Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  He scanned the grounds quickly, looking for a place to set down—a place where his memory might be used at some future moment to bring others deep inside the Scourgelands. Was this the right place? Broken walls littered the promontory. Derelict chimneys and skeletal archways still existed, but they protected nothing. In his mind’s eye, Paedrin could imagine a sprawling courtyard, grander than the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos. A few ragged trees, bereft of all foliage, had grown in seams and cracks in the rubble. The mist swept down as a veil, chilling him.

  Low chanting sounded from just below where he was perched. To his surprise, he saw black-robed Rikes ascending from a gaping maw of stone in the floor just beneath him. Many held staves with glowing stones embedded into one end. A few carried smoking brands, reminiscent of the ones carried by the Boeotians to drive away helpful spirits. The Rikes were chanting in some ancient language, words that Paedrin did not understand. They emerged from hidden crypts within the bowels of the ancient fortress. A dozen men . . . then another dozen . . . wave after wave of Rikes emerging into the misty gloom, humming and chanting, some glancing fearfully at the shelves of rock and crumbled walls. The sound of clopping hooves approached and more riders appeared in the debris, their hoods concealing their faces. One raised a crooked arm and pointed, directing the Rikes with sibilant hisses in some ancient language.

  Paedrin screwed up his courage, knowing he would need to leave before the Arch-Rike himself arrived. Fear raged inside of him, threatening to spoil his courage forever. The mist was thick and heavy and Paedrin gently inhaled, coming off the roof and floating away from the apex of the buttresses he had perched on like a gray dove.

  Baylen was heading into a trap. This was not a battle they could win. The mist would help conceal them if they fled—hopefully. Paedrin quickly explored the ruins, seeing riders throughout the maze. He went around the complete perimeter, looking for a place to land, a small shelf of rock where he could bring others back with him—a place away from the deadly ramp and the deadly guardians there.

  Around the base of the promontory, the woods of the Scourgelands pressed against the rock, giving it the impression of an island rising in a lake of oak burs. All the trees looked alike, of course, as they typically did to a young man raised in a crowded city. But as he glided along the far end of the promontory, there was a single tree that struck his attention and caught his gaze.

  What struck Paedrin was the hideousness of the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was even an oak tree at all, because it was so misshapen and distorted. At first look, it didn’t even look like a single tree but as if twelve other trees had all grown together into a single, contorted mass. It was not the largest tree he had seen in the Scourgelands either. But it was singularly grotesque, and the trunk seemed to split in the middle, revealing a cave-like maw at the base that showed light from the other side, as if the tree had two massive legs and it were squatting. A variety of gnarled branches had grown from the hulking shape, most stick straight like the quills of a porcupine. Rotten foliage hung in clumps around it.

  Paedrin stared, his heart burning with fire as he saw the mist descend and shroud the image of the tree below. He felt an overwhelming urge to fly down to the misshapen behemoth for a closer look, but a wave of sudden dread soured his mind. What would be guarding it? He thought it wise to land atop the promontory and watch it a moment, to see if he could discern any guardians. He knew it likely that a Fear Liath was hunting in the mist. He could sense them, their foreboding presence and darkest evil. Had Baylen reached the top of the promontory yet, and would he meet the Rikes and soldiers soon? His mind twisted itself in knots with all the possibilities.

  At the edge of the promontory, just below him, Paedrin saw a fallen wall, broken to crumbled bits. He lowered himself down, breathing out softly, and decided to make his watch there, amidst the rubble. It was near the queer-looking tree, a place he would remember and be able to describe later. It was away from the escarpment where the Rikes gathered and would provide a good view of the tree below.

  A horrible dread filled Paedrin’s stomach. He had to be away, had to try to escape while he could. How would he find his way back to the ramp in the mist? He could not worry about that. He needed to position himself on the promontory. This was the legacy he would bring back to Tyrus—the atonement he would offer for his failure.

  As Paedrin’s feet touched the uneven stone, black roots shot up from the cracks of moldering stone and fastened around his ankles and up to his calves. They felt like iron and began squeezing with ruthless intensity, causing wrenching pain to shoot up his legs. He had barely noticed the solitary shell of an oak tree nearby. The clutches of the roots tightened further and suddenly he saw something dark materialize from the shadows. It wasn’t the bulk of a Fear Liath—it was made of snatches of night that coalesced. Paedrin saw the dagger gripped fiercely in the man’s hand. He saw the expression of hate on Kiranrao’s face.

  The fear in the Bhikhu’s chest was a razor.

  XXXI

  Utter exhaustion had finally driven Kiranrao to tempt sleep in the crook of a shattered tree. He leaned against the rugged bark, trying to stifle the ribbons of pain on his arms and legs and across his shoulders. The last attack from the Weir had almost destroyed him, but he had managed to slay each one of the beasts. He could still smell their fur and blood, and the scent made him nauseous. His head drooped and he caught himself, listening keenly into the darkness. He was nothing but a shadow smudge himself, but he knew he could not rest for long. He knew the forest was still hunting him.

  So was the memory.

  A wave of self-loathing threatened to smother and choke him. Alone, in the darkest night of his life, he shuddered at the memory of murdering Khiara. Why should the death of one person be the rack on his conscience, one that threatened his very notion of himself? He was Kiranrao, master of Havenrook, lord of the Romani, father of all greed. He had swindled men and then left them dying in puddles of their own blood when they attempted retribution against him. He knew about suffering in all of its shades. He remembered a madwoman in Kenatos who used to sing before the wealthiest citizens and was reduced to living in squalor and bird droppings. He had faced the gallows and not flinched. Why was murdering Khiara so different?

  But it was different. In the dark, his conscience accused him. She was a Shaliah, someone whose very existence was one of self-sacrifice and honor. It was cloying, actually, and he found himself despising the woman despite needing her gifts to stay alive himself. He had promised to repay her. Was it that broken promise that haunted him now? Why should it—when he had broken so many?

  Somehow, Kiranrao realized deep inside that he had crossed a new border of ignominy. He had done it almost on a whim, to hamper Tyrus’s efforts more than to help his own cause. Yet now, he was lying to himself again. He had thought about killing her before. The power she possessed . . . the ability to heal and restore was completely anathema to his own power, the power over death. The blade Iddawc had whispered to him to kill her. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his wrists, still holding the stained blade in his hand. He had not sheathed it since coming into the Scourgelands. There was something in its power . . . something in the way it whispered to him.

  He shuddered again, trying to banish those murky thoughts. He could have retreated into the woods without anyone to stop him. He should have done that. Yet he had not, and there was no way to undo the death he had caused. Why had he succumbed to that impulse?

  When had he lost control over his own mind?

  He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to listen for the telltale sound of danger. He had to survive the Scourgelands. Tyrus would not be the only man to have succeeded. Kiranrao was hungry, but determined to preserve his dwindling supply of food. He dared not forage for sustenance, knowing the diseases inflicted on those who ate. Khiara had removed that disease, a keramat of tremendous power. He coveted power. What power he could not h
ave, he wanted to destroy so that others could not. He gritted his teeth in anger and frustration. He would kill Tyrus, of course. He would kill them all. Even that Quiet Kishion was weak compared to the power of the blade. Even an immortal could be killed.

  Even Shirikant.

  Kiranrao smoldered in silent fury, thinking on the Arch-Rike’s face, wishing his hatred could summon the man in person. What a puppet master the Arch-Rike pretended to be. Well, Kiranrao would sever the strings and let the entire play collapse in a heap of wooden parts.

  Even with his eyes closed, he saw Khiara in his mind, her eyes accusing. A stain of brown blood was on her tunic front. He could almost feel her standing near him, her eyes full of pity as well as condemnation.

  “Leave me,” Kiranrao muttered. “Begone.”

  The silent eyes continued to bore into his skull. Was that a whisper of breath? He opened his eyes, gazing in shock, fully expecting to see her shade kneeling by him. He saw nothing, but he still felt that she was there . . . or some other malevolent shade.

  He looked furtively into the blackness, craning his neck to listen. Was that a sound? His imagination?

  He started wildly, trying to calm his tattered nerves. No one could know. That was the end of it. That was why his thoughts were sloshing back and forth like a barrel of beer on a wagon. He would kill them all then. Every one of the band who had seen his shameful act, he would put them to death and silence their accusations forever. The Archivists of Kenatos would never scribe down what he had done.

  He would destroy all of his enemies, including the Arch-Rike . . . or Shirikant . . . or whatever name he sought to call himself. And when he was done, he would rid his conscience of the stain. He would go to a Dryad tree and he would force the Dryad to purge the guilt. He would be free of all responsibility then. No one would know, not even himself.

  He had spent his energies trying to escape the Scourgelands. He realized that he needed to stay . . . to find a Dryad tree and to make sure the others had perished. Perhaps he could find the Mother Tree itself? Perhaps that tree would unchain him from his conscience.

  He would kill Prince Aran first. A cold certainty began to seep inside his inner parts. One by one, he would hunt them down. One by one, he would kill them.

  Kiranrao fell asleep with thoughts of murder toying in his mind.

  When the smoky shape emerged from the mist as Kiranrao, Paedrin stared with shock. He doubted his senses then, for he had been deceived by imposters before. He struggled against the tangling roots fastening to his legs, but it was like swimming with chains.

  “Pity you’re not Prince Aran,” Kiranrao said with a sulky tone. “I had thought to kill him next, but you will do, Bhikhu.”

  A spasm of terror shot through Paedrin at the words, at the total lack of humanity in Kiranrao’s dead eyes. He tried to squelch it, but it was like commanding his heart not to quail in the midst of a lightning storm or a shipwreck.

  “I also pity that,” Paedrin said flippantly. “I wish he were here too.”

  Kiranrao sauntered closer, the blade poised and ready. Paedrin’s mind worked furiously. Should he start sawing at the roots? Would they yield like normal plants, or was this some sort of magic that was trapping him?

  “I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, Bhikhu. Hettie isn’t here to stay my hand. Not that she could this time.”

  Paedrin shifted his hips, trying to ignore the squeezing pain in his legs. If he were flat on his back with the ague, he couldn’t be more helpless. But he was not defenseless. He had trained his entire life to prepare for such a moment. The Uddhava would help him. Kiranrao looked almost trancelike. His inner spark was gone. His personality had been bleached away. Delay him—make him react to you.

  “I always knew Hettie controlled you. So, Kiranrao, are there any Romani proverbs for such an occasion? Any words you say to the man you’re about to murder? A good beginning is half the work?”

  A weary expression came over Kiranrao’s face—almost a smile, but not quite. “A postponement till morning . . . a postponement forever.”

  Paedrin held up one hand, palm facing Kiranrao. “I recall one that Hettie told me. It is no secret that is known to three.” He slowly brought the sword behind his back with the other, watching the Romani advance.

  “Fair words, Bhikhu. At least you understand now why I’m killing you.”

  “I propose a bargain,” Paedrin said.

  “There’s no stopping the force of a going wheel by hand,” Kiranrao said, starting to flank Paedrin on his left.

  “I have a new one for you. The youngest thorns are the sharpest.”

  Paedrin brought the Sword of Winds to his chest, pommel up, and summoned the power of the stone in the hilt.

  It was the same trick that the imposter Kiranrao had used against him in Shatalin. The magic of the stone went out in a flood of greenish light and Kiranrao screamed in pain and began slashing the air in front of him, his eyes blistering with the magic. Paedrin ducked low and began slicing through the roots with the blade.

  Kiranrao roared with hatred and agony, the blade dangerously close to Paedrin’s shoulder as he maneuvered away from the random sweep. The Bhikhu sawed at the roots and one came free, releasing the crushing grip on his right ankle, and he dropped to the lowest stance he could muster, feeling the weight of Kiranrao looming above him.

  Paedrin didn’t have time to swing the sword around, but he struck Kiranrao’s abdomen—his liver, to be precise—with his open palm and the Romani tumbled backward, thrashing on the ground. Paedrin resumed sawing on the other cord of root and managed to sever its grip as the Romani made it back to his feet again and lunged at him, slashing wildly with the dagger.

  Paedrin took in a sharp breath of air and used the Sword’s magic to vault into the sky, above the danger. He stared down at Kiranrao, feeling the temptation to flee. But no, he had to face Kiranrao now. There would not be a better time to fight him, with his eyes burning in pain and his wits scattered.

  Paedrin exhaled sharply and came down hard, landing on Kiranrao’s shoulders, knocking him to the ground. He swung the sword against Kiranrao’s neck, but Paedrin’s legs were kicked loose from beneath him and he struggled to keep himself up.

  Paedrin scurried backward as Kiranrao charged him again, his face a mutation of savagery. The Bhikhu twisted sideways as the dagger was thrust at him once, twice, almost grazing the fabric of Paedrin’s tunic. He could not think about the risk he was taking. One cut from the blade . . .

  Paedrin jumped and did a reverse circle kick, smashing his heel into Kiranrao’s cheek. That also staggered him, but just for a moment and he was back again, coming down with the blade against Paedrin’s shoulder. Reflexes saved the Bhikhu. He caught his enemy on the forearm with a block and their arms became tangled as both sought to wrestle the other into submission.

  Kiranrao’s knee came up into Paedrin’s groin, a merciless blow that sucked his breath away and sent his body into convulsions of agony. He sank to one knee and whipped the Sword around, slashing through Kiranrao’s front and spraying blood. Paedrin saw the cut wasn’t deep and regretted it immediately.

  If the Romani was debilitated by the pain, it was only slightly. Paedrin went at him again, trying to use the reach of the Sword to greater advantage. Kiranrao twisted sideways to defend himself, keeping out of the blade’s path through uncanny reflexes. They collided again and Paedrin grabbed Kiranrao’s wrist, trying to twist him around and put a hold on him that would disable him, but Kiranrao knew the ways of escaping such methods, and the grip faltered.

  “Have I lasted . . . longer than you expected?” Paedrin huffed, trading blocks and kicks.

  The dagger passed just a hairbreadth from his chest, and Paedrin swallowed as he jumped back, realizing that he was being foolish still. He was nearing the edge of the cliff and began retreating toward it.

  Kir
anrao’s face was mottled with pain and anger. He deftly pursued Paedrin, feinting with the dagger, listening keenly for a sound that would trigger him to lunge at the Bhikhu.

  “I thought you had fled the woods,” Paedrin said, reaching the edge. He could feel a gust of wind on his back. “You seemed in a hurry to leave the Scourgelands.”

  “I’m not afraid of Shirikant,” Kiranrao huffed. “Even he will fall to the blade. Even he fears it. I came here to spit on his ruins. I am the master of the Scourgelands now.”

  “You are nothing but a thief and a coward,” Paedrin said. “You are a murderer, a common criminal. You will die here and no grave will be dug for you. Your only hope of being remembered is if a Cockatrice turns you to stone.”

  Kiranrao gave a throaty laugh. “It is more than you will get, Bhikhu. What glory awaits your kind? What comes from the briar but the berry? Reputations last longer than lives, Bhikhu. Even Tyrus craves this. It is his weakness. It is the weakness of all men.”

  “When people remember you . . .” Paedrin said, feeling his heart begin to churn with emotion, feeling words come into his mouth, words that rolled out in a forceful gush. “. . . they will sneer. They will chuckle behind their hands. Is this the man who made kingdoms shake? Is this the man who made the earth tremble under the weight of all those burdened wagons? All the kings lie in glory, Kiranrao. The Kings of Wayland, and Stonehollow, the rulers of Alkire and Silvandom. Every one of them. But not you. Your name will be said as a curse.”

  As he said the words, Paedrin knew—somehow—that they would be true. He felt a queer sensation, as if he had uttered a prophecy.

  Kiranrao rushed, slashing with the blade of Iddawc, his mouth churning with rage and spittle. Paedrin stepped off the edge of the cliff and let himself fall before kicking off the mountain and veering upward to meet the Romani in the air. A blur of motion caught his gaze.