Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “You may carry the Sword,” Kiranrao warned, “but you will have no idea what direction to go or how to make it back to us.”

  “It may not be easy to find, but flying above the land would be easier to spot this chasm than the way we came. Or if Tyrus gave me the Tay al-Ard, that would change the situation as well. Do you want to go, Kiranrao? I think you would fit right in to a colony with leprosaria. It would only improve your good looks.”

  “Enough,” Tyrus said, glaring at Paedrin. “Annon?”

  The Druidecht swallowed and struggled with his feelings. They had been deceived so many times by the Arch-Rike along the way that he found the past biasing his feelings. Like Hettie, he assumed there would be a trap as well. He was also uncertain whether to trust the nature of the spirit creatures in this realm. Were they obeying the Empress out of respect or compulsion?

  “I’m struggling,” Annon confessed. “My heart wants to believe him, but we have been fooled so many times. Even the Thirteen were betrayed by one of their own because of the Arch-Rike.”

  “We all see that, Annon. What does Nizeera think? She is wise to the ways of mortals.”

  Annon had not thought about that. He reached over and stroked her head.

  Tyrus is considerate. There are some spirit-kind in Mirrowen that are not trustworthy. Those that are not are banished to this world. He does not reek of spirit magic. He reeks of death. I believe him.

  Annon smiled at her, grateful for her presence. He turned to the others. “She trusts him. As do I. If you want, I’ll go with you to see the Empress. I’m a Druidecht and have been taught that we are welcome in these lands of all the races and people. But we should all go together. Let’s face this Empress with all of our knowledge and skills. If it’s a trick, she’ll regret deceiving us.”

  There was a subtle shift in the mood. Annon could see the others considering his words. He stared down at the ground again, absently stroking Nizeera’s fur.

  “Baylen?”

  The Cruithne rubbed his bottom lip. “She sent one of your best friends to try to win your trust quickly. She sent her own husband, if what he said is true. I think we should hear what she has to say. But let’s be clear. It’s very likely we’ll be fighting our way out of there. Though I’m frankly not afraid of facing men whose arms fall off.”

  Paedrin let out a loud chuckle. “I was thinking that very thing. Do we go together, Tyrus? I would vote for leaving Kiranrao behind.”

  Kiranrao gave Paedrin a withering look, but he said nothing. He looked at Tyrus, slowly shaking his head no.

  “Shion?” Tyrus asked, turning to the quiet man sitting next to Phae.

  “The Boeotians have always been enemies of Kenatos,” he said simply. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Well said. Phae?”

  “Does my opinion matter?” she asked.

  “It does to me, Daughter. What do you think?”

  She nodded firmly. “We should go.”

  “We know little of the Empress of Boeotia. No spies have been able to penetrate her domain. All embassies sent to treat with her have been savagely killed and grotesquely displayed on spear tips. They are at war with our society and civilization. They are, I think, the antithesis of what Kenatos was founded to become. And if Kenatos eventually succumbs to the midden heap of history, the Empress will rue her victory.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  VII

  As the magic of the Tay al-Ard whipped them away, Paedrin’s stomach churned with excitement as well as nausea. They arrived, moments later, and he searched the surroundings immediately, prepared for action, knowing the device would not be able to transport them again until it had regained its powers. They were in a chasm of some sort, in the shadows of a deep ravine with a thin river of light far above. The rock faces were crimson and orange, like fire, and the chasm was wide enough and deep enough to give him the sensation of being very deep inside a pit.

  Paedrin inhaled and prepared to rise above, but Tyrus grabbed his arm and shook his head sternly. Instead, the Bhikhu gripped the hilt of the Sword of Winds tightly, searching for the sign of attackers or those who meant them harm. What he saw and smelled he could describe as a graveyard. Bile rose inside his throat.

  “Don’t rush off without me,” Hettie whispered in his ear. He glanced at her confident expression, but he could also see the dread and loathing converging in her countenance.

  The shadows were thick but they contained movement. The dead were walking.

  “We are here,” Mathon announced gruffly. “The colonies do not have names. There are seven in total, mostly zigzagging through these canyons. They are the only permanent dwellings in Boeotia. Remember—leprosaria is not transmitted person to person. Only exposure to the spores from the mushrooms will infect someone with the disease. This way. These people are crippled and harmless. They are merely curious about you.”

  Mathon began to shuffle toward one of the rock walls looming overhead. Paedrin craned his neck, staring up at the vast heights of stone wall, as deep and impenetrable as any fortress. He saw several ragged Boeotians staring at him. Some were missing limbs. One man was missing his nose, and the ragged features turned Paedrin’s stomach. They muttered among themselves in a guttural language he did not understand. Khiara’s expression was full of compassion as she gazed from side to side at the suffering people. Aran’s attention was singularly focused on Tyrus while Baylen looked queasy at the various mutilated denizens. Kiranrao’s look was full of open contempt and loathing, his brooding gaze enough of a warning to prevent anyone from approaching.

  Hettie kept by Paedrin’s side. “Stop baiting Kiranrao,” she whispered to him.

  “This is an interesting moment to begin lecturing me,” Paedrin replied. “Stay focused and attentive. We do not know what we are facing here.”

  “As if every other man among us isn’t ready to start spilling blood. We won’t be taken by surprise, Paedrin. Not when we’re all expecting a threat. I just wanted to warn you . . . something isn’t right with Kiranrao. He isn’t acting as he normally does. The loss of his fortune in Havenrook has unbalanced him.”

  “He was never balanced, Hettie.”

  “True. But you are not helping things. Your insults provoke him. A man who has lost everything is no longer reasonable. Please . . . stay away from him. Stay clear of him.”

  He gave her a piercing look. “Why?”

  Her pause was poignant, her look intense. “Because of what he may do if provoked too far.”

  “This way,” Mathon called, his voice pained.

  Paedrin sighed. “I will try. I have no sympathy for his situation.”

  “I’m not asking you to show him sympathy. Just don’t let your tongue cut your throat.”

  Paedrin nodded, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and he could see the network of caves at the base of the chasm. Some were hollowed out, broken up by picks and hammers, but most seemed a natural interworking maze of warrens. The half-dead victims of leprosaria were everywhere. Small tents and shelters dotted the bleakness, covered in dust so that they looked almost like carved rocks themselves. Paedrin counted at least fifty afflicted with the disease along their walk to the rock wall, and he could not see far enough to judge how many tributaries of the caves went deeper. There were small pools of sluggish water, revealing how the population survived. It seemed to be the remnant of an ancient river, long spent.

  “Why did we arrive in the middle of the ravine?” Tyrus asked Mathon, slowing his stride to keep up with his friend.

  “To give the Empress time to prepare for our arrival. I left three days ago and agreed that if you came with me, I would have us appear where we did. Some were posted to watch for us, who are now running ahead to warn her of our arrival.”

  “I don’t want to meet her in the caves,” Tyrus said. “It gives her all th
e advantage. She should come out to us.”

  “She is the Empress, Tyrus. She does what she wills. I can only ask.”

  “Then do ask,” he said.

  As they reached a tunnel opening that was broad and deep, Tyrus stopped and waited. Paedrin and the others clustered around him while Mathon shuffled ahead into the gaping tunnel. The Bhikhu saw small stone urns placed before each tunnel opening. He did not understand the significance. He had expected an immediate attack. So far, Mathon’s words had proven true.

  “Do you sense any spirit magic at work?” Tyrus asked softly to Annon.

  “I do,” Annon answered gravely. He looked up at the tall walls. “The feeling is thicker than in Canton Vaud, but not in the same way. With the Druidecht, the spirits are generally very friendly, asking what they could do to help. These are . . . strangely . . . rather conceited. A few have brushed against my mind, but they are seeking information. Not a way to help. There is something . . . troubling the air. Like the smell of smoke from a distant fire. I don’t care for it.”

  Paedrin craned his neck again, unable to see the spirits that Annon always seemed to be communing with. He squished his sandaled foot into the dirt and watched it puff with dust. The smell of death lingered in the air, reminding him of the Bhikhu temple after it was poisoned. Memories could be torturous sometimes. He recalled the face of Master Shivu, wasting away.

  The sound of arrivals from the tunnel mouth announced the visitors. Paedrin could hear voices low in conversation, one of whose was a woman’s. He was not sure what to expect, but he braced himself. Not in one of those hundred times he had perched atop the Bhikhu temple in Kenatos and stared out at the lake would he have dared imagine he would one day face the Empress of Boeotia within her own homeland. It was so absurd it nearly made him laugh outright.

  Nor was he expecting the Empress of Boeotia to seem so plain.

  She was simply garbed in layers of dusty desert clothing, rugged boots, and a long, jeweled necklace around her neck with a Druidecht talisman in it. Her hair was dark brown with streaks of gold and gray showing the harshness of the environment as well as her age. She was slender but not in a vulnerable way and had a body hardened to the elements and the rugged country in which she lived. She could have passed for Aeduan except for the purple tattoos marking one side of her face. In the shadows, it was difficult to tell if her eyes were green or gray, but she had a smile that, when it appeared, was her most distinctive feature. She was holding hands with Mathon as they appeared up some steps from deeper inside the tunnel.

  “You came,” the Empress said, giving Tyrus a dazzling smile.

  “You suspected I would,” he replied, bowing his head deferentially. “Your bait was enticing.”

  “You expected a hook or the strands of a spiderweb here, Tyrus Paracelsus? I suppose that makes sense, but you have a reputation for treachery yourself. But I show my trust by bringing you here, knowing you have a Tay al-Ard. Well met, sir. My name is Larei. I am the seventy-second Empress of Boeotia. I am known by the people by a title instead of my name. As you can see, I am unarmed, though I do have many spirit artifacts that protect me. I am especially immune to fire. My demons affirm that four of you possess the fireblood. That is quite a collection, Tyrus. In your last foray into the Scourgelands, only two possessed it.”

  “You said you had information,” Tyrus pressed.

  “In due time,” she replied, smiling again. “You are wary, which is what anyone would expect in such a situation. I assure you that no one here will attack you without express permission. Few of the many abandoned here are even capable of it. This is a place for the dying to die honorably and with grace. I tend them as best as I can alongside my husband.” She beamed when she said this, her grip on Mathon’s hand tightening. A shiver of revulsion went through Paedrin.

  “I will not be delayed in my quest,” Tyrus said. “The Druidecht of Canton Vaud attempted to waylay me. The Arch-Rike himself seeks my death—”

  “I care nothing for that,” she interrupted. “What I have to tell you, I am not going to speak in front of so many witnesses. I have gathered food and supplies for your journey. Fresh water in abundance to satisfy your thirst. And camels if you desire to use them. You will find none of this throughout my kingdom without great labor. My help will hasten your journey, not slow it down. Pick two whom you trust the most. They will join our interview. The rest can be near enough to see us as we speak, and you can determine whom to share information with at your discretion.”

  “Only two?” Tyrus asked.

  “I do not debate or negotiate, Tyrus. I have been taught by the wisest minds in all the arts of rhetoric, logic, and persuasion. Believe me when I say that I have thought this through. Join us below when you are ready, or not at all.” She turned and started back down the passageway.

  Annon watched as the Empress and Mathon descended the carved steps of the tunnel entrance. He was awed at the aura of power that exuded from her, not from a weapon or an item she carried, but from the pure iron will she possessed—it felt as immovable as a mountain. Her face was pretty, if weather-beaten, and she had clearly aged well and lived a healthy lifestyle. But her exterior was a mask for a fiercely independent will. He hoped that someday he would possess such an attribute. She was stronger than any of the Thirteen he encountered.

  As he stared up at the jagged, massive cliff face, it reminded him of the horrors they had faced at Basilides. He felt Nizeera tense by his leg.

  I sense spirit beings inside the tunnels. They are aware of me. They are more ancient than I am. They bid me not interfere in this test.

  Annon’s skin crawled. A pit of dread opened up inside him. Should he warn Tyrus? Is it a trap?

  Not in the way you think. It is a test.

  Tyrus took a few deep breaths, glancing from side to side. “Annon. Phae. With me. The rest will follow behind. Be ready.”

  There was a collective intake of breath, Annon included. He had not suspected for a moment that Tyrus would choose him. A surge of gratitude thrummed, but he still thought Tyrus was making a mistake. Nearly any of the others would have been better suited.

  Without brooking comment from anyone, Tyrus descended into the tunnels. Annon and Phae, glancing in shock at each other, followed behind. He felt the presence of Nizeera withdraw, as if something veiled her mind from his. He swallowed in a panic.

  “Tyrus,” he said, catching up. “There is something—”

  “Say it quickly,” Tyrus interrupted. His face looked intense and worried. “She’s testing me. I need my wits at this moment. If you have something to aid my thinking, then do so, but do not trouble me about my decision.”

  “Nizeera can’t interfere,” Annon said. “There are spirits here that are older than her. Ancient spirits, probably banished from Mirrowen. I sense them, but they have not spoken to me.”

  “Thank you,” Tyrus said. “That was useful. If you have any thought as to the nature of these spirits, you need to let me know. I chose you to accompany me because of your Druidecht lore and because you know my full plan. If I don’t make it out of here alive, then you need to continue.” The way he so casually talked about his own death made Annon tremble inside. “Phae, your abilities may also be called upon. Be ready. This is like playing a game where our deaths are the stakes and we don’t know any of the rules. I apologize if I’m curt. I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

  “What do you want me to do, Father?” Phae asked.

  “Nothing yet. Just be ready. I want you close to me.”

  The tunnels were lit by illuminated rock crystals with small oil lamps set inside them. The tunnels had a jagged nature with crevices of varying heights and depths, causing the light to spread at inconsistent intervals and conceal what lay ahead. The path was not straight but wound downward until it reached a vast chamber, the main living yard of those with the leprosaria curse. Annon could see i
t organized into kitchens, cesspits, and useful labor such as blacksmithing, tanning, and carving. Side tunnels branched off, revealing a honeycomb lattice of interweaving connections.

  The Empress walked directly ahead of them, still holding Mathon’s hand. “Each colony is organized much like a hive of bees,” she said, drawing their attention with her clear, cheerful voice. “Each worker has a duty to perform. Some gather food. Some defend. We keep our waste separate. Have you noticed that among the cultures of lizards and ants and other creatures that dwell harmoniously together? My ancestors studied their habits and saw with remarkable precision how each breed handled their societies in similar manners. In a way, we have truly gone back to our roots. We thrive when we work cooperatively. Each does his or her part. It takes many bees to make a few drops of honey. Added together, however, and the comb is thick with it.”

  “Indeed,” Tyrus replied with a neutral tone.

  Annon surveyed the Boeotians staring at them, saw the blistering skin and rashes. Everyone he could see was afflicted with it. Some had lost the ability to even walk. It was a cruel fate to be sure. He wanted to cover his mouth to avoid breathing the air but recognized such an act would be insulting.

  The Empress took them to a fire pit with logs blazing with assorted blankets and cushions. “Your friends may stay here. We will meet over there, by that stone. Within sight of each other, as I said. Agreed?”

  Tyrus nodded, and Annon and Phae joined the Empress and Mathon at the base of a rugged boulder. There were markings on it—a face, actually. Annon stared at it, for the face had been worn nearly smooth. The nose had been chiseled off, it seemed. Strange runes adorned it. He felt his heart fill with warning as they approached. He touched Tyrus’s wrist and nodded to the stone. He did not get a verbal response, but Tyrus did blink once before sitting down.