Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Father?” she gasped, then realized what he was going to do. He was going to burn the tree. “No!”

  She tried to shove away from Shion, but he held her tightly.

  “Let me go!” she demanded, struggling to free herself. His grip was like iron. He had her wrists and continued to pull her away from the tree. “Shion! No! It’s not her fault!”

  The flames in Tyrus’s hands continued to build brighter as he summoned more and more power into his hands. Waves of heat emanated from his profile.

  “Father, no!” Phae shrieked, twisting and jerking to free herself. Shion clasped her like iron bands, pinning her arms and hoisting her back.

  Tyrus raised his arms and sent the flames blasting into the rocklike trunk.

  Phae heard the scream of torture in her mind. The Dryad’s shriek joined her own and suddenly she was gibbering with madness. No, Sister! No! The memories! He’s burning the memories! No! He’ll kill me! I can’t go back to Mirrowen! I’m trapped on this side! He’ll kill me!

  The thoughts made Phae go wild with despair. She tried kicking Shion, wrenching him, shoving him. He seemed to move with her like water, absorbing her efforts with almost too much ease. He didn’t hurt her, but she was powerless against him. Even her fireblood would not harm him.

  “Shion, please! Please! Don’t let him do this! She can’t escape. He’s murdering her! Please!”

  The flames from Tyrus’s hands burned brighter as he unleashed the raw fury of the fireblood against the Dryad tree. She watched in horror as the bark blackened and began to sizzle and burn, as streamers of fire started to race up the long shaft toward the huge, snake-like limbs.

  “Please, Shion! Please!” Phae pressed her face against his chest, sobbing again. “Please!”

  He’s burning me! He’s burning me! Help me, Sister! I beg you!

  “Attenvost-thas!”

  The words were in the Vaettir-tongue, but it was Annon who uttered them. Suddenly the flames in Tyrus’s hands surged and then vanished, and he collapsed to the ground.

  Annon strode into the grove deliberately and approached the tree. He opened his hands, which also glowed blue, and began drawing the fire from the tree into himself. His face was a mask of determination and Phae wanted to hug him for saving the tree.

  He looked down at Tyrus’s body. “Drag him away,” he ordered.

  Shion released Phae at once and without saying a word, walked over to Tyrus’s body and hoisted him beneath his arms.

  Phae stared at him in shock, trying to understand what was going on.

  “Phae,” Annon said, gripping her shoulder. He gave her a small smile. “Make sure your father is unhurt. You’ve done enough.” He went back to the tree and sat against the trunk, his back to it, and bowed his head. What was he waiting for?

  She hurried after Shion, who had dragged her father’s body back behind the screen of trees. Aran and Hettie were both waiting there, looking unconcerned.

  Tyrus raised his head, looking up at Shion, and nodded.

  Phae began to shake with fury. “What is going on?” she demanded hotly.

  Tyrus rose to his feet, brushing off his hands. He reached to smooth aside some of her hair, but she knocked his hand aside.

  “It is Dryad lore,” Tyrus said softly, ignoring her rude swipe. “I explained it to the others while you were distracting her. If someone threatens a Dryad’s tree, she will do anything she can to defend it. But if a person, especially a man, defends her tree, she owes him a boon. That boon is her Dryad name. With that name, she can be commanded.” He smiled slyly. “Annon is going to collect the boon from her.”

  Phae’s jaw opened. “You weren’t going to hurt her?”

  “A little fire can’t destroy a tree that size,” he told her. “But I needed to convince her that I was a real threat. And since she can speak to your mind and you can’t deceive her, you needed to believe it as well.” He reached for her again, and this time she didn’t rebuff him. He stroked the side of her cheek and wiped away a trail of tears.

  She wanted to glower at him but at the moment felt so relieved she was mostly just grateful.

  “You are too clever,” she said sternly. “I wish it didn’t hurt me so much.”

  Tyrus nodded knowingly and patted her shoulder.

  She turned to Shion, feeling ashamed at how she had tried to injure him in her panic and failed. “Does nothing hurt you?” she asked, exasperated.

  Wisely he said nothing, as he usually did.

  “Darkness falls across the city. Fires are burning in the Preachán quarter. I am restless this twilight. Heavy despair blankets Kenatos. There is no pain so awful as the pain of suspense, the Bhikhu say. I agree.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XXV

  Blood smeared Baylen’s face with little flecks of tattered leaves. There were gashes in his scalp too hideous to look at, and Paedrin experienced a rise in his gorge yet willed himself not to vomit. Baylen’s eyes were blue, amidst the dark, clotted blood, and they were awake and quite alive.

  “I can’t move my legs,” Baylen said with tortured breath. “I passed out from the pain. Where’s Khiara?”

  Paedrin stared down at the giant Cruithne, his emotions roiling with conflicting feelings. He hung his head, ashamed of himself, ashamed at the questions that were coming. “Dead.”

  Baylen closed his eyes, panting with shallow wheezes. “That’s . . . unfortunate.”

  The word was inadequate to describe the desperate situation that hung as a pall. She was dead, Tyrus had abandoned them, and Kiranrao was loose in the woods with a dagger that could slay any living thing. The Fear Liath’s lair was still nearby, and then there were the—

  As summoned by his despair, he heard rustling in the branches overhead. The sound of flapping and hissing descending from the boughs. Yes, the Cockatrice were still there as well, gathering back to their roosts now that the violence had ended.

  “Paedrin.”

  The Bhikhu sagged to his knees next to the bleeding man, powerless to save him. He rested his elbows on the hilt of the Sword of Winds, pressing his forehead against his arm. What a disgrace he was to the Bhikhu order. What a failure.

  “Where is Tyrus?”

  “Gone,” Paedrin muttered. “Baylen . . . they’re all gone. We failed. Phae was killed by the Fear Liath. I saw her body. Then Kiranrao grabbed Khiara—” A shudder passed through him. “He murdered her. The only thing I could think at that moment was killing him. He went into the woods, Tyrus shouted the word, and then they were gone and then so was Kiranrao. This is . . . this is bad.”

  Anguish twisted inside of him, shredding his composure and nearly making him sob with despair. He hung his head, feeling the full brunt of his stupidity and failure.

  Baylen’s hand brushed against his leg. Paedrin opened his eyes, stared down at him, and saw the determination in the Cruithne’s eyes. “Go,” Baylen said flatly.

  Wings flapped as more Cockatrice arrived. He could hear them scuttling along the oak branches. Closing his eyes, he extended his blind vision and felt them rustling, preparing to swoop down and attack them. He was so weary. Fighting them off would take time, precious time he didn’t have. He needed to escape the Scourgelands. Once it was dark, the Fear Liath would come out of its lair and begin hunting. He knew it for certain.

  Paedrin reached down and gripped the Cruithne’s hand. It was massive, and there was only a glimmer of strength left.

  “Go,” Baylen repeated.

  Paedrin rose, staring down at the crippled man. Baylen was on his back, arms spread wide, his legs at a crooked angle. The Cruithne began to whistle with suppressed pain. Paedrin could see the agony in his eyes. He would not survive the night. Which was worse, being turned into a statue of stone or savaged by the Fear Liath? Either way was death.

  What have I d
one?

  He knew the answer already. What would it matter if he left Baylen to die? There was no way he could transport a man of Baylen’s size, let alone contend with the suffering it would cause since he was obviously broken beyond repair. Paedrin ran his hand over the stubble on top of his head, wincing at the feeling of a long scab, not realizing he had been clawed.

  He remembered Tyrus’s story about his failure in the Scourgelands. How his friend, a Preachán named Declan Brin, had been mortally wounded and was left behind to die. He comprehended, just a little, what that must have meant. Leaving a man to die was terrible business. But what could he do? How could he save him?

  A Cockatrice began to flap downward, hovering in the air above. He could sense the beast’s will press against his, demanding he look up at it and turn to stone. They would come in a rush as they had before. If he fled now, with the Sword, he would be able to escape them. It meant leaving Baylen alone.

  What else can I do about it?

  He stared down at the Cruithne, hearing his little moan of pain. Baylen’s body trembled with shudders of agony. The thought came into Paedrin’s mind that it would be most merciful to end his suffering. Don’t leave him to die. Kill him. Death will be a mercy.

  The compulsion stunned him. Paedrin stared down at Baylen, saw the open flesh of his neck. A quick slice and the pain would end. But he realized that it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would disavow every Bhikhu oath.

  You’re not a Bhikhu now. You’re really just a Kishion. A killer.

  Paedrin stared down at his hands, trying to hold against the tide of feelings sweeping over him.

  “Go,” Baylen said darkly. “Just go.”

  Paedrin prepared to summon the blade’s power. He took a breath and started to float, rising from the ground. But something compelled him to let it out again and drop to the forest floor. Tyrus had said that he had failed the Scourgelands when he had quit. He had always regretted leaving Declan behind. The failure had taught him about himself, had taught him about his enemy, and had inspired his heart to continue the quest. Tyrus never knew what would have happened if he had only pressed forward instead of quitting. How could Paedrin know?

  Something began to spark alive inside of Paedrin’s chest. It was difficult to describe. Stubbornness? Determination? Courage? All his life, Paedrin had compared himself to Aboujaoude, the mightiest Bhikhu of his generation. When Aboujaoude had found a beaten Cruithne on the ground in the streets of Kenatos, he had intervened and saved him.

  Paedrin swallowed, mustering everything inside himself.

  He would not abandon Baylen.

  At that moment, the floods of Cockatrice began to fall from the tree limbs, screeching and hissing. Paedrin sensed the wave and he leapt into the air to meet them, swinging his blade in reckless fury, striking at the mass as they came at him.

  A single thought struck his mind, an idea that bloomed from the far recesses of his memory. He invoked the blade’s power to fly, but it also contained another power. The hilt stone had magic of its own.

  “Shut your eyes!” Paedrin yelled to Baylen, flipping the blade upside down. He held the sword by the blade and invoked the stone embedded in the hilt. A searing flash of green light erupted from the pommel, and suddenly the air was full of commotion. He watched, using his blind vision, as the Cockatrice flailed and batted away from the relic in his hands, rending the air with their screeches of pain. All of their gazes had been fixed on him and the magic of the stone had caught them, rendering each of them blind and full of searing agony.

  A thrill went through Paedrin as he realized what was happening. The Cockatrice’s magic was in their eyes! The Sword neutralized their power by blinding them. They would not be able to turn him or anyone else to stone. Their power had been broken.

  Some of the Cockatrice pummeled into him as they desperately sought to escape the maelstrom of pain. Many flapped helplessly to the ground, writhing and hissing in debilitating agony. Others rose for the trees, seeking their roosts for safety.

  Paedrin lowered himself back to the ground and then sheathed the sword. He grinned with triumph, watching the remnants of the creatures scuttle away or twist wildly with pain.

  He walked back to Baylen’s side and knelt next to him. “I’m not leaving you.”

  Baylen coughed with a gurgle. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

  “I’ll stay with you then.”

  Baylen whimpered. “While I appreciate the gesture . . . it’s not going to work.”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Paedrin snapped. “I’m not abandoning you.”

  “Is the Fear Liath . . . dead?”

  “No, it went back to its lair.”

  Baylen started to choke. He struggled to catch his breath. “We both know that we can’t beat it.”

  “I’ll think of something. Maybe I can get you into one of these trees with the Sword. If we’re high enough, it won’t be able to climb.”

  “No!” Baylen barked. “It hurts just lying here. If you move me, it’ll kill me.”

  “Let me think of something. Quiet and be still. I need to think.” He gazed up at the mesh of trees and the shadowy Cockatrice writhing up there.

  He sat down, setting the blade in his lap. He closed his eyes and began to meditate, focusing on his breathing, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt better already. Yes, he had made a terrible mistake in going after Kiranrao, but he had saved Baylen from the serpent-birds. Saving a life brought a flush of warmth to his bruised heart. Good. Savor the feeling. Think. How do you move someone this large? What are the options?

  He calmed his breathing, letting his inhalation through his nose be followed by a deep exhale from his mouth. He felt his body rise slightly with each breath, and then sink. He delved inside himself, trying to sort through options. Some thoughts he tossed aside. Others he mulled. If not a tree branch, what about a cave? Was there a place Baylen could hide where he could escape the Fear Liath’s claws? Or was there something he could use to block the Fear Liath’s den and prevent it from coming out at night?

  He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, his fingers pinched softly together, his arms forming a hoop. Ideas went through his mind, quickly and calmly.

  He thought about Baylen’s injuries. His head had been gashed by the Fear Liath’s jaws. He had slashes across his body as well, but the main damage happened when the beast had crushed him. Broken bones, likely his spine. His breathing showed that his ribs were probably broken as well. Paedrin lacked healing abilities and doubted even Hettie would have been able to repair the damage. Only Khiara would have been able to save him.

  Khiara.

  How did one become a Shaliah? Where did the keramat come from? He didn’t really understand it. Was it some kind of faith? Was it an inherited power or one that could be learned? Was it similar to the Druidecht ways that Annon had demonstrated?

  As he plunged deeper inside himself, he lost track of time and where he was. The dangers of the Scourgelands seemed to melt away. Annon had described communing with the spirits like being able to hear whispers. When they had first met, Paedrin had scoffed at the idea that there were spirits flitting about. But he had seen manifestations of them with his own eyes. He remembered one being trapped in a dagger he had taken from a Preachán in Havenrook. Annon had freed it with the fireblood and it had healed Paedrin’s wound.

  It had healed Paedrin’s wound.

  Was there another way to heal Baylen? Was there some spirit magic that would heed his call? He wore no Druidecht talisman. He wasn’t even sure he believed in the Druidecht ways. What had Annon taught him? That there was a world that coexisted alongside theirs.

  Mirrowen.

  Just thinking the name brought a tingle of gooseflesh down his back. Was there a way he could tap into the powers there? Was there a way he could save Baylen that he was not thinking
of? Could he learn the keramat without being trained by a Shaliah? He regretted that he had not thought to ask Khiara about it. She was so quiet . . . so sad. She deserved better than to be murdered by such a man as Kiranrao.

  He sighed, remembering seeing her ashen face. She deserved better.

  Bury her.

  Paedrin blinked his eyes open. Where had the thought come from? He felt a tingle across his neck. What a peculiar thought. It was so small, almost a whisper. Yet not really a whisper . . . just the pulse of an idea. A flash of insight. Surely it came from his mind, didn’t it?

  He glanced around the darkening woods, then watched Baylen breathing fitfully, eyes closed in rest.

  Bury Khiara. He had no idea why that thought had come into his mind. It seemed out of place, as if it had come to him unbidden. He waited a moment, experiencing the stillness, but there was no repeat of the thought. He breathed in deeply, floating up, and used the blade to direct him toward where he had last seen Tyrus.

  There was Khiara’s body. Her long staff lay nearby, neglected. Her body was already stiff, her face pallid. She didn’t even look like herself anymore—the part of her that was her was gone somehow. All that was left was an empty shell. He knelt by the corpse, feeling a prickle of disgust skitter through him, but he ignored it. He touched the dark hair, clogged with dead leaves. He should say a Vaettir prayer over her. That’s what was needed.

  A bulging pouch tied to her waist caught his eye. It was made out of leather and was small in size, large enough to hold a small piece of fruit. Perhaps there was something she had that might help ease Baylen’s pain? He did not know how he would recognize it, but he thought it was worth exploring. Gingerly, he removed her travel pack and explored the contents, finding an assortment of herbs, but mostly food and an abundance of water skins. He gratefully drank one of them empty. He hadn’t realized he was so thirsty.

  He smoothed the hair from her brow and then maneuvered her limbs into a reposing position.

  There was the pouch at her waist, catching his eye again. Was it full of money? As a Bhikhu, he did not care for money and the trap that it was to people. He stared at the pouch, wondering what was inside. He undid the strings fastening it to her belt and then unwound the knot closing it off. The pouch was squishy and did not clink. Pulling on the edges, he opened it.