by Jeff Wheeler
Shirikant breathed deeply, shaking his head in dismay. He hugged his brother and held him a moment, his own expression mimicking the desolation of Shion. “I’m sorry, Isic. That’s a blow. That’s a hard blow. I’m grateful you didn’t succumb to the lure.”
Shirikant turned to the Preachán. “What do you think, Odea? What struck you about this tale?”
The Preachán was older than Shirikant, his hair receding. He was fit and trim, not a tall man, and his head seemed full of ideas. He had a pensive, thoughtful look. “I think we’re lucky Prince Isic is wise. Wisdom is worth pursuing, lad. You found some in this latest foray. This is not the tree to Mirrowen. This is a setback that would crush the determination of ordinary men. It means we are very close to discovering Mirrowen.”
Shirikant smiled at the statement, nodding indulgently. “There is always a setback. An obstacle to overcome.”
“I know,” Shion said. “You told me before we started this effort that we’d face challenges. I wasn’t expecting them to hurt this deeply. But I thought the same thing. Looking back, we should have retreated from the gully and left it alone. The clues warned us away, but I didn’t heed them soon enough. Those three paid with their lives.”
“I grieve for all their families,” Shirikant said. “They will want for nothing. We all accepted the risks. What do you say, Kishion?” He nodded toward the Cruithne guarding the door.
“Best to send me along on the next trip,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Can’t trust a group of Druidecht with fighting or squeamish business. Let me go.”
“You will,” Shirikant said, rubbing his smooth lower lip. “Isic—you should stay here for a fortnight or more. You need the rest and the chance to grieve. We’ll scour the records yet again to see what clues we find.”
Shirikant started to pace the chamber, his shoulder hunched with deep thought. His expression was full of energy, his eyes gleaming with hope. “We are so close!” he said vehemently. “I cannot believe that all the tales are false. Every people, whether they are Vaettir, Cruithne, Preachán, Boeotian, or even Moussion like me—like us—we all have traditions of how the world started. Land coming from the waters. Plants and trees coming next. Then fish and fowl. The Book of Breathings left by the Copts probably has the most detailed descriptions and flourishes to the tales. They speak about a Garden. They speak about a tree with a river gushing from it.” He pointed to the Cruithne. “One of the rivers in your homeland is named after it! They speak of the Gardener who allows mortals to come to Mirrowen, to learn the ways of the Unwearying Ones. The tree grants immortality.” His voice was thick with emotion, with passion and energy. “How can all of these sundry civilizations all share a common core, a common myth, a common origin story? There must be a pea of truth inside this shell. Master Archivist, say again what happened to this Garden?”
The Preachán folded his arms smugly, his expression revealing delight over being called out again. “It was first on this world with us. But the mortals were driven away. A bridge separates us, guarded by a terrible plague. Only those who know the name of the bridge can cross it. The name handed down through the ages is Poisonwell, though that is only an interpretation of a translation from Hidemic texts. Find Poisonwell, learn its password, and you can cross into Mirrowen, where the Plague will not kill you. The leaves from the tree cure any poison or disease. It would take courage to cross such a bridge, knowing that crossing it will kill you. The only question, my lord, is if the bridge is literal or metaphorical. Is it symbol or is it structure?”
Shirikant smiled broadly. “We’ve searched every forest in every kingdom. I myself sailed to the Vaettir homeland in my youth and searched there. But the tales all say that this land is the home of Poisonwell. Unfortunately, my kingdom is vast. Where haven’t we tried, Master Cartographer? What say you, Gault?”
Gault had a trimmed mustache over his blocky face, his hair well salted with silver. He sat back in his stuffed chair, frowning with deep thoughts. “My lord, we’ve crisscrossed the lands methodically, starting in the mountains in the east, the plains in the south. We’ve explored all the reaches of our own borders, went to the seashore beyond the mountains, and finally looked into the woods west. You’ve personally been emissary to the Vaettir across the sea as well as met the Empress of Boeotia. That leaves one final stretch of woods to explore. It’s uninhabited as far as we know. The woods to the north, beyond the lake and the mountains. It’s a vast land. By my estimation,” he tapped his lips thoughtfully, “it will take four years to fully explore that region. Every Finder who has been there comes back with news that it’s a peaceful, forgotten place so far away that no one would ever want to dwell there. It’s on the edge of the known world, far from all the trade routes, except for the occasional Romani wagon. But if we want to be methodical about this, Prince Isic should look there next. Now, if you want to know my view, I think it’s a waste of time and energy because the roads are . . .”
“No, Gault,” Shirikant said, waving him silent. “I’ve told you before to express your facts, not your doubts. Do not poison our minds with such thoughts.” He went back to the window seat and sat down next to the book he had been looking at earlier. He patted it reverently. “Every scrap of lore about Mirrowen has been written in here. Every clue we have pursued. Every scrap. My father started this quest before I was born and his father before him. It is said that my line comes from Mirrowen itself, that we descend from the kings of old. We are the Moussion. We are scholars and learners and artists and sculptors. We are patient. We are patient, and we are determined.” He turned to Shion, fixing him with his blazing eyes. “Rest yourself, Brother. Get what sleep and rest you can. But I send you next up north. Take as many Druidecht as you desire. Take Kishion with you. He can train and teach you to fight along the way. I have a feeling . . . no, I have a premonition that makes my blood hot that this is where we will find success. We will find the gate to Mirrowen. You will find it, Isic. I know you will. You have all of my resources at your disposal. But it is not gold or jewels that will make you successful. It is believing that you can succeed and moving forward despite obstacles. We few are a mastermind. We few. As my ancestors have taught, there is great good that can be done in this world if a group of wise men and women assembles toward a common purpose. That is a mastermind.”
“What about the Gardener?” Odea said. “What would you give that you might claim one of the fruit?”
Shirikant’s eyes blazed with determination. “I would give up my kingdom.”
“Memory is the mother of all wisdom.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXXIX
The world lurched, spinning rapidly, and then it was still again, the magic of the Tay al-Ard bringing them to another place, another time. Phae gripped the Seneschal’s arm, finding herself in a lush forest of oak trees. Light came slanting in from many angles, causing a radiant flash on the bark and glossy leaves. Specks of gnats flitted in the air and the drone of bumblebees wafted nearby. The forest was majestic and beautiful, but it was also poignant, rich with spirit life and full of promise as well as warning.
“Where are we?” Phae asked, looking around. It was unfamiliar to her.
“The Scourgelands,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Before the cursing.”
She watched a robin flutter down from a tree and hop on a boulder, its head shifting back and forth, studying them. Then it flew away.
“I’m beginning to understand a little,” Phae said. “They are brothers then. Born from the same mother?”
“Indeed. There were sisters in between who married nobles from other lands. They were a proud race, but not in the sense of haughtiness. They come from a line of master stonemasons, men who are patient and very hard and formidable. They are persistent yet calculating, not using more force than is necessary to shiver loose a piece of rock. They study the stone they hammer, looking for impe
rfections. Timing the blow to meet the purpose. They are the Moussion. The lost race.”
“Why are they lost?”
“You will see, Phae. You will see it all. Several years have passed since you last saw the young prince, Isic Moussion. He is a Druidecht, but it is a primitive version of what you are familiar with. He studied the spirit creatures from all the lands, taking copious notes of his observations. He began to name the spirits, to understand their powers and properties. To enlist their aid. He roamed the woods with a band of friends from the mastermind. The Cruithne . . . his name was Kishion. He was one of the first teachers of that order, back when they were protectors of kings and not killers. When Isic and his companions came here, to these hallowed woods, they met the protections left to guard here. You can imagine how frustrating it was when they returned to Stonehollow with no memory of why they had even come. Shirikant was wise and realized that spirit magic was robbing their memories. They did not understand the nature of the Dryads. Not yet. But after several years, they began to understand that the bridge to Mirrowen—Poisonwell—was here all along. They set up small outposts to help funnel supplies and men to help narrow the search.”
Phae looked up at his face, saw the curious expression. “Why not let them come, Seneschal? Why all the obstacles?”
“There is a price to pay for knowledge, child. Some mysteries must be earned. I test the persistence of mortals. Only those who persist discover the way. Isic was not easily discouraged.”
Phae smiled at that, remembering how he came across to her so many times. Relentless.
“Indeed,” the Seneschal said, responding to her thoughts. “Soon you will see the next turning point. The next crucial pivot. During his wanderings in the woods, Isic began to rely on his insights. He understood a little about my nature. He understood that there was a Gardener in Mirrowen. He reasoned it out that I could hear his thoughts. He began to speak to me from his mind as he scoured the woods for clues. I began to teach him through the whispers. I warned him not to share the knowledge, not to write it down, but to print it in his heart. He began to journey alone, searching the woods for hidden trails. Eventually, he began to trust me. He could not find Mirrowen by searching for it. Not with his eyes. I suggested to his mind, through a whisper, that he would find me if he closed his eyes.”
Phae’s mind expanded with the thought. “Yes,” she said, growing excited. “By keeping his eyes closed, he could pass the Dryad protectors without losing his memories. He would not be able to see the direction, but you would lead him on the right path!”
“Yes. After sufficient time, he trusted me enough. He blindfolded himself and took leave of his friends, warning them not to follow him. Through the whispers, he made it to your tree, the one you are bound to now. From that tree one learns the word to cross the bridge. You remember it.”
“Pontfadog,” Phae repeated. “So the Dryad I met was protecting the tree even then?”
The Seneschal stopped, his face turning troubled, if slightly, as if a heaviness passed over him—a cloud momentarily veiling the brilliance of the sun. “No. He met my daughter.”
Phae turned to look at him, her expression showing concern. “Your daughter?”
“She was still growing. Fourteen years old . . . just a little thing. She was being raised to replace her mother as the guardian of that tree. When Isic approached it, she was the one who received him. Do you see them? Over there.” A delighted smile broadened his face.
As they continued to walk and passed another row of trees, Phae could see the looming mound of rock and stone just beyond the grove, tall and imposing. There was the forked oak tree, its branch split in two with the gap in between. Shion sat near the tree, a blindfold covering his eyes. He was bigger, sturdier, more weather-beaten than the youth she had seen before. In his hands, he strummed a lute, bringing a lovely melody from the strings that reached in and pulled her heart. He sang softly, coaxingly, his voice and the instrument weaving a spell that struck her forcibly. There was magic in his hands and silk in his voice.
From around the tree, she saw the Dryad-born staring at him. She was beauty itself, so young and innocent. She crouched behind the tree, watching him, her eyes filling with wonder at the sounds coming from Shion’s instrument. She had auburn hair, Phae noticed. Her gown was a deep brown with gold threads. She looked wary, nervous.
The Seneschal and Phae approached, observing from the ring of trees. She could sense his magic concealing them.
The music died.
“Play again, Druidecht,” the Dryad girl pleaded.
“Tell me your name first,” he answered, keeping his head bowed.
“I cannot tell you my name,” she answered. “It would give you power over me. Tell me yours, Druidecht.”
“Do names hold such power? Then I give you power over me,” he answered. “My name is Isic Moussion. I am from Stonehollow. Are you from Mirrowen?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of spirit are you? You have a lovely voice. A sparrow perhaps?”
Phae thought about his name—the name of his race. Moussion. So very near to Shion. How strange. She felt a prick of jealousy listening to their conversation. It was an uncomfortable squirming feeling inside her breast.
The girl laughed. “I’m not a bird. I’m Dryad-born. I am mortal, like you.”
“Tell me of your race,” he pleaded. “You are the guardians of the woods?”
“We are the guardians of the portals to Mirrowen.” She stayed half-hidden behind the tree, well beyond his reach in case he tried to grab her.
“I won’t harm you,” he said softly. “Tell me of your people. Why do you steal our memories?”
“Why do you cut down our trees? Why do you spoil the forests? Why do you kill and spoil for sport?”
“I do not do those things,” Shion said, affronted. “I am Druidecht. I protect the woods.”
“I know. But you asked why the Dryads steal memories. To protect ourselves from mortals who would harm or steal our secrets. We guard the mysteries of Mirrowen, Isic. Do you seek them?”
“I do. It is why I came.”
“Take off your blindfold.”
Shion stiffened. “I would rather not.”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
“Yes, but I know if I look at you, I will forget. I don’t want to forget you, Dryad. You have the most lovely voice. It tortures me that I cannot see you.”
She laughed softly. “You are doing well, Isic. You are enduring the effects of my magic. A little longer and it will get easier.”
“Talking helps distract my mind,” Shion said. “Tell me of the Gardener?”
“He is called the Seneschal. He is the oldest servant. He is the master of Mirrowen because he is the servant of this world. He is . . . he is my father.”
Shion started, turning to look back at her, even though he was blindfolded. “I would meet him, Dryad. Can you bring me to him?”
“No,” she answered. “I cannot bring a mortal there through this tree. There is a bridge to Mirrowen nearby. Beyond this grove, there is a large mound of stone, with broken fissures and caves. If you follow the whispers from my father, you will reach the bridge in the center of the rocks. You must know the name in order to cross, but you cannot write it down. Do you agree, Isic? Will you safeguard the name?”
He sat up, his face growing quite excited. “I do swear it on the soul of my father—”
“No need to swear on anything,” she interrupted. “I just need your oath.”
He looked confused, but nodded in agreement. “Yes, I swear it.”
“The portal’s name is Pontfadog. I must warn you, Isic. There is a spirit guarding the portal, a powerful spirit. That is its name. By knowing it, you will gain mastery over it, and it will permit you to cross. It has the power to unleash great plagues, Isic. It will infect you with one
while crossing it. But in Mirrowen, there is a tree that can heal any plague. That spirit is the final protection of Mirrowen. This guardian is powerful enough to defeat entire armies. Even if an entire kingdom tried to force their way into its lair, it could unleash a plague that would destroy them all. Only with the name can you pass it. My tree is the guardian of the name.”
Shion swallowed. Phae could see the sweat streaming down his face, making the blindfold damp. “Why are you telling me this? Why reveal it to me?”
“You could only have come here if you followed the whispers of my father. He brought you to my tree. My duty is to tell you the name of the spirit. Go on to Mirrowen, Isic. My father is a just and righteous being. He is one of the Unwearying Ones who guard and protect this world. Ask a boon of him. Farewell, Isic. You may look at me if you wish. I will not steal your memories now.”
“Do you promise?”
“I am the Seneschal’s daughter, Isic. I cannot lie.”
He hurriedly untied the blindfold and crumpled it in his hands. Turning slowly, he gazed around, looking at the forest floor, the scrub and nest of dead oak leaves and twigs. He saw the hem of her robe and her bare feet poking from the hem. She still clutched the tree, clinging to it as a protection.
Shion gazed at her, his expression softening as he met her gaze.
“Will you not tell me your name?” he pleaded.
She shook her head no, but her expression was pained.
A robin flew into the glade, landing on the branch near the Dryad’s hand. A trilling song came from it, a beautiful music.
“Alas,” she said sorrowfully.
“What is it?” Shion asked, concerned.
“Your friends are tracking you in the woods. They’ve breached the lair of the Fear Liath.”
“I don’t understand,” Shion said. “The what?”
“The Fear Liath. Remember that dark feeling you had when you passed by its lair? You had to master your fear in order to come farther. It almost made you turn back, but you were persistent. You were blindfolded and so you did not breach the magic of the lair. You were frightened, but you could not imprint the memory on your mind because you could not see its lair with your eyes. They defend the boundaries set by my father.”