Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  The arrow went straight toward her, striking her full in the heart with a stony clunk before dropping harmlessly to the ground at her feet. She smiled savagely and turned her flames against that sentinel, scattering it into ash as well. Shion whirled with surprise, his face lighting with joy when he saw her. Phae took a step forward and sent a final gust of flames and destroyed the third and final sentinel.

  “Away from my tree,” she said triumphantly.

  “Phae!” Paedrin gasped.

  From the gap in the split trunk, twin blurs of silver-white fur came charging out. Paedrin gaped in shock. These were lions, taller than horses, and they bounded into the burning grove and with twin ferocious howls, they scattered the Weir who had gathered around the ancient oak. Their roars sent a spasm of dread into Paedrin’s bowels and he watched with awe as their huge muscled limbs shredded through the Weir. Their roars could be heard over the cinders and crackling flames and seemed to mix with the thunder booming from the clouds overhead. The two lions struck down Weir one by one, and the massive cats became the hunted ones and fled in panic.

  Phae grabbed Shion in a fierce hug, whispered something to him, and then she rushed to where Annon had fallen. Paedrin and Shion joined her, watching sharply for a sign of Kiranrao, but the thief had not materialized since his stricken look.

  The Dryad knelt by the Druidecht and produced a small, damp pouch. Digging her hand into it, she withdrew a clump of vibrant green moss with little flowers—the same kind Paedrin had found in Khiara’s belt that he had used to heal Baylen. Paedrin stared with wonder, realizing the Dryad had gotten it from Mirrowen somehow, and then watched as she pressed the moss into the savage claw wounds on Annon’s bloodied back. The magic swept over the Druidecht, bringing color back to his pallid cheeks. Annon lifted his head, then pulled himself up on his elbows.

  “Phae?” he questioned, his voice raw but his strength returning.

  “We must reclaim the Scourgelands,” she said, gripping Annon’s shoulder. Then she pointed into the woods toward the stark hillside where the ruins were. “It’s time to rebuild Canton Vaud. The ruins there . . . built by our ancestors . . . I know all of it now. I know the history. The gate to Mirrowen was closed by cruelty. We go to open it again, to open the bridge. To cross it, you must know its name. I give it to you. Pontfadog. Gather the others and fight your way in. Shion and I will go into the depths to counter the Plague. I know how. Meet us there. Go!”

  Paedrin’s heart nearly burst with joy. He wanted to rush to Hettie, to save her before it was too late. Phae had changed completely, but she was still vulnerable to the blade Iddawc.

  “Kiranrao is still loose,” he warned her.

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember anything right now. I took all his memories. When our task is done, he will be hunted down and that blade taken and hidden until its binding has ended. I understand what Iddawc is now. Trust no man to wield it.”

  Paedrin nodded. He didn’t need any more reason. Invoking the power of the Sword of Winds again, he flew up into the branches and crashed through the thicket and pierced the sky. He soared up to the clouds that lowered over the crumbled ruins.

  “I can’t walk,” Hettie said to her captors, sitting on the ground near a pile of rubble and massaged her leg. There were three of them, wearing tunics bearing the symbols of Kenatos. They were soldiers, not Rikes, and she could see the fear emanating from their eyes. None of them dared look at her, for she still wore the illusion of Phae’s countenance and they had assumed she was Tyrus’s daughter.

  “Grab her beneath her arms,” one of the soldiers ordered, beckoning to another. He sheathed his sword and came up behind her.

  Suddenly Hettie swiveled on her ankle and extended her injured leg, a simple Bhikhu leg sweep, and two of them tumbled to the ground. Hettie did a quick forward roll and leapt up at the third, striking his chin with her palm, snapping his head back. She watched his eyes roll back as he staggered backward and fell. Gratified by the easy victory, Hettie spun around and stomped on one of the soldier’s arms as he reached for his fallen sword and she felt the bone crack. The other scampered away from her and she kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking him over.

  Gazing down at the crumpled men, she nodded with satisfaction and slipped into the ruins, moving stealthily as she could, hiding behind slabs of lichen-speckled stone. The ruins were ancient, the stone pitted and ravaged by time and the elements. Only the barest suggestion of design and purpose could be observed. It was a lofty structure, with some tall buttresses still intact. She grazed her fingers on the rough stone, trying to imagine past the dimness of time to what the structure had originally been. The past was a secret here, a secret she yearned to know.

  Voices ghosted through the mist and she stopped, hiding behind a broken column.

  “I don’t know where Band-Imas is!” the man said in desperation. “His orders went silent.”

  “What should we do, Lukias? Tyrus made it up the rampway in the fog. What do we do?”

  “I don’t know, man! I’m trying to contact the Arch-Rike, but the aether is empty. Like nothing is there. Did he abandon us? I don’t know.”

  Hettie maneuvered closer, trying to get a look at the two who were approaching quickly. Two sets of black Rike cassocks appeared, two men hunched over in conversation.

  “Do you think he abandoned us?” one whispered dreadfully.

  Hettie saw the one—Lukias. She recognized him and scowled.

  Another shape appeared out of the mist, one of the hulking Cruithne bodyguards.

  “Over here,” Lukias called, gesturing. “I want you with us when Tyrus arrives. He’s a Paracelsus with the fireblood. The man is deadly and aggravated. He may already be mad.”

  “I know,” the Cruithne said and Hettie beamed, recognizing his voice. It was Baylen.

  “Who are—?” The Cruithne swung a meaty fist around and struck the side of Lukias’s face, dropping him with the sound of a crunch. The other Rike tried to summon a shout of warning, but Baylen was fast and gripped his tunic at the throat and hammered into his stomach so hard, the man could only gurgle in pain and collapse.

  “Baylen?” Hettie sighed with relief, emerging from the shadows and the stone and revealing her true self to him.

  The Cruithne looked at her, not registering surprise or delight. “There you are.” He brushed his heavy hands together, his jowls quivering as a smile finally crept over his mouth. “I’ve been lurking up here for a while watching for Paedrin. Been taking advantage of the confusion to thin the herd.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Hettie exclaimed. “Paedrin’s here too?”

  The Cruithne put his hands on his hips. “A story I’ll tell you over a mug of ale. Paedrin said he was coming but it’s been a little while. With all the mist, we won’t be easy to find.”

  “He’ll find us,” Hettie said. “Do you know a way off this rock?”

  “Follow me. There’s no one leading them right now. I know the way back down. But I also know where they are all coming from. I don’t think we came all this way to leave early.”

  Hettie unsheathed a dagger and nodded.

  The smoke from the fires would have normally stung Phae’s eyes, but it did not. She thought about taming the flames with her fireblood, but she decided not to. The woods needed a chance to heal and be reborn. Fire would be the womb. She watched Annon disappear into the shroud of smoke as he bent his way toward the ruins of Canton Vaud.

  Phae took Shion’s hands and marched him back to the tree. There were no longer any Weir, no longer any threats. Rumbles of thunder sounded overhead and she felt a few drops of rain on her wrists and hands. She climbed back up the nest of roots, pulling Shion after her until they came to the portal entrance.

  “How long have you been gone?” he asked her, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “To us, it seemed but a moment. You are changed.” He
reached out hesitantly, brushing aside some of her hair. A shiver went down her back at his touch.

  “A lifetime. I’ve learned so much. I know your name. I know who you are.” She squeezed his hands, feeling her throat thicken. She reached to her belt where she had woven the chain of his talisman and quickly unfastened it. It was battered and dull, but she could feel the talisman’s power. He stared at it, his face crinkling with confusion.

  “This is yours,” she told him. She licked her lips. Reaching out, she put the talisman around his neck. He looked confused, worried, anxious.

  “I’m frightened,” he whispered hoarsely.

  She shook her head and cupped his cheek. “There is no reason to fear. I know the truth. I know all of it.” With her other hand, she stroked the ragged bark. “Your memories are all here. I’ve already seen them. Even the recent ones. I’ve watched your life.” She tried to breathe, found it difficult even looking into his eyes. She blushed, feeling the weight of the moment. “Let me help you remember.”

  A quivering sigh escaped his chest. He nodded mutely, worriedly. With her full Dryad senses, she could tell that they were truly alone. She could sense where Annon walked as if she saw him in her mind. She saw Kiranrao, staggering and falling, running madly through the woods to escape, but there was no escape for him. The defenses of the forest would wall him inside and he did not know the secret of the Dryads any longer. The roots of the oaks ran for leagues and she was tied into them all, connected to the information they shared with her.

  Phae leaned forward and whispered to him. “You guarded my tree, so you have earned a boon. I give you my Dryad name. I give it to you freely because I trust the man that you were, even the man you’ve become. My name is Arsinowe.”

  As she breathed out the name, she felt magic in the word, magic that began forging a bond to him. She felt it well up inside her, a powerful surge that made her lips begin to tingle and power burn on her tongue. It was a pleasant feeling, a surging tidal feeling. Phae lifted his chin and brought her mouth to his, bestowing a Dryad’s kiss.

  There was a rush of power and emotion. She felt herself become a conduit for memories as they poured from the tree, through her, and into him. His mind was unlocked, the hidden recesses filled to overflowing. She pressed the kiss harder, connecting to him, feeling his breath begin to quicken, and then he gasped. Not only did his memories return, but her memories joined with his, her experiences with the Seneschal, her following of his life’s story.

  The rush was intense, deeply personal, and they both floated in the magic, clinging to each other as it sped them fast, weaving through sharp turns and rugged eddies. He tasted wonderful, his scent a mixture of sweat and earth, and full of the forest and trees.

  It was finished.

  Phae pulled back, gazing into his scarred cheeks.

  “I love you, Isic,” she whispered, her heart breaking with the words. She smiled at him, a sad smile full of empathy and compassion. “I know your story. I know it better than you knew yourself, for I see the truth that you were blinded to. Your brother’s treachery. Your wife’s sacrifice. She died protecting you.” She swallowed, wondering what she should say. “You were never meant to be together. I think she always knew. But I cannot blame her for loving you. I would have done the same to save you.”

  Shion’s eyes were wet with tears. “You were there,” he said in amazement. “You are the one who took my memories. I’ve always felt . . . that I knew you.”

  She nodded, wiping a tear from his cheek, as her own flowed unheeded. “We must undo what your brother . . . what Aristaios did. We can end the Plague, you and I. We must end it before it destroys everyone.”

  Shion stared at her, his face becoming grave. “The pool of quicksilver is tainted. How can it be cured?”

  Kneeling in front of him, she put her hand on his wrist. “Only an Unwearying One can cleanse it. I am immortal, but I am not like you. I am bound for a season and I am bound to a specific tree. I can help draw the fire out of Poisonwell. But only you can cure it. You must drink it, Isic. You must drink all of the Plagues. They won’t kill you, but you will suffer.” She winced, gazing into his eyes. “You must separate the Plague from the well. That is how your brother unleashes it. He drinks from the well and carries it to another land, expelling the disease on the population. Drinking quicksilver would kill a mortal man. But you cannot die.”

  He stared at her, his eyes full of wisdom and understanding. “I will do this.”

  Phae retrieved the Tay al-Ard from her belt. She kissed his cheek and then offered the device to him.

  They gripped the warm cylinder. Their thoughts were as one, picturing the greenish hue of the subterranean lair beneath the mountain.

  Shirikant was waiting for them.

  “I do not know how it happened. Someone threw open the gates of the Arch-Rike’s palace. Confusion is everywhere. They say the Arch-Rike is hiding in the dungeons. What is true and what is false? No man knows. There is no end to the deceptions.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XLV

  The subterranean cavern swirled with greenish mist and pungent odors. Cracks of light appeared in fissures on the walls, spirits trapped in glass orbs fixed into sconces. The air was sulfurous and heavy, and thick shadows cut in jagged angles and slits along the floor. An oppressive feeling clung to the air, a menace full of dark loathing and cruelty. It made Phae’s heart tremble with fear, even though she was immortal. The blackness pressed against her mind, hammering against her thoughts and conjuring malevolent images in the secret places inside her.

  Standing across from them at a pool of bubbling quicksilver, she saw Shirikant holding a stone chalice. It looked heavy and deep, half the size of a melon, with intricate carvings set on the outside of the bowl. The lip was ridged and crumbling, and the whole thing looked ancient and defaced. Shirikant gripped it in one hand, the other clutching his Tay al-Ard. His face was creased with savage emotions, his eyes burning with pure hatred as they appeared. He seemed on the verge of lifting the chalice to his lips, but he lowered his arm, staring at them with a look that would have killed them both if it could.

  “I knew you would come,” he said in a low, even tone. “Do you remember me now, Brother?”

  Shion put a cautioning hand on Phae’s arm and took a step forward.

  Immediately, shards of lightning flashed from the walls, hammering into Shion from three sides. The light blinded Phae, and she could feel the energy and heat swell past her, filling her with current.

  The energy went into the Druidecht talisman worn around Shion’s neck, absorbing the charges before the light winked out.

  “Exacerist,” Shion whispered. There was a chink of glass and spirits emerged from the cracked spheres, swirling in the air, leaving streamers of magic. “Antonium farsay. Benne.”

  The light remained, the spirits not leaving after being freed. Phae realized Shion was speaking to them in another language, the pure language of Mirrowen.

  “You free them but transform one form of slavery into another,” Shirikant sneered. “We are no different.”

  “We are quite different,” Shion said flatly, walking forward deliberately. Phae did not hold back. She went with him, coming closer, wanting to connect with Shirikant’s eyes, but he would not look at her. He ignored her, turning the full force of his menacing eyes on his brother.

  “So different,” Shirikant repeated. “How so, Brother? We are born of the same womb. We share the same immortality. You’ve served me for so long—your entire life! Why quit now? I’m close to undoing everything, to remake this world. So very close. I’ve set it all in motion. You cannot stop it.”

  “I can, and I will,” Shion said coldly. “You are a usurper. Your throne is stolen. You cannot create, you can only destroy. You are of the Void, Brother. I will stop you.”

  The feeling of tension in t
he smoky chamber intensified the dread. Phae felt as if dark shapes appeared at the corner of her vision, flickers of shadows. They weren’t alone. She felt as if someone stood beside her and the hairs on her arms pricked. As if someone were reaching to touch her and that touch would destroy her.

  “How?” Shirikant said, chuckling darkly. “The Seneschal will stop me? He has done nothing these last ages. He can do nothing with the gate closed. He does nothing, but stride elegantly and spew platitudes, and shackle everyone into his own form of bondage. Mine at least is fixed for a season. There are terms and agreements. There is an end to the servitude. I would not wish to be an Unwearying One now. You are a slave, Isic.”

  “I was your slave,” Shion replied coldly. “How could you do that to your own brother? What did I ever do to you to earn such contempt? I was loyal to you. We were the first mastermind. You and I. Look what you’ve become.”

  “Look what I’ve become?” Shirikant said with a nasty twist in his expression, his cheeks quivering with rage. “I’ve remade this world. I built Kenatos. It’s no different than Mirrowen. I have chiseled and scraped every single reference, every mention of Mirrowen and its decrepit Seneschal from every book throughout the world. There is no mention of him anywhere. Not even the sad Druidecht order—your order!—remember him any longer. He’s nothing more than a myth and only the Dryads know of him. No mortal has trod this bridge since we did. And no one ever will again.”

  Shion shook his head, standing across the bubbling cauldron of quicksilver from his brother, the greenish light playing across both their faces.

  “You cannot erase the Seneschal,” Shion said simply. “In the winter, every tree appears to be dead. He’s allowed you to reign during this particular winter, Brother. But the spring comes and thaws the snow. The buds form on the trees again. Except the truly dead ones. Except for yours. You are known in Boeotia as a traitor and a deceiver. Your legend will spread throughout every land and kingdom until your title becomes a curse on men’s lips. It is over, Brother. I bring you to justice. I am taking you with me to Mirrowen.”