by Jeff Wheeler
“I will answer your questions. But first you must fulfill your Dryad oath. You have been bound to the tree you entered Mirrowen from. When you have tasted of the fruit, you will be allowed to experience the memories you came here for. Only a true Dryad can access her tree’s memories.”
She stared at the fruit, feeling its weight. She realized she was at a moment that would alter her forever. There was a twinge of fear inside her stomach. What if the Seneschal was deceiving her? What if the fruit in her hand was poisonous?
“Guard your thoughts,” the Seneschal said firmly. “Have you let your fears plague you thus far? Conquer them. You must decide and then act—come what may.”
Phae took a deep breath and then sank her teeth into the flesh of the small golden fruit.
It was sugary sweet at first, surprising her. The flavor was unlike anything she had experienced, but it was gentle on her tongue and quite interesting. As she chewed, she began to taste a hint of bitterness in the peel. Her nose crinkled at the taste, but it was not disgusting. She bit into the fruit again, finding the same sensations repeated. As she swallowed, she felt the bitterness in her mouth grow, and she felt a slight queasiness begin to swell. Then it was gone.
Her arms and legs began to tingle. She examined herself, seeing no marks on her skin. She felt flushed, alive, full of energy. Every memory of fatigue or weariness vanished from her thoughts. She believed she could run, even across a mountain, and never tire.
So this is what it feels like to be Shion, she thought with wonder. There was no longer any memory of hunger or thirst either. The fruit was inside of her, feeding her with energy. It was limitless. She recognized that she could eat or drink, that those actions were still possible. But she knew that she would not need to any longer.
“Shion ate this fruit,” Phae said, turning in amazement to the Seneschal. “How did he lose his memories? You promised you would tell me these things. Can I truly know them? Must I go back to the tree and harvest his memories there?” She swallowed, feeling confusion and uncertainty collide inside her. “What is the right thing to do? Will I still be allowed to help my father? You know his purpose. Can I aid him?”
“I will let you decide,” the Seneschal said patiently. He extended his hand. “Let me see your Tay al-Ard.”
Phae removed it from her girdle and gave it to him.
He turned it over in his hands, studying the design of it. “Your father crafted this,” he said, nodding in approval. “He did well. You cannot trap Tay al-Ard spirits. They cannot be bound into service. They are important to maintaining the flow of time in your world. With this device, you can go anywhere you have ever been, correct?”
Phae nodded.
“Since I bear the Voided Keys, it authorizes me to go anywhere in time, to places I have been or not. The knowledge you seek will be communicated best if you are shown it. Remember, with your robe and the word of power you can look like you belong anywhere. You can also disappear from the sight of mortals. You can hear any language spoken and understand it, or you can speak any language. We will travel together and see how the curse of the Plague began. There is no book you need to read, though all things are written by me. Instead, I will show it to you. Throughout the lives of mortals, there are always pivotal moments. Most often, those moments are so subtle we barely appreciate how momentous they are. A wayward rebuke by a thoughtless father can doom his children to a misunderstanding of their gifts or abilities. Those small moments, those key moments, are often never seen by the rest of the world. They alter the course of someone’s life. It is possible to go watch those moments. To be in attendance, unseen, when they happen. Sometimes, all that is needed is a little push, a little nudge to make the fate complete. It takes wisdom to know when those moments arrive. Come with me, child.”
The Seneschal extended his hand. Phae grasped it, and it was warm and strong and firm. He held the Tay al-Ard, looking into her eyes, giving her a feeling of warmth and protection.
He blinked and everything changed.
The next instant, Phae found herself in the great hall of an enormous castle. There were huge trestle tables laden with the remnants of a feast. It was a tidy affair, not a boisterous event, and what few scraps had fallen to the floor rushes were instantly snatched by greyhounds and gobbled up. Torches hung in brackets on the wall, causing a smoky light to fill the hall, revealing a crowd of men and women dressed in fine tunics and gowns. The style was different from what she was used to, but she noticed that her robe had assumed the design and style of the time and that she was walking arm in arm with the Seneschal, who was now much shorter and looking more Aeduan than any other race. He still had his piercing blue eyes and she would have recognized him from across the crowded hall by the majesty of his presence alone. The Voided Keys were fastened to his belt innocuously.
Servants brought in fresh drinks, wine, by the smell of it, and the guests of the feast were quick to fill their goblets, but no one drank to excess. There were beautiful tapestries adorning the walls, hanging from high iron piles fixed to rings. The ceiling was vaulted and filled with wooden timbers supporting the weight of stone above.
“Where are we?” Phae asked the Seneschal, keeping her voice guarded.
“Stonehollow,” he replied. “Long ago, according to your reckoning. There is no Kenatos yet. The strongest empire is Boeotia, but she is a peaceful nation. What race are these, do you suppose?”
“They seem Aeduan,” Phae replied, but wrinkled her brow. “But different. More stern and serious, though. I can see a difference.”
“Yes, you do. Come this way. You will have a good view from over here.”
“Are these the nobles of Stonehollow?” Phae asked.
“Yes, but not only the nobles. Their king values the artisans, those with excellence in craft and skill. He rewards those with talent and so many come to perform and display their abilities. He commissions the best, regardless of how humble their origins. Do you see his throne? It’s made of stone to be uncomfortable. So that he will remind himself of the weight of his responsibility. That he must counsel with prudence and judgment.”
“Where is the king?” Phae asked, searching around and seeing only the empty throne.
“Over there,” the Seneschal said. “He is approaching.”
Phae saw him. He was probably thirty years old, full of vigor and health. He was a handsome man and spoke to several as he ascended the steps of the dais to the throne. His hair was not the gray she had seen in the grove, but was auburn, like her own, with fringes of gray on the edges near his ears. When he turned and seated himself, a hush fell over the room.
Phae’s heart constricted with a spasm of terror. The face was young, but the features were clear. “The Arch-Rike,” she whispered in shock.
The Seneschal smiled, patting her hand. “Not yet. He’s also known to you by the name Shirikant. But that is not his true name. Quiet . . . watch.”
Shirikant sat on the throne, leaning forward as if it were uncomfortable and pained him. He gestured to someone in the crowd. His voice was rich and powerful and he had an easy smile and a natural charm. “My friends, thank you for gathering for the feast tonight. It gives me pleasure that you come to honor my brother, who has returned from his long travels. As you know, he is a Druidecht, and they tend to roam abroad when the fancy suits them. My brother is a wanderer. He does not have the affairs of state to pinion him as they do me, but I don’t begrudge him his freedom. Under much pressure and even a little compulsion, I’ve convinced him to sing for you tonight. Welcome home, Brother Isic. Welcome home. Sing for us.”
Phae’s heart nearly burst when she saw Shion stand and approach the dais.
“I have written what the Empress has revealed to me about the existence of Shirikant. I find it difficult to believe that there is a being among us who is immortal, who cannot be killed, but I have heard enough such rumors to give it cre
dence. I believe he is part of the nameless race, the race that is persecuted in Stonehollow. Knowledge of that race has been lost forever and it seems systematically so. If there were only a way to recover something that time has so meticulously erased.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXXVIII
They are brothers,” Phae whispered, clutching the Seneschal’s arm tightly. The impact of the realization struck her with tremendous force. Shion and Shirikant were brothers, born of the same kingdom.
“Watch.”
As Shion walked toward the dais, he was admired by many in the crowd, many of them women who seemed to vie to meet his gaze. From her vantage point, Phae watched him cross right in front of her, his expression a mixture of melancholy and resignation. He did not look pleased to be asked to perform in front of everyone.
He had some small stubble on his lower jaw, but there was no evidence of scars on his smooth cheeks. He was smaller, probably sixteen or seventeen—her own age. Her heart thrilled when she saw him unharmed, saw the stormy countenance but not the look of danger and threat. He carried a lute in one hand and then seated himself on the edge of the dais, before his brother’s throne. A hush settled across the great hall. Even the murmur of the torch flames seemed to still.
Shion nestled against the lip of the dais, positioning himself, sinking his shoulders as he relaxed, his fingers positioned against the lute strings. Phae stared at him, her heart hammering inside her.
Then there was music.
The sound he coaxed out of the lute strings was nothing like the festive dance tunes she had grown up to in Stonehollow. The chords were plaintive and mournful and penetrated her emotions, wrapping her in a veil of sadness. Then his voice joined the sounds, strong and rich, and it brought the mood from her ears into her bones. It was not the tune from the locket, but she knew instinctively that he was the one who had created that song. The Seneschal looked at her, smiling in approval, and nodded, patting her hand delicately.
The singer and his melody cast a spell across everyone assembled in the great hall. She could almost see the music as streamers of magic, coiling around the minds of those assembled, making them forget the moment, forget even time itself—all there was in the world was the sound of Shion’s voice, accentuated by the stirring strains of the lute, mixing together in such a way as to coax tears from Phae’s eyes. She saw she was not alone, that others wept. The spell endured, washing over every person until the final note hung in the air, tormented with grief, fading into an echo—then gone.
Shion bowed his head, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve. He slowly stood as the spell unraveled, and suddenly he was mobbed with well-wishers and people who longed to see him. He met them with shy reserve and silence, not deigning to answer questions, looking uncomfortable being the focus of attention.
There were several young ladies, fancily dressed, and they persisted, trying to draw him out. He ignored them, looking around the crowd for a way to escape.
His eyes, desperate for a way to extract himself, suddenly found hers.
“He can see us,” Phae whispered in shock.
She saw the slight crinkle in his expression as his look shifted from discomfort to curiosity. He started through the crowd toward them, moving around the bodies that harangued and tried to get his attention.
Phae stiffened, feeling a sense of panic welling inside her.
Watch.
The Seneschal’s thoughts were forceful, but calming.
Before he had cleared the ranks separating them, a hand reached Shion’s shoulder and his brother hooked him into a brotherly embrace, clapping his back hard. He gestured for Shion to accompany him and the two departed back toward the dais. With the king claiming his brother, the rest melted away. There was a wooden screen behind the throne and Shirikant steered his sibling toward it, the two escaping out the back of the hall.
Phae looked at the Seneschal’s face. “Could he really see us?”
“Yes. He did notice us, though his imagination will taint the memory. He will come back and look for us again. He’ll spend a good part of the night searching the crowd. He won’t tell anyone, because he’s not certain what he saw. But we came here for a clue to the riddle you seek. As we follow them behind the screen, they will not be able to see us. Observe. Listen. This is an important night. A crucial one for what it sets in motion. Follow me.”
He escorted her to the decorated screen and it felt as if they were walking the aether. No one got in their way or even seemed to notice them. Behind the screen was a dark, heavy curtain, blocking the room beyond. They crossed it without rustling the fabric at all, which Phae did not understand. It felt as if they became smoke for a moment and just wafted past, reminiscent of Kiranrao’s powerful sword.
There was a council chamber behind the screen and curtain, with a long waxed table surrounded by twelve chairs, six on each side. Each chair was meticulously carved, sanded, decorated, stained, and polished. Along the wall were a window seat and a mountain of books that filled bookshelves almost as high as the ceiling. Books crowded the room, of various sizes and thickness. She saw Shirikant at the window seat, a heavy book in his lap, flipping through some pages while Shion paced near the table loaded with fruit, cheese, and wine. There were seven others in the room, many with the same regal-looking faces, and there was a Vaettir among them as well as a Preachán. A hulking Cruithne guarded the door on the other side of the room.
Shirikant set the book down on the window seat next to him and faced his brother. “You picked a brooding song tonight, Brother. This was supposed to be a celebration.”
“Paideia is dead,” Shion said darkly, not turning to meet his brother’s eyes.
“What? I noticed that I hadn’t seen her tonight, but I assumed she was in the crowd.” He stood, his expression turning to shock and sadness as well. “What happened?”
Shion fingered a goblet, but he did not raise it to his lips. He let out a bitter sigh and then rubbed his eyes. “Marq and Tenblec are also dead. The rest survived the woods.”
Phae’s blood went cold. Was he talking about the Scourgelands? His voice was full of sadness and weariness. He looked weather-beaten and exhausted.
“I am so sorry, Isic. Paideia was your mentor. She trained you in the Druidecht lore. When I sent her on this quest, it was to continue your training as well. I trusted her and I respected her. She was a gracious soul. What happened?” He stood and went to his brother, gripping his shoulder to comfort him.
Shion’s expression seemed to soften a bit. Phae could see the brothers were close. Even more, they were friends.
“We searched deep into the woods,” Shion said. “Trails and clues existed, but they were mixed and difficult to spot. It seemed we kept getting turned around. But I persisted, knowing that we’d face difficulty before success . . . just as you’ve always taught me. It took a little while before I noticed the butterflies. They were so blue, a startling blue.”
“Go on,” Shirikant said, his eyes suddenly eager. His mouth twitched with interest.
“It felt like they . . . were summoning me? I can’t describe it.” He steepled his fingers over his mouth, looking vacantly at the floor. “The butterflies led us to a gulch. It was dark and muddy, roots clawing at our hair. But at the end of the gulch, we found a tree.”
Shirikant’s eyes were guarded. He kept his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And?”
“It was not the tree you’re looking for,” Shion said flatly. “It was beautiful and pale, with thousands of blue butterflies instead of leaves. There was spirit magic guarding it, Brother. There was a pond . . . a brackish pond. The tree was in the middle of the pond and the gully water seemed to fill the pond, which was stagnating. I recall you telling me that the tree we seek has a river coming forth. This tree seemed to be drawing certain elements of the forest to it. There was nothing but the fouled waters
, the gully, and the myriad butterflies. Paideia went into the waters and approached the tree, saying she had found our goal. She’d found the tree of Mirrowen. The tree with the fruit that grants immortal life. I warned her to stay back, but she wouldn’t heed me. She approached the tree, telling me she could see the fruit.” He shrugged helplessly. “I could see no fruit on that tree at all. But she went closer, sloshing and splashing. I had a terrible feeling. I was excited, of course—we all were. But something felt wrong. I warned her again, but again she would not heed me and she went to the tree. I saw her reach up and pluck something from a lower branch. I could not see what it was, but I saw the blue wings of a butterfly on it. She took a bite. Then she died.”
Shion exhaled slowly, shaking his head. The experience had happened in the past but Phae could still see the lingering effects of grief on his countenance.
“What happened to Marq?”
“He went mad,” Shion said, grunting. “When Paideia crumpled into the water, he thought she was drowning. He went after her but Tenblec grabbed his arm and struggled to keep him near the gully with the rest of us. Marq isn’t a big man, but he was suddenly enraged that Tenblec stopped him. They were struggling and before anyone could break them up, Marq struck him on the head with the pommel of his dagger. Then Marq was splashing in the waters and struggling to reach the tree. By the time he reached it, he’d forgotten about Paideia and he also grabbed for the fruit and died. The rest of us managed to drag Tenblec’s body through the gulch. As soon as we tried to leave, the insects all went berserk and fluttered around us, going inside our garments.”
Phae trembled at the memory, her eyes riveted on Shion’s face. Her flesh crawled.
“Tenblec was dead when we reached the safety of the woods again, his skull caved in where the dagger pommel had struck. I didn’t realize how fragile life is, Brother. Three were dead so quickly. The trail was false. It led to a tree with special fruit, but it was not the portal to Mirrowen.”