Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  The Seneschal stepped forward and placed his hand on Shion’s shoulder. “You are one of the Unwearying Ones now. You may pass through Pontfadog without death. You are welcome here. My daughter has chosen you, Prince Isic. She has chosen you to be her husband. I have chosen you to be my heir. One day you will inherit the Voided Keys that were entrusted to me, if you honor your oath to serve the mortal world. My daughter has an obligation to fulfill. But before she is bound to her tree, she would like to visit the mortal world, to visit the kingdom of the Moussion. She wishes to meet and know your people, your kindred. Marry her according to your laws and customs. Then return her here and I will bind you according to ours.” He smiled at Shion then, a fatherly look. “This was your secret desire, Prince Isic. I cannot forbid it. May you find joy in your decision. May you endure the pain of it as well.”

  Phae stared at the Seneschal’s daughter and Shion, her stomach clenching with dread and an awful premonition. When she looked next at Aristaios, his face was cold and smooth, betraying nothing of what he felt. His hands were clasped behind his back, clenched tightly. His fingers were glowing blue with flames.

  “The Vaettir have a saying that I find of utmost relevance in our dilemma now: Prayer is a groan.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XLII

  Phae’s mind whirled with the implications of what she had seen. Sitting on the stone bench, she gripped the edges tightly, squeezing hard. Along with the thoughts came a storm front of emotions as well. The swirl of memories, the places she had been, it all thundered inside of her, trying to sort itself out, to fit together.

  When she lifted her eyes, the two brothers were gone. A faint wind rustled the leaves of the majestic tree. A honeyed smell drifted on the air and far away, someone was singing a rich, melodious aria. The smell and sound contrasted to her stormy emotions.

  “Good is not good until it is tested,” the Seneschal said, his voice thoughtful and reflective. “Aristaios became Shirikant when he failed the test of self. All his life, he had prided himself on his discipline, his wisdom, his good fortune. He came to believe that everything in the world worked together for his good. He was unused to disappointment. He couldn’t bear the thought of failure.”

  Phae stared at him, her face scrunching with concern. “He wanted immortality. I could see it in his eyes.”

  The Seneschal shook his head. “He wanted that when he came here. But when he saw Mirrowen—when he beheld its splendor for himself, he realized his kingdom was only an imitation of perfection. He began to lust for things that he had not earned. The station I hold. The tree I protect. The daughter I sired. He was used to Isic giving way to his ambition. He could not bear the thought that his younger brother would become all that he desired.”

  “You knew this?” Phae asked, looking at him deeply. “You knew what he would become when he came here?”

  “I did.”

  “And you allowed it to happen? So many have been destroyed because of that man. Why do you permit him to poison the mortal world?”

  The Seneschal reached down and caressed her hair. “Does an ox gain strength if it has no burden to pull? As I’ve taught you, child, the Decay seeks to rip apart all that has been created. Only the firmness of the Unwearying Ones holds it at bay. It takes strength to resist its inexorable pull. Evil must exist, just as fire is needed to purify ore. Shirikant plays a purpose, though he does so unwittingly. Yes, I allow it. I must. When Aristaios left Mirrowen, he struggled with his feelings. He began immediately to construct the fortress of Canton Vaud. The best stonemasons and builders in his kingdom were summoned. It was a mighty charge and a colossal task. Stone was quarried from the mountains, and they discovered caves beneath the range. It became a secret lair, which he named Basilides. He visited Mirrowen often, gaining ideas for the construction by the designs he saw here. He wanted it to be a piece of Mirrowen in the mortal world, a gatehouse to protect the bridge to this world.”

  Phae’s eyebrows crinkled. “I must ask this, though I fear the answer. The fruit that you chose for him yielded the fireblood. Are we all descendants of Shirikant?”

  The Seneschal smiled and nodded. “There are not many of your family left. Not many of the original Moussion, the forgotten race.”

  “Then how did Shirikant become immortal?” Phae asked. “He must have partaken of the fruit of the tree. How did that happen?”

  “His rebellion began on his way out of Mirrowen. He felt he had been robbed of the opportunity to become Seneschal by his brother. Jealousy blackened his heart. He saw the happiness that his brother and my daughter shared. He promised them an elaborate wedding, a royal occasion that would rival any kingdom’s. He set in motion a plan to murder his brother and claim my daughter for himself.”

  Phae’s eyes bulged with shock.

  The Seneschal approached the tree, staring at one of the gentle fruits dangling from a stem. Crackles of thunder popped in the sky above and Phae noticed the clouds roiling with storm. Vivid forks of lightning streaked through the billows. The Seneschal was peaceful, his hand grazing the edge of one of the fruit.

  “He visited several times, as I told you, seeking to mirror the wonders he found here. But all the while, he tested to see if I truly knew his thoughts. He kept coming closer and closer to the tree, seeing if the defenses of Mirrowen would be summoned against him. There are laws irrevocably decreed, child. When one is persistent, when the determination is absolute, one achieves . . . even if it is to his or her harm. He did not believe that I could discern his thoughts. He convinced himself that he would succeed. He was fascinated by the Paracelsus order developed by the Cruithne. He had met, years previously, a caravan of Cruithne with a menagerie of captive animals that were forced into bondage to perform tricks for the amusement of nobles. One of the chief animal tamers wore a torc around his neck, fashioned by a Paracelsus. The torc made wild animals fear him, which allowed the Cruithne to perform feats of astonishing bravery—or so it seemed. Shirikant paid dearly for such a magic charm and he used it to enter Mirrowen and pass the sentinels guarding the tree. Even the serpent Iddawc feared to bite him. He claimed a fruit of immortality. He also took a serpent, concealing it in a pouch to be used to kill his brother. Then he took a bite of the fruit.”

  Phae sighed, hearing sadness in the Seneschal’s voice.

  “You see, child, he deceived himself most of all. Having eaten of the fruit without permission, he quailed when I appeared and charged him for his crime. He was banished from Mirrowen forever. I cursed his fireblood with madness that any soul with it who would not control his or her thoughts or emotions should succumb to insanity. Ambition must always be tempered. He was angry at his punishment and threatened in his heart to destroy Mirrowen. Because he had favored the principles of bondage to that of freedom, I commanded the spirits of Mirrowen to never obey him. I allowed Shirikant to take the serpent with him.”

  The Seneschal turned and faced Phae. “My daughter never returned to Mirrowen. Come with me, child. You must see what happened next for yourself.” He extended his hand.

  The magic of the Tay al-Ard swept them back to Stonehollow. They were outdoors and the air smelled familiar. They were in one of the lush gardens of the palace, full of trimmed hedges, vibrant flower beds, and gurgling fountains. There were many guests about, savoring goblets of wine, enjoying the singing and instruments of musicians. Decorations abounded, with pennants hanging from tall staves and butlers appearing with silver dishes full of wonderful meats and cheeses.

  “This way,” the Seneschal said, holding out his arm and escorting Phae. They were both dressed as the nobility around them, blending in perfectly with the costumes of the occasion. Giddy laughter filled the air as the people rejoiced.

  “They were married in the Druidecht rites,” the Seneschal said. “Scarcely an hour ago. Prince Isic did not wish for all this pomp and circumstance but his brother in
sisted, managing to delay the wedding for many months as they entertained guests from various kingdoms coming to greet and pay respects to the Seneschal’s Dryad-born daughter. By this time my daughter was feeling the pains of the seed traveling through her. She knew her time had come and she longed to return to the grove and claim her birthright. She relented to the persuasions of the king, despite her pain and the longing to return. She hid her discomforts from everyone but Prince Isic. They were inseparable, the closest of confidants and friends. Shirikant’s jealousy grew more envenomed. And so he made a pact with the serpent Iddawc to kill his brother on their wedding day. He was deposited in a hedge maze and the guests were warned to stay away, that it was a special reward for the bride and groom. There . . . do you see them?”

  Phae looked up and saw Aristaios escorting the Seneschal’s daughter by the arm toward the mouth of the hedges. He was speaking to her gallantly, explaining the nature of the maze and that the couple had to seek each other by calling out to each other and finding the way. She would be in the center and Prince Isic would need to find her. It was a charming custom among their people.

  Phae could see the worried looks on the daughter’s face, and she could recognize the strain caused by pain in her brow. Phae knew how she felt, how the pain of the Dryad seed could be torturous.

  Phae clutched the Seneschal’s arm. “Does it pain you to see this?” she asked him, feeling the terrible sense of impending doom.

  “Yes,” he replied, smiling sadly. He patted her arm. “Some memories are painful. But I am proud of her too. Proud of what she did. Let’s follow them. They will not see us.”

  Phae went alongside the Seneschal as he directed them toward the hedge maze. Shirikant was just ahead, causing her to look at the sculpted hedges and statuary decorating it. They passed through the maze quickly, for Shirikant knew the way.

  “The Scourgelands is a hedge maze,” the Seneschal whispered to her, smiling. “The themes of his treachery always repeat. He can’t help himself.”

  When they reached the center of the maze, there was a hue and cry.

  “Ah, the revelers have come,” Shirikant said, letting the girl wander freely in the center of the maze. A small fountain splashed in the center with a low bench encircling it. He seated himself. “He’ll find you soon, I think.”

  “Does he know the way?” the Seneschal’s daughter asked.

  “No. The ways have been changed since he was a boy. But he is clever, do not worry. Have you enjoyed your stay among the Moussion, my lady?”

  “Very much, thank you. But I long to return to my home.”

  “I know you do. Well, my dear, there is one more tradition of the Moussion that I failed to mention.” He stood and approached her. “The king of the country must kiss the bride before her wedding night. It’s an ancient tradition and awkward considering I am now your brother. A kiss on the cheek will suffice.”

  The Seneschal stared coldly at the two. “He tries to deceive her,” he whispered to Phae. “He knows about the Dryad kiss. He’s secretly read all of Prince Isic’s notes about Druidecht lore.”

  Phae clenched her fists, staring at the two.

  The Seneschal’s daughter looked at Shirikant skeptically. “I would rather not.”

  A bulge of muscle clenched in Shirikant’s cheek. “Come, my dear. It’s just a formality.” He stepped closer to her, his shadow falling over her face.

  She retreated from him, her brow furrowing.

  The sound of the revelers was loud, trying to drown out the sound of Prince Isic’s calls to his beloved. Phae’s stomach twisted with sickness. She wanted to scream and warn her to flee.

  “Are you afraid?” Shirikant said, his voice dropping low. “There’s no need to fear me.”

  “Your words belie the feelings in my heart,” she answered. “I will go to my husband now.” She turned on her heel to escape.

  “No!” he snarled, grabbing her by the elbow. His face was frantic.

  She looked at his hand gripping her arm. A crinkle of doubt and worry spread across her features. “Release me,” she ordered.

  “You must wait for him here,” he said, placatingly, but his voice trembled with emotion. “Don’t ruin the tradition, Sister.”

  “Let go,” she ordered, pulling against his grip, but it was iron.

  Phae’s stomach clenched with dread. She felt specks of dizziness surround her. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

  Shirikant looked desperate to maintain control of the situation. “Come sit by the fountain,” he offered. “It’s a silly tradition. We can ignore it if you wish. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. Come . . . sit.”

  She pulled on her arm again, her look growing more determined. “You hold me against my will. Why?”

  He licked his lips, his eyes blazing with emotion. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining everything. Come sit by the fountain. I’ll fetch your husband myself.” He gently, but firmly, pulled her toward the bench.

  “Aristaios,” she said, looking him full in the eyes.

  He gazed at her, his brows crinkling.

  Then she blinked.

  He stood dumbfounded, his eyes blinking rapidly. His hands fell to his sides.

  She fled the hedge maze, calling out Prince Isic’s name in a panic. Phae squeezed her eyes shut, hearing the gasp of outrage and fear coming from Shirikant. A gurgled noise passed his lips as he pursued her. Phae buried her face into the Seneschal’s arm, fraught with tension, waiting for the moment.

  There was a scream of fright, a startled cry of pain.

  “She is dead,” the Seneschal whispered, pressing a kiss against Phae’s hair.

  The group of revelers found Prince Isic, who had been forced to trade his Druidecht clothes for the garb of royalty. The talisman was still dangling around his neck as he knelt weeping by the corpse of his young bride, the daughter of Melchisedeq, Seneschal of Mirrowen.

  Phae saw him clutching the body to his chest, heard the wracking sobs as they came like thunder. He begged and pleaded for her to live. Several Shain spirits hovered near him.

  She was bitten by the serpent Iddawc, kind master. She cannot be revived.

  Only the Seneschal can revive her. Only he with the Voided Keys has that power.

  Tears streamed down Shion’s face and Phae felt her own following suit. The look of suffering on his face—he had expressed it before in the Scourgelands, when he thought that she had died. She shared his misery, shared the suffering he endured. His bride’s body was turning pale with each passing moment. On her ankle, two crimson flecks of blood protruded from where the fangs had pierced.

  Phae’s eyes widened with realization.

  When a Dryad chose a mortal husband, she wore a gold bracelet around her ankle in the image of a twisting serpent. Now she knew why the tradition had started, even though time had dimmed the memory to extinction.

  “My poor Shion,” she whispered, her throat catching and choking. Her heart yearned to comfort him. His sadness was terrible. She watched him weep, watched him press kisses against her temple, as if somehow they would overpower the magic of the serpent’s venom.

  Shirikant approached them, his face gaunt and haunted by the death. He stared at the girl’s corpse, his eyes ravaged by guilt and despair. Seeing the grieving revelers who had gathered in the hedge maze, he waved them off and barked an order for them to disperse and make way.

  Shirikant knelt in the thick grass, clasping his brother’s shoulder with a firm grip.

  “How could this have happened?” he said in pretend amazement.

  “I must go to Mirrowen,” Shion murmured in desolation. “I must seek help from her father.”

  “No,” Shirikant said, shaking his head. “He’ll be furious. He’ll likely curse you. Brother, I’ve been hesitant to say this, but I don’t trust him.” He rubbed his bleary eyes. “If he truly knew
the future, why did he allow this to happen? What father would willingly send his child to die? He must not have known. He’s not this wise and all-powerful, benevolent being. He appears the way we want him to be. We’ve formed him in our minds. Isic—you must not go! If he does not punish you for killing his daughter, he may punish the world! Think of the power in his hands. What he might do to us!”

  “Stop!” Isic snarled, shaking his head violently. “You speak nonsense, Brother. I knew the Seneschal before I stepped one foot in Mirrowen. This is the only way I can save her. I must cross the bridge again and bring her spirit back. It is said by the spirits that someone can revive in three days. A horse. I must ride now. I cannot waste a moment.” He hefted the body in his arms and handed it to his brother. “I leave her to you. Bring the body to Canton Vaud quickly. I’ll ride ahead.”

  The two brothers stared at each other, their emotions conflicted. Shirikant cradled the girl’s body in his arms. “Very well, Brother. I’ll await you there.”

  Isic rushed from the hedge maze, sprinting like a madman.

  Shirikant sank to the ground, staring at the dead girl in his arms. He stroked a tuft of hair from her forehead, grimacing in pain. He stared for a long while, tears gathering in his eyes. Then dipping his head, he kissed her dead lips.

  Phae quivered with revulsion.

  “The greatest injury is betrayal.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XLIII

  They were back in Mirrowen, back to the tree—the origin of the suffering she had witnessed through her visits in time. Her heart panged with sorrow for Prince Isic, unable to see his brother’s treachery, unable to discern the twisting of his soul into savagery. So many pieces were coming together, so many cruelties that wrung compassion from her heart and made her long to return to the Dryad tree she was bound to, in order to share what she had learned with him.