Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Shion! she screamed at him in her mind.

  She heard Prince Aransetis’s voice, muffled. “She’s still alive. But you must appear to mourn her. She clutches a stone, the same one Tyrus used to deceive you. Her spirit is trapped inside it. When we leave this place, Tyrus will revive her. Courage, friend. Courage.”

  Shion’s shuddering breath resounded through the sob. “Truly?” he gasped.

  “It’s part of Tyrus’s plan. Stay. I’m to tell the others. Hold her close. We leave by Tay al-Ard.”

  Phae could hear as Prince Aran left. She did not hear what happened to the others. Instead, she could hear Shion’s breathing begin to calm. The disorienting feeling came again. The stone moved. She felt the lurch and swirl of the world and it dizzied her.

  “Are you . . . are you truly alive?” Shion whispered to the stone.

  Yes, I am! I want so much to tell you—if only I could speak. She wished she could relieve his suffering. She yearned for a voice to assure him. It made her suffer seeing him suffer so much. It was a shared torment.

  All was quiet. “They come,” he said, his voice deadening, shrouded again with the mournful sound of a sorrowing soul.

  “Vitess Morain.” The words were Vaettir-born, but spoken by Tyrus.

  Annon stared at Phae’s ashen face. Suddenly, her skin began to flush with color and she began to breathe. Hope surged inside him, lifting him from the despair. They crowded around her as her eyes fluttered open.

  “Amazing,” Annon whispered, covering his mouth. Phae winced, suddenly aware of the pain through her body. The cut on her head began to drip small beads of blood. She looked up at each of them, wrinkling her nose, but when her eyes finally locked on Shion’s, she rose up and hugged him, burying her face shyly against his chest.

  Annon’s heart burned inside him, soothing the pain from his slashed face. His hands were throbbing. He dared not look at them for fear of what he would see. They had survived the ordeal. Somehow, they had survived it, but not without its victims.

  Hettie stifled her own tears and turned away from the scene, her eyes glistening with pain, her expression contorted with the rush of emotions. Annon went and slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, holding her close.

  Hettie shook her head sadly, brushing the tears angrily from her eyes. “The fool,” she stammered, her bravado masking her worry. “The pigheaded fool. Paedrin, you really have sheep-brains.”

  Annon wanted to chuckle, but another part of him wanted to sob. “My heart hurts right now. I’m not sure what to feel.”

  He glanced over at Prince Aransetis, who knelt alone, stone-faced, his mouth curled down in a dark frown. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, uttering a Vaettir prayer under his breath. Tyrus stood solemnly, patting Aran’s shoulder, his gaze brooding but controlled. The half-wild look in his eyes was gone. He turned to Annon and motioned for him to approach.

  Annon studied the woods, seeing the weave of trees around them. There were strange skeletal oaks, stripped of leaves and mistletoe, blackened and stubby. All around was gorse. They were standing thick in it, vibrant and colorful. The air smelled fresh and clean. Farther away, surrounding them on all sides, were more vast, shaggy oaks, like gnarled sentinels all around.

  “What is this place?” Annon asked, his voice hoarse. “Are we still in the Scourgelands?”

  Tyrus nodded gravely. “This is the place . . . this is where your mother, Merinda Druidecht, went mad saving me from the Weir.” He raised his arm and swept it across the grove. “She burned everything to ash all around here. Look how it is grown and revived. Fire renews a forest over time.” He dropped his arm and sighed deeply.

  “Was this all part of your plan?” Annon asked, feeling conflicting emotions competing inside of him. He wasn’t sure what he should be feeling.

  “I had not meant . . . for Khiara to die,” Tyrus said heavily. A flash of dark emotions rippled in his eyes, but his iron will contained it. “That was unexpected. I thought Baylen would have lasted longer as well, but no man faces a Fear Liath unscathed. I could not predict how Kiranrao would react in every situation.” He pursed his lips, still trying to master himself. “I expected he would try to kill me or Phae. That left Khiara unprotected.” He sighed. “Gather round me. Let me explain.”

  Tyrus knelt in the gorse by Phae and Shion and motioned for Annon, Hettie, and Prince Aran to join them. He had a pained look on his face, but not the anger or madness he had shown earlier. “My heart is heavy,” he admitted. “I’m disappointed in Paedrin’s choice. I’m not surprised, but it pains me. However, it serves a deeper purpose.”

  “What purpose?” Hettie demanded, her look fierce.

  “I will say what I need to say. You won’t like it, but it’s the truth.” He gazed at each of them, his eyes meeting each in turn. “I did not fully disclose all of my plan to anyone. It is no secret that is known to three. I’ve deliberately held back pieces from each of you. Don’t expect me now to share it all either. I will say what I can. Hettie—you warned me that Kiranrao had asked you to steal the Tay al-Ard. You were part of the deception, making him think that you had stolen it. I was trying to force his move. A problem facing the dangers of the Scourgelands is that our enemies can overpower us when we stay together. The Arch-Rike marshals them against us, using the forces at his disposal to kill us and weaken us. When I learned about the blade Iddawc, and understood that its power would even kill spirit creatures, I recognized it would be a potent counterspell.”

  He breathed out deeply, caressing the green fronds growing near his lap. “Kiranrao’s purpose in coming with us was to be set loose inside the Scourgelands, to help draw away from us some of the Arch-Rike’s minions. His magic attracts the notice of the spirit creatures here as if he were holding a firebrand while walking in the dark. My plan was to bring him deep into the Scourgelands and convince him that our mission failed, for I knew he would abandon us as soon as he saw the right opportunity. I even gave Annon a way to summon the device in case Kiranrao did manage to steal it from us. That was part of my plan.”

  Annon stared at him in shock. He shook his head, amazed. “You’ve been provoking him deliberately? When you had Prince Aran . . .”

  “Precisely,” Tyrus said. “In order to be convincing, I needed to appear that my judgment was flawed. That I was doomed to repeat the same mistakes of the past. Only Aransetis knew my ruse. My goal was to trick Kiranrao into believing we would fail. It appears I also convinced some of you. And Paedrin too. Let me be clear. My motives are what they have always been. I’ve employed subtlety and deceit to further my aims, but I do intend to carry on this quest to the end. Losing Kiranrao with the blade inside the Scourgelands was part of my design from the beginning. He will draw many of the defenses after him and hopefully that means fewer will face us. But deceiving a master deceiver isn’t easy. He needed to believe, from looking at all of your faces, that you also thought I was out of control. I apologize for the deception. Now you know its intent.”

  Hettie screwed up her face. “That comes with little solace, Uncle. You’ve managed to leave Paedrin alone in the woods too.”

  Tyrus looked at her shrewdly. “I did not know he would chase off after him like that. I admit that he surprised me. We cannot always predict what others will choose to do. He failed to trust me. If there is a way I can bring him back, I will. Let me think on it. We all need some rest. When the night comes, we will pursue our destination again.”

  “Now that there are fewer of us, can the Tay al-Ard be used more frequently?” Annon asked.

  Tyrus nodded, smiling. “Another benefit of my deception. Now that we have lost Kiranrao from among us, we can speak more freely. One of the things we need to do next is understand where the Mother Tree is in this forest. I have my suspicions, but I believe Phae can lead us there more quickly. I’ve deliberately had you avoid speaking to the Dryad trees, for I beli
eve that the Arch-Rike is connected to their minds. It’s a risk, but one we may need to take to get to our destination faster. We will mourn those we’ve lost. We will rest a little while and tend to our injuries. We cannot stay here for long.”

  Annon stared at Tyrus, not sure what he should feel about the situation. His heart ached for those they had lost, yet he knew the risks had been great from the beginning. Hettie’s face showed a frown of bitterness, but she was skilled herself at duplicity. Phae stared at her father sadly and said nothing.

  Tyrus rose, his presence looming over them. His voice fell soft. “There is one more thing I must confess.” He looked at Annon and Hettie gravely.

  Annon stared at him. Hettie grabbed Annon’s forearm, her look unsettled.

  “I may have overused the fireblood already. Since we entered the woods, I’ve been haunted by a shade. The shade of your mother, Merinda. I’ve seen her several times already, including at the Fear Liath’s lair. She was pointing to the stone hidden in the tree. I heard her whisper your name, Annon.”

  A shiver went down Annon’s back. “Maybe you aren’t mad, Tyrus. I heard it too.”

  “We are reinforced by the King of Wayland. The Arch-Rike’s defenses within the city are formidable. Without ships, the soldiers are arriving somehow. It is some arcane power from the Paracelsus Towers that allows this. The fighting in the streets continues. The gutters overflow with blood.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XXIII

  Phae watched her father blanch at Annon’s words. He shook his head as if dizzied by the news. “I don’t know what this means. Does she watch over us? Is this a trap? Have we all gone mad?” He coughed roughly against his forearm, then shook his head with consternation. “Let me puzzle this through. We should tend to our injuries while we can. Hettie . . . I must rely on your healing skills.”

  “I will do what I can,” she said, scrunching up her face. “I can make a salve that will draw out poison. I have some needles and thread for more serious wounds.”

  “Work quickly,” Tyrus said, smiling gratefully. “I don’t know how long we can rest before the Weir find us again.”

  “I can also help,” Shion said. “I’ve been trained.” He gripped Phae’s shoulder and nodded toward her blood-soaked sleeve.

  “I will stand guard,” Prince Aransetis said. “Even I must grieve. In my own way.” His dark eyes hardened, his jaw clenching with buried anger. He stalked away from the little grove a short distance and began to pace the perimeter, gazing into the dark woods as he made the circuit.

  As Shion knelt before her, Phae watched the daylight glint in his hair. She was awash in surging and conflicting emotions. He had thrown himself against the Fear Liath over and over, even though no weapon or blow could injure it, yet he hadn’t quit in his efforts to protect her. He had shoved her feet to help her climb the branch. He had been tossed aside multiple times, but returned persistently, trying to draw the beast’s attention away.

  But she was unsettled. As her spirit had been trapped inside the stone, she had heard his mourning, and his words had ripped open feelings inside her that she had just begun to suspect she possessed. Her heart wrenched with powerful emotions when he had whispered to her, and she had no idea how to handle them. My darling. My love.

  What did he mean by them? Why did they awaken in her such tenderness? She had cared about him before. She realized her feelings had moved further.

  Shion examined the torn sleeve, looking at the wound. His lips pursed and he muttered under his breath. Taking out his water flask, he uncorked it and slit some of his own cloak to form a cloth, which he soaked and began washing the wound. It stung and she gritted her teeth. The wound was dirty and could get infected, so she bit her tongue and endured the pain, studying his face as he worked.

  She noticed that he refused to meet her gaze. It wasn’t the companionable silence that she was used to with him. He was brooding. It amazed her that she could interpret his mood, that she could almost see the feelings whirling inside him.

  He soaked the cloth, wrung it out, and then began dabbing at her forehead. She flinched with pain, but he continued to wipe away the blood on her face. Memories flashed in her mind, of a meadow in Stonehollow, where he had chased her down and then tended to her as well. Was he even the same man? Back then, his look was dark and violent, mercurial between savage instinct and compassion. While she still saw a remnant of the killer, what struck her more was his humanity, his reluctance to cause her pain yet desire to restore her again.

  “There’s blood on your neck,” he said next. “Those winged beasts clawed at your scalp too. Let me part your hair.”

  She nodded mutely, feeling her throat swelling with gratitude for how tender he was being. The Dryad in the tree had warned her about him. Was he truly a man who murdered Dryads? She didn’t think so. The Arch-Rike used doubt as his deadliest weapon. Shion was not random in his violence or mean-spirited. He was ruthless, but not savage. She felt his fingers delicately part her leaf-strewn, clotted hair and wished there was a pond or a stream. But there was none. His touch was featherlight as he pressed the sopping rag against the forming scabs on her head. He picked away some of the leaf debris and scattered the fragments.

  She could not see his hands, but she could feel the heat coming from his body, and it made her shiver. His shirt was in tatters again, his cloak clawed through. But he was unharmed.

  Meticulously, he bathed her wounds with water and patted them dry. Hettie finished mixing an herbal concoction and brought some of the salve for Shion to apply. It was pasty and smelled fragrant. He dipped his fingers into the mixture and gently applied it to her many cuts.

  “It smells nice,” she murmured.

  Shion nodded, saying nothing.

  When he came back to tend her wounded arm, he slit some of the sleeve to open wider and applied generous dabs of the salve. It caused a little warm tingle on her skin, but no pain. After smearing the wound over, he cut another long strip from his cloak with his dagger and bound her arm several times to protect it.

  As he worked, she stared at the claw marks on his face. Someone had tended those wounds—had stitched them closed and applied salve. How long ago had it been? Were they tokens of violence he received from the Scourgelands? It seemed so. The dreadful place conjured many possibilities.

  With precise hands, he dabbed salve on the crown of her head, parting her tresses to reveal the skin of her scalp once more. She felt his breath on her neck and blinked, trying to subdue the conflicting emotions churning inside of her.

  He finished the ministrations, brushing his hands together briskly to remove the doughy salve.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  He shrugged, sitting down across from her, clasping his wrist over his knees. He would not look at her.

  The painful mix of feelings prodded at her. She could not pretend she did not know. More importantly, she felt she needed to understand what they implied.

  “Shion,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Hettie was still deeply involved in tending Annon’s wounds, stitching the cuts on his face. His hands were coated with the salve. Tyrus sat farther away, eyes closed as if in a trance. Prince Aran was farther still, wandering the edge of the grove.

  Shion’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity.

  “You’ve been quiet,” she said timidly, trying to find the courage to broach a tender subject. “More than usual,” she clarified. “What’s troubling you?”

  He shook his head, his expression darkening with discomfort. She swallowed, trying to overcome her hesitation, and then reached out and touched his hand.

  “You need to understand,” she said, keeping her voice very low, “that while my spirit was trapped in the stone, I could hear . . . I could hear and sense everything around me.” She bit her lip. “I heard you, Shion.”

  She felt a sm
all quivering in his wrist. His gaze lifted, his deep blue eyes finding hers. She was a little startled by the depth of emotion pooling there.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered breathlessly. “I didn’t know that.”

  She shook her head. “You have nothing to feel sorry for.” She swallowed again. “This is difficult to say. I don’t know how you came to feel those things for me, but it is soon . . . my heart is . . . conflicted.”

  A self-mocking frown tugged at his mouth. “Don’t . . .” He seemed at a loss. He shook his head. “I don’t, for even a moment, expect you to reciprocate my . . . my sentiments in any degree.” He looked at her, his eyes burning with a surge of emotions. “I know what I am. I harbor no illusions. I expect nothing from you. I admire your courage in coming to this place. If I can protect you, in any way, I will. If you bid me take you back to Stonehollow, I will.” His lower lip trembled. “It pains me to see you hurt.”

  His words calmed her deepest fears and she was grateful she had found the will to speak to him, even when the topic pained them both. “I’m not saying that I couldn’t feel . . .”

  He lifted his hand warningly, breaking her touch. “No. Say nothing. I will never speak of it to you.”

  She frowned, feeling the discomfort bubbling up again. “But we must, Shion.”

  “No good will come of it. I am a monster. For some reason, I have immunity to the evils of this place. But I am a monster still, like the beasts we have faced here. Somehow . . . somehow you’ve tamed me. But I feel it writhing inside of me, a terrible darkness that I’m afraid will be revealed.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t think . . . I don’t think I want my memories back now.” He shuddered.

  Phae realized she was shivering. Her eyes flicked with tears. “Whatever they are, we will face them together.”

  “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “I dare not. I don’t want to hurt you.”