Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  She paced the area around the tree, trying to subdue the battering emotions, to quell the burgeoning feelings of loathing and hate.

  The tree was the origin of it all. She stared at the silvery bark, the tempting fruit that seemed to whisper to her to snatch another one.

  “You feel its compulsion,” the Seneschal announced softly. “For all ages and in every civilization scattered amidst the myriad worlds—of which this one is but a type—there is a relentless hunger for immortality. They all search for this tree.” He put his hand on her shoulder, a tender gesture. “What they never understand is that there is bitterness amidst the sweetness. There is suffering betwixt the joy. I was given the Voided Keys as a steward, to protect this tree from those like Shirikant who rule with terror and destruction because of their benighted pride. Unwearying Ones from other worlds will visit this one and learn for themselves the fruits of consequence caused by men like Shirikant and the despair that follows. Some worlds are wiser than this one. And there are some that are even worse.”

  She turned and looked up at him, seeing the look of wisdom in his deep-set eyes. “Are you from this world, then?”

  He shook his head. “No, child. I am a custodian. My intention has been to deliver the Voided Keys to someone who will take my place. I will pass to another realm eventually. And so will you.”

  “You desired that Prince Isic would take your place. Has he forfeited that chance?”

  A small smile lit his face. Thunder rumbled overhead, followed by thick, billowing clouds. As Phae stared up into the sky, she saw an enormous gathering storm, with huge anvil-shaped clouds that loomed higher than the heavens. Lightning flashed and struck. A bulge appeared in the clouds, and she watched with fascination as the bulge began to swirl.

  “He comes,” the Seneschal said, motioning toward an archway.

  Shion appeared through the gap, as if he had stepped from another existence into this one. He staggered with heaviness, his countenance matching the storm clouds. He had the look of restless determination in his eyes, the focus that had always made her shudder.

  “His brother attempted to stop him,” the Seneschal whispered to Phae. “Shirikant sent hawks and doves ahead, warning his servants to forestall him. The safe road was guarded, but the Prince would not be halted. He is a powerful Druidecht and summoned creatures from the woods for assistance. Shirikant’s minions tried to subdue him but failed. Now Isic comes again, burning with determination yet clinging to the seed of failure—the doubt his brother planted in his mind. Watch it fester. Watch him fail.”

  Shion tramped up to the bridge, his face flushed with emotion. He stood there, nodding in respect to the Seneschal, but he could not meet his eyes. His hand trembled on the railing of the bridge. He cast a quick, furtive glance at Phae and she realized she was visible to him.

  Shion’s voice was hoarse. “I come with grievous news,” he said, sinking to his knees in front of the Seneschal. “Your daughter is dead.”

  “I know.”

  Anguish of the deepest kind was etched into Shion’s brow. He struggled to breathe, to inhale past his tears. “I failed to protect her.” He wiped his mouth, his cheek muscles twitching. “I beg you to give her soul back to me. I know her spirit magic persists for three days in the mortal world. Let me revive her, my master. I have already given my oath to serve you. I only ask for this one boon.” He wrung his hands together, still unable to meet the Seneschal’s gaze. “I beg you.”

  The Seneschal was quiet, considering. “Your heart is grieved, my son. My daughter accepted her fate when she chose to leave Mirrowen. Would you undo that choice?”

  Shion winced at the words. “I did not know . . . I could not see the future. I was careless, but do not let my error allow her life to be purged.”

  “Was I careless to let her go?” the Seneschal said, his voice deep with meaning. “I—who can see the future? Do you trust my judgment, Prince Isic?”

  A spasm of pain seemed to burst open in Shion’s face. “If you knew it, how could you allow it?”

  “How could I not allow it?” came the reply. “I cannot force a person to choose.”

  “You once told me that the Unwearying Ones who created us without our help will not save us without our consent. I ask you . . . I plead with you! Save her. You were her father. Surely it grieves you as well? I ask for this one boon. I will ask nothing else from you. I will give my whole heart to you, even if you reject my plea. There are no conditions. I submit to your judgment. But please . . . if it is possible . . . give me my wife.” Choking sobs erupted from Shion’s throat.

  Phae felt tears trickle down her own cheeks.

  “Persistence is powerful magic,” the Seneschal said in a near whisper. “You know I can do as you request. You know I have that keramat. You know it is possible. Bid me again, and I will grant it. Compel me with your magic, and she is yours.”

  It will only add to your pain

  Phae heard the whisper and watched Shion closely, her heart leaping into her throat. He was being given a choice. She could feel the wrongness of the choice, could sense that the outcome would be terrible. Yet Shion’s desire to be with his wife blinded him and deafened him to the subtle pulse of the whisper. His grief was too new, too raw.

  Shion bowed his head in grief, trying to control his breathing. His quavering muscles began to calm. The intensity of his feelings was seen in his stormy eyes. In the skies above, a swirling vortex had opened up, painting the clouds in hues of green. The storm could not be felt inside the city gardens, but Phae knew the surf was hammering again.

  Lifting his chin, Shion faced the Seneschal. He slowly rose to his feet and outstretched an arm. Opening his mouth, he started to sing.

  Phae’s eyes widened, recognizing the tune from the gold locket. A tune that generations of those from the Paracelsus Order had captured and bound in trinkets. Shion’s song wove through the air, full of pathos and sorrow, building in power as his voice became stronger. Phae’s knees trembled with the weight of it, recognizing again how many ties had bound them together. She had first heard the tune huddled and frightened in an abandoned homestead. It was Shion’s song—a song he had lost.

  Tears poured from her eyes as she listened to the notes fade into stillness. All of Mirrowen was hushed with his mourning anthem. All the Unwearying Ones paid homage to his suffering.

  Phae saw tears in the Seneschal’s eyes. “Leave Mirrowen. I will send her spirit walking behind you to the Mother Tree. There is a gap in the trunk, a portal to Mirrowen. If you look back, even once, to see if she follows, then she will vanish. Do not gaze back or you will lose her forever. This was your choice. Depart.”

  Shion bowed his head, nodding in gratitude with a broken, “Thank you,” passing from his lips. He started away, walking back across the bridge.

  The Seneschal gestured and a gossamer spirit appeared, a lovely young maiden—his daughter, the Dryad-born. Phae could see the wisps of spirit magic trailing from her. She looked at her father, bowing her head in respect and love, and then flitted off after Shion.

  “What happens now?” Phae whispered, wiping her eyes.

  He put his arm around her shoulders and brought out the Tay al-Ard again.

  With a whorl of magic, they appeared inside a dense cave, thick with shadows and streaming with green light. The air smelled strongly of earth and spoiled vegetation and it was unusually warm. There was a strange green moss lighting the walls of the cave, forming a brilliant glow with crystalline stalactites and stalagmites. It was an unearthly place, lit, yet void of light from the sun.

  She looked and saw a pool of molten silver in the cave’s center. The surface rippled as gusts of heat disturbed it. There were several inset stone pillars surrounding the pool, and each glowed with a round sphere. It was spirit magic.

  The Seneschal gestured to the pool of quicksilver.

  Pontfad
og/Poisonwell

  Standing at the edge of the pool was Shirikant, his face haggard and lined with hard edges. He whispered harsh words in another language, his fingers weaving together as he summoned the fireblood. Blue flames danced from his fingertips and then he unleashed it into the pool of quicksilver. As he did so, a greenish mist rose from the moss surrounding the walls, sending dark vapors to fill the cavern. The flames burned hotter, summoned by Shirikant. The mist began to creep from the walls and swell, coiling into Shirikant’s skin and clothes. Still the fireblood coursed into the pool, making the silver liquid bubble like a cauldron.

  He binds the magic of Poisonwell to serve him—he unleashes a Plague on himself that will strike the workers building Canton Vaud—this is the birth of the first Plague

  Shirikant’s face twisted with pain as the green mist surrounded him. She could see the effects of the disease blistering his skin, but it did not kill him. He poured the fireblood into the pool of quicksilver until steam began to wreathe his hands and arms, mixing with the mist from the lichen.

  He has bound Poisonwell to himself for a thousand years—it will serve only him until another claims its obedience—he will unleash Plague after Plague, destroying every civilization one by one until the binding ends

  She turned to look at him. What can end it?

  The pool must be cleansed by an Unwearying One—it is a bitter cup that must be drunk—the gateway to Mirrowen will remain closed until then

  Am I an Unwearying One? Phae thought to him.

  You are Dryad-born—you are not yet an Unwearying One—your oath is not fulfilled

  In her mind, the pieces began to fit together. She could see the pattern now; she could see what she needed to do to stop the Plagues.

  “I understand now,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “There is one more stop we must make now, isn’t there?”

  He smiled tenderly. “You are wise, child. Do what must be done.” He extended the Tay al-Ard to her again.

  She gripped it and they vanished from the polluted chamber of roiling fumes beneath the scaffolding of Canton Vaud.

  In a moment, they stood near the Dryad Mother Tree at the edge of the woods deep in the Scourgelands. Phae could hear the screaming as the Plague attacked and killed the workers from Stonehollow who were gathered there building the first arches of Canton Vaud. Thick green mist hung like a poisoned fog in the air, seeping into the woods, seeking victims.

  This was the birthplace of the Plague. Her mind began to trace and see connections, realizing the fear that would spread as word of the devastation spread. The woods would earn a reputation for deadliness. The caretaker of the woods, Shirikant, would make sure the notoriety spread, preventing Druidecht from seeking the bridge to Mirrowen. After centuries the woods would be named the Scourgelands. She could see it all unfolding in her mind.

  The Dryad tree was beautiful and healthy, the trunk split in the middle, showing a gap between. From her vantage in the woods, she saw Shion emerge from the tear in the wood, his hands touching the rough bark. He craned his head, listening to the shouts of fear and pain as hundreds perished. He looked alarmed, panicked even, not understanding the devastation happening in the stone hill nearby. She saw the tension in his neck, saw the indecision of what to do.

  He had emerged from the portal to Mirrowen at the Dryad tree, not from Pontfadog. No doubt his brother was sealing off the chamber, hoping to trap Isic inside to prevent him from venturing back into the world. It all made sense to Phae, and she saw the look of confusion and determination wilt. Behind him floated a shade of a Spirit, her face the same as the Seneschal’s daughter.

  Shion turned to look back at her and in doing so, saw past her into the breach, into Mirrowen. His eyes widened with shock and terror, realization flooding him at what he had done.

  “No!!” he screamed, reaching to grab the Spirit wife. Her hand reached for his and then she dissolved into tufts of pollen, scattering in the wind.

  Stunned, devastated, Shion sank to the ground, clawing the bark with his iron-hard fingers until the bark shredded and came off in chunks. He howled in dismay, screaming with frustration and despair. He struck the tree with his fists, pounding on its immovable trunk. He could not bleed. He could not die. He let out a wail of anguish that pierced Phae’s heart. Sobs shook him violently, great racking sobs that added to the chorus of the dying.

  Shion sprawled down at the base of the tree, gasping, breaking apart, unable to die of sorrow.

  The Seneschal stroked her hair. The day seemed to pass more swiftly, the arch of the sun across the sky fading to twilight, and then night. Near midnight, the last of the screams ended. Those who had fled the construction of Canton Vaud, those who survived, would carry remnants of the Plague back to their communities. Stonehollow would be devastated by it, the first kingdom to fall.

  Night began to fade as a pink sky started to light in the east.

  Phae nodded to the Seneschal and then quietly stepped forward, approaching Shion’s crumpled body. She knelt nearby him, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders. He had not moved for hours. As she knelt, little twigs snapped.

  Shion’s head stirred slightly. “Who is there?” he whispered in a ravaged, hoarse voice.

  She sat silently, hands folded in her lap, waiting for him to rouse.

  He was still a moment longer, then his head swiveled and he looked up at her. His face was bereft of life and joy. He was shrunken, defeated, tormented. He stared at her, his eyebrows furrowing.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said in his quiet voice. “I’ve seen your face.”

  Phae nodded. “In your brother’s palace. I was with the Seneschal.”

  He slowly pushed himself up on one arm, his expression so hurt and aching that she reached out and touched his cheek. He flinched.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “We will meet again in the future,” Phae said. “This is my tree now.” She stroked the bark that he had ravaged with his bare fingers. “You must protect me. You must bring me here safely. I charge you, Prince Isic, to reopen the gate to Mirrowen.”

  “It’s closed to me,” he said, his mouth turning to a frown.

  “Only you and I can open it,” she said, giving him a timid smile. “I see that now.” She breathed deeply. “You won’t remember this. You won’t remember any of it. I’m sorry, but I see that this must be.” She reached out and touched the side of his face, looking deeply into his eyes, deeply into his very soul. “Until we meet again, Shion.”

  She blinked, taking away all of his memories. Not a portion—not a slice. She took them all away. They came as a rush, suffusing into her heart, into her mind, all of his memories and emotions, his knowledge of Druidecht lore, even his knowledge of music. She absorbed it into herself, feeling it well up like a tidal wave. She loved him. She understood the boy he was as a child, the man he was at that moment. All of his life experiences rushed past her in a surge.

  Phae gathered the memories, hugging them to her soul, and then she filled the tree with them, preserving and safeguarding them.

  Shion slumped to the ground, unconscious. His face was reposed, deep with sleep.

  She reached around his neck and lifted the talisman away. Then Phae stood and walked back to the Seneschal.

  “I am ready,” she said firmly.

  “These next choices will be up to you,” the Seneschal said. “Be wise how you make them. Return to your own era in the mortal world. Save your father. Save your friends. Redeem Poisonwell.”

  “Be at peace with your own soul, then the heavens and the earth will be at peace with you. The Druidecht are truly wise.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XLIV

  Paedrin stood side by side with the Quiet Kishion, their blades slashing at every angle, defending the Dryad tree in the center of the Scourgelands. Arro
ws hissed and stuck into the trunk. Somehow, Paedrin avoided every one. His blind sense seemed to move him, and each time the trunk was split and scarred by the heavy weight of impact. Kiranrao flashed again, trying to stab at him, but the Bhikhu was all rage and quickness and his sword had the better reach than the cursed dagger.

  Sweat streaked down Paedrin’s cheeks, coming down his back in a river of moisture. His muscles hummed with energy, his situation too desperate for fatigue. One wrong move and the blade Iddawc would graze his skin, snuffing out his life. Every stroke counted. Every miss mattered.

  “Should I lie still?” Paedrin taunted the Romani. “Maybe you’re only used to striking people asleep. I thought you were quick, Kiranrao. Old Master Shivu could run circles around you.”

  A grotesque look of rage crumpled Kiranrao’s face as he feinted and then lunged again. Paedrin deflected the thrust and whipped his elbow around to smash into the Romani’s face, but again he vanished in a plume of smoke.

  “Smoke and shadows, that’s all you are!” Paedrin shouted, dodging another arrow. It thunked into the tree with the others. “A cawing raven. You have no power. You can only steal.”

  “You will die, Bhikhu,” Kiranrao threatened. “That I swear!”

  “You could not hit me with an avalanche,” Paedrin quipped. “You couldn’t hit me with a rainstorm. You’ve gotten lazy, thief.”

  There he was again, materializing out of smoke, his face contorted in rage. Paedrin prepared for the attack. Kiranrao’s eyes widened with shock. A look of confusion rippled across his face. He shook his head, startled and panicked, and then vanished into smoke again.

  Fire exploded from the tree behind him.

  Paedrin whirled in shock. There was Phae, perfect and whole. Her clothes were different, clean and unstained. Her red hair billowed from the heat as blue flames bloomed from her hands, streaking into the woods and striking one of the sentinels, turning him into ash. Paedrin saw another one lift his bow and he tried to warn her. He would have rushed in front of her to protect her, but he would have stood in the flood of flames and died himself.