Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  One last time, Annon turned and stared at Nizeera’s crumpled form, his soul grieving with the loss. Tears burned his eyes, blurring the image. He felt someone’s hand grip his cloak. Someone patted his arm. Annon hung his head, knowing he was bereft of protection now.

  With a whirl, the magic of the Tay al-Ard wrenched them away from the danger approaching in the waters.

  “We are thunderstruck by the size of the Boeotian army. They have claimed the quays on the northwest edge of the lake and have begun to set up a siege of some kind. What they hope to accomplish is entirely uncertain. Strange tents made of animal hides surround the shores. The Bhikhu from Silvandom began to arrive immediately, but it will take some time to gather them in from the vast woodland realm they have protected. The citizenry are fearful but brave. We have faced these threats many times in the past.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XVIII

  It took several moments for Phae to gather her senses after the Tay al-Ard spilled them back to the earth. The night was deep and foreboding, thick with clinging shadows. The hulking massive trees formed wedges to box them in, offering only a little bit of light, faint silver threads from a waning moon.

  “Where are we?” Kiranrao demanded.

  “Be silent!” Tyrus snarled at the Romani. He shook off their grasping hands and strode a few paces away, before whirling and facing them again. His face was nearly lost in shadows, but Phae could sense the tumultuous anger seething from his cowl. His hands glowed faintly, and she could tell it was taking great effort to rein in his fury.

  The trauma from the Weir attack still raged in her heart. Despite all her imaginings, they were more terrifying than she had supposed. Thickset yet fast as quicksilver, cunningly intelligent and near invisible until they launched to tear your throat out. She shuddered at the memory, feeling her hands tingle with the fireblood she had summoned to defend herself. As she gazed around at the others, she saw that all were wounded in some manner—except Shion.

  “Our attempt at unity is a complete and total failure,” Tyrus said in a low growl, his voice betraying thick impatience and smoldering venom. “Annon, I nearly left you behind to face that demon in the pond all on your own. The torc drew it right to us and if we had not fled, probably half of us would have died back there.”

  Annon looked ashamed. “I could not hear, Tyrus. I was half-drowned—”

  “I knew it was risky bringing you with us,” he interrupted savagely. “If Nizeera hadn’t died for you, you would have fallen for certain. You must fight, Annon! You must use your wits and your will. These are not human creations, with feelings and hesitancy. They are beasts born of ancient magic, and they are hunters. They are hunting us even now. You should have come when I called you!”

  Phae quailed at the tone of her father’s voice and she saw Annon’s shoulder slump with dejection. She had never seen Tyrus this angry, this uncontrolled. Fear flooded inside her, witnessing this darker side of her father.

  Tyrus took a step closer, his finger firmly pointing at Annon’s chest, as if it were some spear ready to impale him. “The next time I will leave you behind. We don’t have time for weakness.”

  Annon bowed his head, shuddering but silent. He nodded submissively.

  Tyrus turned his fury on Hettie next. “And what was your excuse, Hettie? I warned you all we face certain death in this place. You left the circle to save him. I thought you were wiser than that.”

  Hettie would not take the chiding quietly. Her chin lifted, her eyes blazing in the dark. “He couldn’t hear you, Tyrus. You feared he was lost in the fireblood, but he wasn’t. He just couldn’t hear!”

  “That’s his excuse. What is yours? Come, a pithy Romani proverb would be perfect.”

  Hettie took a step forward. “He’s my brother. What better excuse is there? I don’t regret it.”

  “Weak,” Tyrus said coldly. “Pathetic. Look at us. Bleeding. Poisoned by the dust of those beasts. But if we do not act as one, if we do not fight under orders, this land will rip us apart, one by one. Only the strongest will survive.”

  Phae knew he was going to rip into her as well and she shrank thinking of the lashing she’d get. Her knees started to tremble uncontrollably. Her mouth was as dry as the deserts of Boeotia. She would be a slave for a drink of water. Her insides were full of twisting worms, and she nearly flinched when he barked at her next.

  “You, Phae, are the linchpin. You are the key we cannot lose. I know you feared I would leave them behind, but you knew . . . yes, you knew that I could not leave you behind. That makes your betrayal even worse than the others. You cannot do that again. You must stay near Shion and myself. We must all be willing to give our lives to protect you, because without you, we cannot succeed. Even if we all die, you must be willing to go on. There is no other choice. There is no other way. There is no other hope. You must obey me, child. We risk all because of you.”

  His anger was exhausting itself. The blue glow around his tense fingers dimmed. He shook his head, as if waking from a reverie.

  The tone of his voice was less hurtful, less raw. “Khiara—tend to their wounds. We will not rest for long. Sleep if you can. Shion—guard the perimeter.”

  After rolling up his sleeve, Annon saw the leeches sticking to the flesh of his arm. Their slimy black bodies were wriggling as they feasted on his blood. Hettie grunted in disgust and summoned the fireblood to her fingers and began plucking them off his arm, their bodies smoking and writhing as she pried them away. Annon clenched his teeth, struggling through the pain.

  “On your neck as well,” Paedrin said, bending close. “Ugly little pustules.” He pinched away several and cast them aside. “You went face-first into that water, Annon. Hopefully there aren’t any inside you.”

  “That’s disgusting, Paedrin,” Hettie chided.

  He dropped into a low crouch, showing his vast flexibility. “I’m glad Tyrus didn’t chide me as well. I may not have controlled my temper so well.”

  Hettie swore under her breath. “How could he say those things?” she muttered darkly. “It was unfair.”

  “But it was true,” Paedrin quipped.

  “You’re saying we should have left Annon to die?” She was incensed.

  Annon looked back at the Bhikhu. His heart was still raw with pain from losing Nizeera. A blast of white-hot heat went through him, but Paedrin held up his hands placatingly.

  “I’m not saying that at all. Look how quickly we turn on each other. This doesn’t bode well. I made a statement of fact. I didn’t say that I agreed with it. See how complex the Uddhava is? There are too many actions, each causing other actions and reactions. I’m not sure Tyrus would have abandoned you, Annon. He may have been testing us to see if we’d obey him, and we failed.”

  “Testing us?” Hettie asked.

  “Why not? We’re in a difficult situation. Tension is high right now. We’re wounded, frightened, and threatened. How we would normally act under normal situations is suddenly off. Tyrus needs to see how we’ll react to this new reality. At least, that’s my conclusion. He’s using the Uddhava. By scolding us, he’s trying to shape our future behavior.”

  What Paedrin said made sense to Annon, but there was another, darker motive. A thought that slipped insidiously through his own mind. “There’s another possibility, Paedrin,” Annon whispered in a low voice. The very thought of it made him sick.

  Paedrin rocked forward on his heels. “Yes?”

  “There is a risk when using the fireblood,” Annon said. “If you do not think the words of power that tame it, prior to summoning it, then you can easily lose control of its use. The result is madness.”

  Paedrin scowled at him. “I know that’s been a risk ever since I’ve met you two. Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  Annon stared at him and nodded. “Our mother died using the fireblood to save Tyrus
’s life. His own sister lost her mind as well. Hasn’t he been acting rather strangely since our encounter with the Vecses?”

  “He knows the dangers we’re facing,” Hettie said, her voice guarded. “He also knows the risks of the fireblood better than anyone.”

  “I know that, Hettie. But he does not seem quite himself. We should be cautious.”

  Hettie nodded grimly. Then she gazed at his back and winced. “You’re bleeding profusely. That Weir slit your back into ribbons. It’s still bleeding. Khiara!”

  The Shaliah finished treating Baylen’s wounds and then hurried to them, her face pinched with exhaustion. She examined Annon’s wounds, nodded with empathy, and then put her hand on his shoulder. Her healing magic suffused him. He was always impressed with the keramat, and its effects were instantaneous. Her powers had stopped him from dying at Neodesha’s tree, earning him the boon of learning her name. A rush of warmth and relief descended from his shoulders, going all the way down to his toes. He bowed his head reverently, feeling the grace of her power washing over him in waves. There was a poignant feeling, a wishing for release from the coils of life. Then the emotion passed and he was healed.

  “Thank you, Khiara,” Annon said gratefully. In his mind, he saw Nizeera lying crumpled near the giant tree, tossed aside like refuse. Pain gnawed at his insides, replacing the calm relief with darkness. He clasped his knees, brooding. Glancing up, he saw Tyrus talking with Prince Aran, their heads low in deep conversation. Annon resented the scolding. Before he had been treated as the budding leader of the group. Even now, he wore a ring on his hand that could summon the Tay al-Ard to his fist. Being treated like an errant child was humiliating.

  “Look at your legs, Hettie,” Khiara said. “Let me heal them.” Her gift was repeated twice, restoring Hettie and then Paedrin back to their full strength.

  Khiara rose stiffly, swaying a little, and then walked back to Tyrus. “I am finished.”

  “Good,” he said gruffly. “We go. Gather around.”

  There was no time to rest. Annon felt refreshed, however, his strength restored by Khiara’s miraculous touch. He could not bear to meet Tyrus’s eyes, but he stood firmly and waited for the words that would come.

  “I see where you brought us,” Kiranrao said blandly. “It’s too dark to see far, but there are the boulders over there. It’s the wall. You brought us back to the beginning.”

  “Yes, we will follow it a ways. Then we will plunge deeper into the woods. We need to reach the center.”

  “How do you know that what we seek is in the center?”

  “You’ll have to trust me,” Tyrus replied, his voice suddenly gaining an edge of hostility.

  “Ah,” Kiranrao said. “Back to that concept again. I don’t think you have any idea what we’re looking for or where it is.”

  A cool wind rustled the trees, spilling decayed leaves. Tyrus stood firm, his face directly toward the Romani.

  “Think what you will, Kiranrao.”

  “I do,” he replied. “You’ve managed to bring us in circles so far. Forgive me if I find trusting you a little difficult right now.”

  “A good beginning is half the work?” Tyrus taunted.

  Kiranrao scowled at the use of a Romani proverb. “Be wary, Tyrus. I may grow weary of you.”

  “Everyone who came here serves a purpose,” Tyrus said icily. “I chose everyone with great care. Even you.”

  Kiranrao stiffened. “I serve no man.”

  “I didn’t say that you did. You serve a purpose. You are greedy and you’ve lost your fortune. I helped arrange that, Kiranrao. I wanted you to be very desperate. After losing in gambling, the mind becomes twisted with regret and one cannot see things as they really are. You know this, having been master in Havenrook for so long. You count on it, the ability to trick a man away from his treasure because he’s already lost so much. You’ve played right into my hands.”

  Annon stared at Tyrus, feeling his mouth go dry at the brutal words coming from his mouth. This was not like Tyrus. He had always been so calm and diplomatic. Now that they were inside the lair of the Scourgelands, it was as if he were taking off a mask and revealing his true self—a manipulative, ruthless man seeking power.

  “You chose poorly, revealing yourself at last,” Kiranrao said slyly.

  Tyrus gave a curt nod to Prince Aran.

  The Prince grabbed Kiranrao by the wrist and forced him face-first into the scraggy dirt. The awkward angle of the Romani’s arm, the suddenness of the move, startled everyone. It was a Chin-Na technique and Annon watched in surprise at how quickly Kiranrao was subdued.

  “Have I?” Tyrus said coldly after Kiranrao stiffened in pain, totally unable to move. “You’re discovering that your magic obeys me and not you. I was the one who taught the Paracelsus who crafted it. I know the nature of the spirits trapped inside the sword and they will obey me. You also have a very dangerous blade, the Iddawc. I warn you right now that if you attempt to use it against me, you will fail. Everyone is here for a reason. Prince Aransetis is here to guard me from you. Trust me when I say that I’ve thought out all of your moves, all of your options. You can’t flit away like smoke unless I let you. You cannot draw the blade Iddawc unless I permit it. And while you think you may be fast and can throw the dagger at me, I wear a charm that will send it hurtling back at you with the same force. I cannot be harmed by that blade, Kiranrao. But you can.”

  Tyrus stepped closer to the cringing Romani, his voice full of disdain. He loomed over the Romani like a hawk ready to pounce. “You think the boulders over there are the wall surrounding the perimeter. I’ve told you before, this place is like a maze. There are walls inside as well. If you think you can skulk away into the woods and then flee us, you are quite mistaken. Now that I have you here, you’ll see this through to the end. You see, I need you here. There are some demons here that only you can kill. But we do this on my terms.”

  Annon stared at the unfolding scene with shock as well as frightened appreciation for how well Tyrus had mastered the scene. He stared at the man he once thought was his uncle.

  “Are you agreed?” Tyrus asked thickly, his cheek muscle twitching with barely controlled contempt. His eyes glittered.

  They all stared at the subdued Romani, seeing the murder flash in his eyes. His face was twisted with rage as well as cunning.

  There was the distant cry of a Weir, a piercing whine that deepened the darkness around them. Annon felt a chill and brushed his arms.

  “Yes,” Kiranrao spat.

  “Wise decision,” Tyrus said. “Aran. Show him what you’ve been training to do.”

  The Prince hauled Kiranrao to his feet, but he did not release his grip. Then suddenly, he torqued Kiranrao’s arm the other way and flipped him onto his back. He stepped in, turning again, and the Romani’s back arched with agony, his fingers splayed. The edge of Aran’s hand swept down against the side of Kiranrao’s neck but stopped short of the blow. Then with hooked fingers, he mimicked digging into Kiranrao’s eyes to blind him. With his mouth wide in an unfulfilled scream, the Prince grabbed his bottom teeth and mimicked jerking downward, as if to break his jaw. He swiveled Kiranrao’s wrist again and brought him chest-down on the ground. The Prince landed two soft blows to his kidneys and then stepped on Kiranrao’s back, grabbing the Romani under the chin and pulling backward until the thief’s spine arched dangerously.

  Aran then released the grip on Kiranrao and stepped back, folding his arms, looking imperiously down at the fallen man. “That is what I will do to you if you betray Tyrus.”

  Annon stared at them in fearful amazement, seeing the cold ruthlessness in the Vaettir’s eyes. He had trained his whole life to injure and kill. He was not like a Bhikhu at all.

  The look on Paedrin’s face was a mixture of revulsion and respect. All of the maneuvers that the Prince had put Kiranrao through lasted only brief momen
ts.

  Tyrus’s voice was full of warning. “Prince Aran has trained almost exclusively to disarm bladed weapons. I have seen him fight many times, wrestling his opponents in moments and flinging their weapons away. Even you, Baylen, would find it difficult to use your size advantage against him.”

  “I don’t intend to,” the Cruithne said with a gruff voice.

  “I didn’t think so,” Tyrus replied. He stared down at Kiranrao and then bid him stand. “Pain is a teacher, Kiranrao. Learn from it. I promised you a reward if you were faithful to me. You will earn it. But I humiliate you deliberately to prove that I can and that I have the upper hand in this situation. Think twice before crossing me or challenging me. Now follow. All of you.”

  Tyrus turned and approached the wall of boulders. Annon thought he recognized the spot from when they had reached it earlier that day.

  He wondered why Tyrus had not chosen to cross the barrier then.

  “There is a wise Cruithne proverb that says thus: I need not fear my enemies because the most they can do is attack me. I need not fear my friends because the most they can do is betray me. But I have much to fear from people who are indifferent. Their other kingdoms have not yet risen to our aid. Their indifference to our plight most troubles me.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XIX

  A deep fog settled on the Scourgelands just before dawn. It blocked the first rays of day and wreathed the gorged oak trees in voluminous folds. All night they had walked, save a little while to rest, and Phae felt the chill settle deep into her bones. The mist left dew on her face and hair, and she wiped the trickling beads away from her lip, hunched over with fatigue. Only her fear went deeper than the cold.