—confess the secrets of the heart. I think this is true of most people. But there are some who so carefully guard themselves and their emotions that you cannot imagine the deep inner workings of their souls, let alone feel justified in characterizing it in some shallow way. The Arch-Rike of Kenatos is such a man. The occasional sparkle of temper may casually reveal itself at times. But those times are rare.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XIII

  Paedrin refused to ride one of the camels. The thought of perching atop a swaying saddle, strapped to a cud-chewing beast, filled him with deep disgust. He had no trouble keeping pace with the others—the fact was that he was faster afoot and with the Sword of Winds than any ride. He was grateful for the food and water skins, and he made himself useful by scouting the land ahead of the four Boeotian drovers who led them away from the maze-like canyons and toward the dark, haunted woods of the Scourgelands. It was from his lofty position, gliding through the sky, that he saw the danger coming behind them.

  “What is that?” he muttered to himself.

  It was the third day since leaving the Empress, and the drovers had led them in a northeast direction through the hills and scrub of their forsaken lands. The drovers were all suffering from the early stages of the disease and rarely spoke to them, for they spoke little Aeduan themselves, and were good as the Empress had promised, caring for the beasts and setting up the spacious tent each night for them to sleep in.

  From his position above the others, Paedrin saw a wall of dark clouds and swirling dust approaching from the southwest. It was enormous, like a storm cloud that scudded across the desert, too swollen to rise into the sky. He swooped down immediately, using the blade to bring him straight to Tyrus.

  “There is something a league or so off,” he warned worriedly. “Some fog bank or storm. It will overtake us within the hour.”

  Tyrus chirped a command to the beast he rode and twisted in the saddle. Already the edges of the storm could be seen. Tyrus motioned for the drover near him and gesticulated toward the approaching front.

  The drover stood tall, shielding his eyes, and then began barking orders to his fellows. “Make camp,” he said urgently. “Make camp. Ata! Ata vancou! Haboub!”

  The group quickly dismounted the camels and the drovers began to scramble to pitch the tent. Paedrin joined them and Baylen followed suit, for they had both watched the drovers before and knew the order for assembling the tent.

  “What is coming?” Prince Aransetis asked.

  “They call it a haboub,” Tyrus said. “Paedrin saw it first. Some sort of dust storm.”

  The wind began to whip and ruffle their clothes. The camels were made to kneel and the supplies stripped from their backs and brought inside the tent. Everyone lent a hand, hurrying to bring the gear inside. The wind began to blast, and soon they could all see the dust cloud advancing. It was eerie and brown, longer than a forest wall and taller as well. Paedrin used the blade to shoot into the sky one last time, trying to get a sense of its vastness. The wind shrieked and pulled at him, buffeting him roughly as the monstrous storm advanced. He could not see the end of it as it bore down on them.

  The tent pavilion was lashed to extra stakes, the drovers chirping and calling to each other to hurry. Paedrin nearly went end over end with the sudden gust of wind and quickly returned to the desert floor and joined the others as they entered the tent. They staked the camels to prevent them from escaping, but they were not allowed inside the tent.

  As P
aedrin entered, he saw that the gear took up a good portion of the space and that everyone was huddled close together, including the agitated drovers, who tightened the straps on the door ropes.

  Paedrin did not like being in confined spaces and he glanced around nervously at the others. The haboub struck their camp like a blacksmith’s hammer. Everyone instinctively drew closer together as the winds began thrashing the hide walls of the tent. Fine grains of dust began to seep in through the open spaces, swirling like smoke. The storm blotted out the sun, dimming their vision like an early twilight.

  “The storm will rage a while,” Tyrus said. “Rest if you can.”

  Most leaned against stacks of provisions, trying to find comfort in an uncomfortable setting. The wind shrieked and howled, rattling the posts that held up the tent. Everyone was subdued, the darkness deepening with each passing moment.

  The tent filled with the smell of the dust, and some started coughing. Paedrin sat in a calm stance, trying not to let it impact his heart. The light grew dimmer and dimmer, reminding him of that horrid dungeon beneath the Arch-Rike’s palace. He felt the prickle of sweat down his back and did all he could do to remain composed. That dungeon was his worst nightmare. He dreaded even the memory of it.

  “Reminds me of the squall we faced by the cliffs of Shatalin,” Baylen said. Paedrin realized the Cruithne had settled near him. “The fog was so thick.”

  Paedrin turned and looked at him, seeing the intelligent look in his eyes. He observed people. He had noticed Paedrin’s disquiet.

  “That was a dark night,” Paedrin said softly. “We’ve been from one danger to the next.”

  Baylen nodded sagely, looking nonplussed by the storm. “Storms are unpredictable. They are vast powers that none of us can control. It’s wise to be wary of them.”