Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “I can’t take credit for that,” Shion said. “The Romani are the best musicians, I’ve learned.”

  “And that story!” Shirikant said, his eyes delighted. “You were bleeding your last on the edge of the woods when a Romani trader, of all people, rescued you, letting his fish spoil and losing a trade. Not only that, but he stayed with you for several weeks while you convalesced and then paid the innkeeper to care for you until word could reach us here in Stonehollow and I could send healers and horses aplenty. He refused to accept my rewards, which still offends me, for I suspect he is biding his time to ask for even more!”

  “He won’t,” Shion said. “What he did for me, he would have done for any man. I can see why he hears the whispers from Mirrowen so keenly. His heart is right. His thoughts are determined. That is the kind of man I wish to become.”

  “You already are, Isic.” He tousled the younger man’s hair. “You’re a better man than I will ever be. So you crave the daughter of the Seneschal of Mirrowen. I cannot say you lack ambition, boy.”

  “I learned about ambition from you, Brother. I have heeded all of your lessons. We are a mastermind, you and I. There are others too, but together, we are our own. I want to help you accomplish your aim. I only ask that you help me accomplish mine, in my own way.”

  Shirikant smiled deeply. “Lad, if she makes you happy, I will bless her for it. She sounds young.”

  “She will be immortal, Brother.” He stared out the window again. “Isn’t that what we both desire? We’ll be the first, I think. The first two brothers who entered Mirrowen together. We must bring no weapons. No tricks. The Seneschal can read our thoughts like you can read a book from the Archives. There is no deception. He will know our true motives. While I grieve for the deaths I couldn’t prevent, I hope that the good I can do in this world will far outweigh it.”

  The Seneschal put his hand on Phae’s shoulder. “Come, Phae. It is time to meet the brothers in Mirrowen. It is time for you to understand how Shirikant earned that name.”

  “We captured a Rike today sneaking through the lower city. He was white with fear, saying the Arch-Rike has gone mad, that not only is the city doomed to fall to the Plague but that every race and kingdom will also fall. He described a series of magic portals in the Arch-Rike’s palace, connecting Kenatos to the furthest way posts. The Rike insists that Band-Imas intends to poison the lands and destroy everyone. The Empress says we must attack the Temple immediately, regardless of the casualties. There is a council gathering to prepare the assault. What fools we have been. What trusting fools.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XLI

  The magic of the Tay al-Ard sped them away from the gusting rain and when Phae blinked, she found herself back in Mirrowen. Huge thunderheads roiled in the sky and heavy surf pounded against the beach, which was clear of individuals. There were no children playing in sandcastles and nothing remained of their game. There was energy in the air, a frightening raw power that made Phae gape in amazement as the fury of the storm beat down on the hull of Mirrowen’s defenses.

  “Peace,” the Seneschal said, waving his hand absently at the storm. “Enough. All is well. Be still.”

  Phae watched as the brooding storm slumped in defeat, the waves receding back to the boundaries of the rocks. The clouds scattered, revealing ample blue sky, and a calm breeze flittered past them, replacing the stiff gale that had preceded it.

  The Seneschal offered her his arm as they walked along the beach toward the magnificent dwellings built into the sculpted hill. Many from the city began to appear, coming out now that the ferocity of the storm had passed.

  “Do the storms rage more fiercely when you are gone?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “The waters of the Deep are always trying to destroy the world. They will never stop trying so long as time reigns in your world. Eventually they will all be tamed. I am patient.”

  “You are,” Phae agreed. “What will you tell me about Shirikant?”

  “His name is Aristaios. It is from the ancient tongue and it means ‘the best.’ He was the firstborn son of the King of the Moussion. His parents were loving and wise but both were killed on a storm-tossed sea returning from a treaty journey to the Vaettir homeland. He was seventeen when they died and inherited the kingdom after a brief interregnum from a steward. Some children drastically alter the affairs of a kingdom if they inherit too young, but Aristaios wanted to live up to the name he was given. He took the role seriously, as he did when he assumed the responsibility of being a brother and a father to Prince Isic and his sisters. The death of their parents impacted them deeply. Prince Isic turned inward, nursing a secret grief. He became acquainted with the Druidecht order, which was in its infancy, and sought the whispers from Mirrowen. Aristaios was handsome and charming and had the best advisors, and he hearkened to their counsel, winning himself esteem and respect. He was always ambitious and harnessed that ambition to be a great king. He did not marry for he was seeking a bride who was perfect. While he met many eligible maidens, none had the perfection he sought in a wife.”

  The Seneschal advanced to the outer bulwarks of the garden city and inhaled, his breath making them rise up to the rampway above. Several spirit beasts bowed in homage to him and he acknowledged them with a gentle stroking of their ruffs.

  “Aristaios knew of the Druidecht ways. You noticed the book that Isic wrote his secrets in, his sketches, his explanation of the ways of Spirit magic. The two brothers were close. Despite being reserved, Isic was popular. He did not seek attention but he always got it. That rankled Aristaios, though he buried those emotions. The two brothers came to Mirrowen together, crossing the bridge of Poisonwell and seeking me out. We will wait for them by the tree, of course. When someone exercises sufficient self-mastery to enter this land, I allow him an opportunity to partake of a single fruit of the tree. They can choose it themselves or allow me to pick one suitable for their purpose. As you observe, I will shroud you in my magic so that they will not see you. But through our connection, you will hear my thoughts. Watch and observe. This moment is critical. This moment shifted the course of the future. One decision, one regret, can alter one’s entire future. Evil does not bloom all at once. It is nurtured like a seed. It always begins with a thought.”

  He patted her arm and led her over the ramp to the beautiful tree with its variety of fruit. The silver lions still guarded the area, resting on their haunches but alert and watchful. He motioned for Phae to take a small seat on a bench on the side of the veranda. The waters gushing from the tree passed under the stone beneath her, turning into rivers and rivulets farther down, silvery and clear.

  Phae sat on the bench and felt as if a blanket had come across her shoulders. They had not waited for long when a Vaettir approached, the two princes coming behind.

  “Kind master,” the Vaettir said in formal greeting and a low bow. “Two travelers from the mortal world. They are brothers and seek audience with the Seneschal of Mirrowen.”

  “Bid them welcome, Taliesian.”

  As Phae looked up, he saw the Dryad girl she had seen before on the Seneschal’s arm—his daughter. Phae recognized her from the previous vision and saw that she was older now. She had a look of calm wisdom, an untroubled face. She wore a simple but beautiful gown and a thin silver tiara—it looked as delicate as spiderwebs. She was a beautiful young woman, and Phae could sense her Dryad magic. The girl looked toward her at the bench, but her eyes did not focus, as if she could sense Phae but not see her. A small wrinkle appeared in her forehead, but it smoothed as the two princes arrived.

  Phae’s heart churned when she saw Shion. He gazed at the enormous city, his eyes wide with wonder, his face full of fascination and delight at the myriad forms of spirit magic. There were creatures Phae had never seen before, more beautiful than butterflies, with bright gossamer wings and legs of various sizes and shapes. The pletho
ra of beings surrounding Shion was breathtaking. Each seemed to be drawn to him, seeking to commune with his thoughts. He gripped his brother’s shoulder, whispering the word, “Amazing!”

  Aristaios looked determined, his expression more guarded, but he also seemed overwhelmed by the sights he was watching. However, his gaze was riveted on the tree behind the Seneschal. A look of desperate hunger was clearly in his eyes.

  “Greetings, Princes of Moussion,” the Seneschal said in a cordial voice. “You are welcome here so long as you abide by our laws. You were both infected with a plague when you crossed the Pontfadog, but my servants have already cured it from you. This is my daughter. Be at peace. Why are you here? What do you seek?”

  Shion nodded to his brother to go first. He stared at the Seneschal, his expression turning grave with respect. Both brothers dropped to one knee.

  “I am Aristaios Moussion,” the older brother said. “I seek a piece of fruit from your tree. You are known to us as the Gardener of Mirrowen. Long have I studied the myths and legends pertaining to you. Their words do not give even a moment of justice to the grandeur I see before me here. I am grateful you have granted audience. In return for a piece of fruit from the tree, I commit all the resources of my kingdom. I had intended . . .” he swallowed, his voice catching. “I had intended to build a temple in your honor, but I see that even with the skilled craftsmen at my command, I could not offer you anything you do not already possess, and by much more skilled hands.” He bowed his head. “However, I beseech you to grant my boon. I will erect a place, in the very heart of the forest we just traveled, a place where knowledge of you and of Mirrowen may be preserved so long as there are people left in the mortal world. I seek to build it so that others may learn the ways of Mirrowen, may learn to master their thoughts to be able to hear the whispers. I desire that this shrine, this temple, this sanctorum shall stand when my kingdom has crumbled into dust. I would call it Canton Vaud. Give me this charge, I pray you. And give me the strength of heart to see it fulfilled.”

  His head remained bowed. Phae saw sweat trickling down his cheek. His jaw muscles were clenched.

  “Rise, Prince Aristaios. I grant your boon. I charge you to build of stone this monument to Mirrowen as you described. I will carve a path through the woods that your workers may pass unhindered. I give you the mountains to the south to quarry and polish the stone. They will be your domain, a seat of your power for generations to come. Inasmuch as you seek to preserve the knowledge of Mirrowen, the structure will never fall. May it stand as a tower in the midst of the woods and draw mortals to learn of our ways. You may take one fruit from the tree. You may choose it freely or you may allow me to choose it for you. I must warn you, Prince Aristaios, that the tree contains serpents. If you seek to pluck a fruit and are not worthy of it, a serpent will strike your hand and you will die. These serpents have power over death. Make your choice.”

  Prince Aristaios’ eyes widened with surprise and concern. “I . . . I thank you,” he stammered. He crossed the paving stones to the base of the tree, where waters gushed from the roots. He stared at the variety of fruit, casting his eyes across them all, looking for similarities. Phae knew which fruit granted immortality. She could see Shirikant’s eyes pass over it several times, pausing particularly at it, but still he searched.

  Shion remained kneeling before the Seneschal, but he glanced up at his brother, watching him with a hopeful look.

  Aristaios’s expression hardened with frustration. This was what he wanted. All his years of studying the legends had prepared him for this moment. But in none of the legends had they described what the fruit looked like. There were twelve choices. How could he know which was the one he desired?

  Phae saw the look of determination on his face. He studied each one, but he did not raise his hand.

  The Seneschal looked at him gravely, his face impassive. His daughter did not look at Prince Aristaios—her eyes were fixed on Shion’s face. Though she clung to her father’s arm, her eyes bored into Shion’s. She looked . . . tormented.

  Prince Aristaios began to reach for one of the fruit. It was the fruit of immortality. Phae recognized it. As his hand came near, she saw a little white serpent raise its head. It was so slender and small, it looked as if it were part of the branch. Small black eyes opened. The forked tongue flicked out once as if to hiss, I will not bite you, mortal. Trust me.

  The Prince’s hand froze midair. He stared at the serpent, his eyes widening with suppressed fear. His mouth twitched with panic. His hand began to tremble. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He withdrew his hand and backed away from the tree, his eyes never leaving the fruit.

  “I will trust your judgment,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You pick for me.” His whole body trembled.

  The Seneschal looked at him with a slight nod. “So be it.” He motioned for his daughter and she went and plucked a different fruit, one that was small and blue—the size of a cherry. The Seneschal’s daughter brought it to the Prince and extended it to him.

  He stared at her, his eyes fixated on the fruit in her hand, then on her face. He seemed to know intrinsically that it wasn’t the one he desired.

  “What is your name?” Aristaios asked her.

  “I will not tell you my name,” she replied simply. “It would give you power over me.” She offered him the small fruit from her hand.

  Prince Aristaios took it, his fingers grazing her palm. He stared at her, lost for a moment, his expression growing pale. Then he blinked quickly and put the fruit to his mouth and bit into the juicy skin. In a moment, he had devoured it.

  He stared at the juice stains on his fingers, watching as the blue drops began to dance and then ignite.

  The Seneschal bowed his head reverently. “You and your posterity will inherit this gift,” he said, his voice firm. “It is called the Fireblood. You will sire a race that bears this gift, Prince Aristaios. It is a fruit of ambition. But it must be controlled. You must control your anger, or the flames of ambition will consume you. Remember these words and teach them to your posterity. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas. If you think these words—in your mind—then you will control the power of the fireblood and accomplish any task that you set your mind to. With it, your achievements will impact generations. I warn you, Prince Aristaios. If you fail to control the fireblood, it will control you. I charge you and your posterity to fulfill your oath.” He nodded with finality.

  Phae stared at Prince Aristaios—at Shirikant. The horror began to churn inside of her at the realization. She contained the fireblood herself. Was she a descendent of this man?

  YES

  The force of the Seneschal’s thought-whisper nearly made her black out. She blinked in amazement, feeling the realization turn into jagged pieces inside her stomach. This man . . . this creature’s blood was part of her own existence! Pain and disbelief battled inside.

  “What would you seek of me, Prince Isic?” the Seneschal said in a softer tone. Shion was still on his knee. He had been staring at the Seneschal’s daughter, the Dryad-born, his face full of intense emotions. He started.

  “I seek to serve you,” he said, his voice half-choked. He fished inside his tunic front and withdrew a bronze Druidecht talisman, shaped into the design that Phae had seen in his book. He pulled it off and cradled it in his hands. “I made this. With my own hands. These designs represent eighteen different facets I have observed about spirit magic and Mirrowen. I’ve memorized eighteen precepts about them and how not to harm or injure the spirit beings. There are also eighteen virtues, I believe, which you honor and respect. They are your characteristics, my lord. The circle in the center represents you. A circle has no beginning and no end. I built this . . . this . . . talisman to help me remember what I have learned about Mirrowen. It helps me focus my thoughts when the world distracts me. What I ask of you, my lord, is that you touch this talisman. Bless it in some way that when
I wear it, I will be able to hear the whispers more clearly. If I can hear your will, then I will do it. I seek to be your emissary in the mortal world. To serve you as long as you will have me. When any Druidecht has earned your trust, has demonstrated constancy in seeking to protect and defend the knowledge of Mirrowen, then you would give him a talisman to mark your favor.” He held out the medallion.

  “I grant your desire,” the Seneschal said, his voice warm and pleased. He motioned to his daughter and she approached Shion, taking the talisman from his hand. The look on her face was eager and excited. She smiled at him, blinking with tenderness. Phae felt a prick of envy seeing her.

  “I also grant you,” he continued, “a chance to choose one of the fruit from the tree.”

  Shion shook his head. “Let your daughter choose for me, my lord. I trust she is wiser than I.”

  The daughter’s face brightened with a touching smile. She looked at her father, nodding vigorously.

  “If you choose it, Daughter,” he said. There was something in his voice—a hint of regret. “So be it.”

  The Seneschal’s daughter rushed to the tree and plucked one of the immortal fruit from the branch. The serpent did not rear its head that time. Phae watched as she presented it to Shion, offering it to him with obvious delight.

  Aristaios’s face was hardening by the moment, but he mastered himself. He stared at his brother, still on his knees. A curl of contempt flickered across his mouth and then was gone.

  Shion took the fruit from her hands and sank his teeth into it. A surprised look came next, and she remembered the strange bitter taste of it when she had eaten it herself. He devoured the fruit, bit by bit, then slowly stood, his body full of strength and vigor.