Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)
Page 43
The man’s cloak was in tatters and he clutched it close to his neck, trying in vain to remember anything about his past. How long had he been lost in the woods? He tried to walk in a straight line but kept getting turned around. A menacing breeze caressed his neck, making him shiver even more. The air was getting colder. He could see the mist coming out of his mouth.
No, it was happening again! Darkness was falling. Darkness brought the creature out hunting. It could smell him. Somehow, it knew his scent. He wandered through the groves, aimlessly, terrified.
He tripped over a fallen tree branch, sprawling flat on his face. The sticks and burs stabbed him, making him groan with pain as they poked his sores. He scrambled back to his feet, looking at the fallen branch. It was large, fallen from a huge oak nearby. Something about the tree branch was familiar. He cast his eyes around the area, trying to take in as much as he could despite the shadows. The scene was vaguely familiar. Perhaps he had crossed this path before along his journey of never-ending circles. A fallen tree branch. He turned around in a circle and saw the mist swelling from the mouth of a stone cave.
His eyes widened with terror. The cave was the beast’s lair. The beast that was hunting him. He heard a gurgling growl come from the blackness and froze in terror. His legs could not move. He stared at the darkness, heard a snuffling breath. His mind collapsed into gibbering fear.
“I knew we would succeed,” Paedrin said confidently, walking across the abandoned training yard of the Bhikhu temple. The sun was hot against his neck, but he enjoyed the feel of its burn. Memories, both joyful and bitter, played in his mind.
“Will you never stop bragging?” Hettie said from the shadows, cocking an eyebrow.
Paedrin gripped a long staff in his hands and began whirling it around in dizzying circles. He had always favored the staff in his training. He loved the feel of it, the heft of it, the way it would be made to do intricate maneuvers. He planted the butt of the staff into the cobblestones and spun around its length, coiling to the top like a serpent, one arm outstretched and held in a perfect pose.
“It’s difficult not to,” he said from that position, eyeing her in the shadows. “Every man must have at least one fault.”
Hettie walked into the training yard, arms folded, her frown concealing the beginnings of a wry smile. “When is Baylen going to get back from the bakery with food for our journey?” she asked.
“I think he’ll be gone a little while . . . why?”
She lunged forward, dropping low, and swung her leg around in a wide arc, slamming the staff hard enough to topple his stance.
He remained floating in the air, the staff spinning away. He let it clatter. “I knew you were going to do that. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
The two engaged in a full-stroke series of punches, kicks, and grappling techniques. Her reflexes had improved immeasurably since the Scourgelands. She did not hold back, and he had to admit that before too much longer, she might be ready to start sanding the calluses off his heels.
Their forearms jarred together in an intricate series of blocks and strikes. She shoved him hard against the chest and did a reverse kick that clipped his cheek. It even hurt a little.
She landed, grinning triumphantly, and he let her enjoy the moment before coming at her like an avalanche. Their arms and legs locked, fingers groping, feet positioning, and switching from one stance to another as they tried to achieve the right leverage. She caught his wrist and chopped at his neck. He blocked with his elbow and caught around her neck, spinning her around his exposed leg and tripping her backward. Hettie tucked her shoulder and pulled him off his feet. He felt his balance lurching.
Hettie grabbed a fistful of his tunic front and then kissed him passionately on the mouth, breaking his concentration completely. He forgot about the fighting, forgot everything except the taste of her, and then realized she was tricking him.
He backed away just as she was about to land her knee in his stomach. He caught the knee, hooked it with his arm and then hoisted her up higher, making her lose her balance. He reversed his hold, swept her final leg, and then watched with satisfaction as she toppled—at last!
Paedrin normally would have tackled her and pinned her, but he was winded from the duel and instead reached and helped her rise.
“I almost had you,” she teased, panting.
“You came close,” he agreed. He cast his gaze around the training yard, seeing glimpses of the memories it contained. “I’ll miss the Bhikhu temple,” he said solemnly. “It is colder in Shatalin. Do you fancy climbing the side of the mountain again?”
“Only if you are there to catch me,” she answered slyly. “You realize I saved your life in the Scourgelands, Paedrin. When Tyrus was going to burn you to death. He would have, you know.”
He gave her an arch look. “You want me to admit it?”
She nodded vigorously.
Paedrin grabbed her around her waist, his mouth crinkling with joy and a wistful smile. He stared hard into her eyes, soaking her in. “You did save my life, Hettie. And I’d like to thank you. The Romani way.”
She smiled, nuzzling up against him. “I’d like that.”
Annon cleared the branch away, exposing the small hut. It surprised him to see that much had changed since he had last visited Dame Nestra and her husband. He recognized the stump near the fire pit, the whetstone sitting outside the hut. But a barn had been constructed and some of the woods had been cleared. It looked peculiar, jarring with the memories he had of the place. A little prick of disappointment flashed inside his heart, but he stifled it. He had changed much himself since he had last wandered the forests of Wayland.
“Annon?”
It was Dame Nestra. She came from the doorway of the hut, her expression brightening when she recognized him. “Darling, Annon is back! Look at you!” She swept from the hut and approached him, eyeing him with mouth agape. “You’re a grown man now, no longer a boy. Bless my heart, but you’ve changed. It’s been so long, Annon. Where have you been hiding all this while?”
He took her hand and then gripped her husband’s when he emerged from the hut, stroking crumbs from his mustache. “Bless me, lad. Look at you!”
Annon smiled in spite of himself, feeling grateful for the warm greeting. “I’ve been away too long. You have a barn now. It’s impressive.”
The woodcutter chuckled. “We get too many visitors, you see,” he said with a shrug. “Word of my wife’s cooking has spread in these parts, and folks come out of their way to pass by. Many are Druidecht, but occasionally Romani too or stonemasons from the west. It’s safer in these woods, boy. The things you taught us—how to watch for the spirits and not disturb them.”
Dame Nestra patted her husband’s arm. “He listened to you. We both did. Some of the other woodcutters have accidents. The spirits don’t bother us. In fact, they help us. We’re always generous to travelers who come through. Now, since you look like a grown man, I’m sure you have a man’s appetite as well. I was just going to start on some soup, and the bread will be done ere long. I keep telling him we should build an inn or something with all the visitors we get. You can still sleep outside if you prefer, Annon. You’re always welcome here.”
Annon smiled at the hospitality and nodded his acceptance. He didn’t dare tell them that they were entertaining one of the Thirteen of Canton Vaud and that he could have stayed at the palace of the King of Wayland if he’d chosen. He was glad he had decided to stop to see them on his way to the king’s city. He patted the Tay al-Ard fastened to his belt.
Tyrus lowered the cowl of his cloak in reverence. The mighty oak tree looked as if it had seen a thousand winters and summers. The forked trunk was twisted and furrowed. New growth had started from the trunk and the existing branches were crowned with healthy leaves. In the distance, the sound of chisels and stone beating to rhythms faded. The fortress was star
ting to rise from the rubble, the grounds full of scaffolding, men and pack animals hauling stone from the mountains near Basilides.
He paused before the oak, head slightly bowed, listening for the whispers from the talisman around his neck.
Phae stepped from around the tree, smiling broadly. She came forward and embraced him, kissing his bearded cheek. “Hello, Father. The work is progressing. It will be beautiful when it is finished.”
He reached out and clasped her hand, feeling its warmth and strength. “You’ve seen it already, I imagine.”
Phae nodded. “It’s a marvelous structure. Canton Vaud will be the center of learning throughout all the kingdoms. You are its first Archivist, you know. The custodian of many secrets. You will even have your own tower again.”
He was satisfied by that and squeezed her hand. “Thank you for seeing me, Phae. I don’t mean to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble, Father,” she replied. “I will always be here, even when you are old and gray. Your whiskers are starting to turn, but there is still much you will accomplish in your lifetime. Time passes differently for me. It won’t be long before you join us.”
Tyrus sighed deeply, longing for that reunion, but knowing there was still a purpose he needed to accomplish first. “I have a question for you.”
“Of course.” She linked her arm with his and they started to stroll through the glen. She was not wearing the robes he had seen other Dryads with—her attire was better situated to a girl from Stonehollow, the girl she had grown up as. A homestead girl. She was beautiful and radiant, and he flushed with pride at seeing her inner strength, her wisdom, her compassion.
“I’m proud of you, Phae,” he said, surprising himself. “I’m so very proud of you.”
She caressed his hand. “It wasn’t really either of us who deserves the credit. We both know that. Every person did their part, just as you knew they would. You will honor the memories of Khiara and Prince Aransetis?”
“Yes,” Tyrus said. “The manor house in Silvandom is a shrine to their memory. The Vaettir pay their respects and give them honor in their way. And Erasmus will be remembered in Havenrook. We must remember those who gave their lives.”
“I’m pleased. Why did you come? What do you wish to know?”
“The Seneschal made me the custodian of Shirikant’s book. It is a heavy burden, Phae. I don’t trust anyone else to even look at it. But I know, child, that someday, long after I’m gone, someone else will seek out its secrets. Someone with the fireblood, most likely. Ambition has uses, for certain, but my mind is heavy with the possibility. I would seek counsel from you. Should I hide it where no one can find it? It will always be a temptation if I leave it with the rest of the Archives. Some knowledge should be hidden permanently.”
Phae listened to his words thoughtfully. They continued the pleasant stroll, wandering the grounds around the tree. The roots of her tree were vast, giving her a wide room to walk and be free.
“You cannot prevent evil from occurring,” she said, looking at him pointedly. “Nor should you. The Seneschal described its cycle like that of the seasons. We are in the season of spring, when good has triumphed and evil is forced to slumber. The cycle will come again, long after you have relinquished your duty to others. It will be their turn, Father. It will be their duty to stand up to that evil. As you did.”
He sighed deeply, disturbed by her answer, yet it felt true. “You will outlive me,” he said, feeling the absurdity that she would live for another thousand years. She would see the next cycles come and go. Perhaps she already had. It defied his understanding how she existed in a different manner of time than he did. “If there was a way to prevent the book from being used, could you tell me?”
Phae smiled. “No, Father. The events that occur in the mortal world are caused by the decisions of mortals. You cannot see all things from the beginning, as the Seneschal can. You must make your choices as you deem wise. It is never improper to seek counsel from those wiser than yourself. But you must accept the counsel given, knowing that suffering often accompanies choices. And sometimes that suffering is what we need the most to make us stronger. Try not to predict the future.” She paused, stopping, her head cocking. “Let’s go back to my tree.”
They continued to walk arm in arm until they reached the ancient oak once again. Standing at the base was Shion. He stood tall and at ease, his clothes no longer the garb of the Kishion. A single tarnished key was fastened to a hoop on his belt.
“Hello,” Tyrus bid him, bowing his head deferentially.
“Greetings, Tyrus,” Shion said, his voice rich and full. Tyrus had heard him sing and had wept with the power of his ability. Then he noticed the woman in his shadow and his heart leapt with amazement. It was Tyrus’s wife, the Dryad from the Paracelsus Towers. It was she!
Phae smiled cheerfully. “Hello, Mother. Are you ready?” She leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. “She’s going to care for my tree for a little while. Shion and I have a journey to make together with the Tay al-Ard. Would you keep her company while we are gone?”
Tyrus stared at his wife, felt tears sting his eyes. She smiled at him with unspoken love, her eyes burning. Phae broke away and hugged her mother, kissing her on the cheek. Then she looked at Shion adoringly, their faces still expressive of their tenderness with each other. Their hands snaked together.
“I will,” Tyrus said and then watched as the magic of the Tay al-Ard made them vanish.
The magic unsettled Phae only a little. She did not know where Shion was taking her, only that he had said he wanted her to accompany him on a journey. As soon as the magic ended, she blinked with surprise and then felt her heart throb with warmth. She saw trellises and green vines thick with purple fruit, the slope of a roof that covered a high attic where little children slept. A barn stood to the side in the dusky light. It was the Winemiller vineyard!
Her grip on his hand increased. “What is this?” she demanded, tugging on his arm and forcing him to face her. He had a pleased smile seeing her reaction.
“Do you mean when is this?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
The air was rich with smells and memories, memories that they both shared and savored. She wanted to squeal with delight, but she dared not, knowing that sometimes they visited places unobserved, blending into a crowd with his magic.
“Yes, I’d like to know when this is, please.” Her heart was giddy with excitement.
“The grapes are nearly harvested,” he answered. “It’s autumn, a year after you disappeared. They’re going to crush the grapes tonight. I thought you’d want to join them.”
She turned and stared at his face, awash with kindness and gratitude. “Shion,” she whispered tenderly.
“It will do them much good, knowing you are safe. Knowing you still care about them. Trasen is still here. Will that . . . be painful for you?”
Phae shook her head no. “I cared for him. I still do. I cannot give him back his memories, they are gone forever. But I do not resent the feelings I had for him. Not when I have you.” She squeezed his hand, stroking his arm. “So . . . we can see them? It will not harm the future?”
He put his arm around her shoulder. “I am a Seneschal now, Phae. I don’t do anything that will not bless the mortal world. I wanted to share this memory with you. Come. Introduce me to your adoptive family. There’s a little girl here who has a twin in Mirrowen. You need to tell her not to be afraid.”
“You remembered little Brielle? Of course you would. You remember everything I’ve ever said or done.”
Shion smiled and nodded.
“Who do I tell them you are?” Phae asked as they walked up the road. Her stomach bubbled with excitement. Just to see them all again, to hug and hold and kiss each of them. Master Winemiller with his stern looks and work ethic. Dame Winemiller with her stories and chatter. She wondered how many more chi
ldren they had adopted since she’d been gone.
“Tell them the truth,” Shion replied enigmatically. He gazed down at her, his eyes deep with meaning, full of wisdom, sorrow, and depthless compassion. “Tell them I’m your husband.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I hope you enjoyed the final book of the Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy. When I was a child, I had a favorite book on Greek mythology. This was long before Percy Jackson. One of the stories that haunted me was the story of Orpheus, who lost his wife on the day of his wedding after she was chased by a satyr and bitten by a snake. Orpheus then charmed his way into Tartarus through his music and the power of his voice, and he begged Hades to release his wife’s spirit. His music was so powerful that the god relented and told him to return to the mortal world and that her spirit would follow him. But if he looked back, she would be lost to him forever. I learned later, doing research for the Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy, that Orpheus’s wife was actually a Dryad named Eurydice. This theme of love and losing it prematurely is also in one of my all-time favorite movies, Somewhere in Time. I love the music from that film.
While I was writing this book, I was given a wonderful gift from a reader who is part of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir staff. She sent me a CD from the Bryn Terfel album, Homeward Bound. As I was enjoying the CD during my commute one day, it came to the last song on the album, a duet between Bryn Terfel and Sissel called “Give Me My Song.” As the music began and the melody swept through my car, I was stunned by the lyrics as well as the voices singing the duet. Everything about the song reminded me of Shion and Phae, including the words. It was one of the most haunting melodies I’d ever heard. So, if you want to know what the song in Tyrus’s locket sounds like, I suggest a visit to iTunes.