by Jeff Wheeler
The look in Shirikant’s eyes went silver with hatred. “Never!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips.
“You betrayed your own blood. You betrayed your own heart. Because of what? Jealousy? Because the Seneschal chose to honor me above you because he discerned the variance in our motives? Because he saw what you would become?”
“He sees nothing!” Shirikant shrieked. His fingers gripped the Tay al-Ard so tightly it seemed the metal would rend in his hand. “I hate him! I hate you! Would I could drown you in this boiling pool! I would choke your last breath with my hands.”
“You’ve tried,” Shion said, his own cheek twitching. “How many ways and how many times have you tried to murder me, Brother? You’ve buried me in stone. You’ve chained me to the bottom of the lake. I remember it all now. To hide your guilt and shame? It festers inside you like a wound that will not heal. It cannot heal now, Brother. There is no spell, no balm that can save you now. You are like the Void, constantly hammering against the defenses. And that is where you will be chained. It is your punishment, Brother. I could not prevent it even if I desired mercy. And I do not. I don’t hate you—”
“Do not spit your pity at me!” Shirikant screamed.
“I have no pity for you. You knew what you did when you spoke to that serpent. You deceived yourself before you deceived us all. You never knew what it was to fail. You knew pride, never meekness. You were jealous in the end. What a petty emotion, Brother. It’s a filthy broth that will not nourish. You will accept no one to rule over you. So you will inherit a kingdom of chaos.”
The silence that followed sent shivers of dread through Phae’s heart. The blackness seemed to gather around them, drawn into a vortex of hatred and loathing.
Shirikant’s voice was cruel and placid. “I will destroy every living soul in this world. You cannot catch me. You cannot take me against my will. I too have trained with the Kishion. I am not afraid of you, Brother. And I know more about Druidecht lore than you ever will. Dryad—I call you by your true name, Phae Grove, and I bind you to serve me.”
Phae felt a whorl of magic rush against her, searing into her skull. It was as if a great hand clutched her mind, gripping it with iron fingers. She felt it, but it had no power over her. She knew that, but she also knew that Shirikant did not. If she could trick him into looking into her eyes . . .
“No!” Shion shouted, his mind connected to hers.
Take his memories she heard Shirikant whisper greedily in her mind.
Shirikant raised the stone cup to his mouth and swallowed several gulps from it. Trickles of silver liquid spilled down his chin. He grimaced in pain.
“No, I forbid it!” Shion said, turning to look at her, to look deliberately into her eyes. His expression hardened into fierce determination. He did not want Shirikant’s memories harvested inside her, his evil chained inside her tree.
Now! Shirikant’s thoughts murmured to her.
Phae turned to Shirikant, shrugging off the heavy oppressive feeling against her mind. “That is not my Dryad name,” she announced, looking into his eyes. And she blinked.
The wave of memories struck her like a flood, coursing through her mind, her body, her soul in a hailstorm of evil and gibbering terror. She crumpled to her knees, feeling the weight of the burden suffocating her, soiling her, bringing her in contact with the worst demons of imagination possible. She shrank from the onslaught, uttering a groan of despair as the thoughts and images flooded her mind. The countless murders and savagery he had caused through his many faces. It was worse than she could have ever imagined, seeing the suffering and devastation and ruin that one being had caused throughout the world.
She felt arms around her, holding her, hugging her, and realized that Shion was kneeling next to her, sharing the memories as they passed through her, their minds connected by Dryad magic. It was a never-ending scream, a ceaseless howling that rippled into eternity.
She trembled under the weight of the horror, her own mind faltering to know what to do, and then by instinct, it happened. She began to unload the memories into her Dryad tree, and as she did, the burden began to lighten, the stretching strain against her soul began to ease. Memories shuffled into place, like books on a shelf, sinews of leather and glue and parchment.
There was a retching sound.
It felt as if a million pricking needles had stabbed inside Phae’s eyes. She had crumpled against Isic, feeling his strong arms around her, keeping her up. Shirikant knelt by the pool of quicksilver, vomiting silver bile back into the bubbling pool.
He looked sick and confused, his body shuddering as he looked up blankly, staring at the two of them without a shred of recognition. He wiped a trickle of silver from his mouth. “Where am I?” he whispered hoarsely. He looked around the battered cave.
Phae stared down at her hands and then at the stone cup toppled next to Shion’s brother. She made it to her feet somehow and hefted the stone chalice. She didn’t bother taking his Tay al-Ard. It would be useless to him, for he bore no memories and thus had nowhere to go. She stared at the chalice, at the designs carved into the side. It was a strange engraving of a tree with many vine-like limbs and blooming fruit. There was a man with a strange halo carved into it sitting on a throne. Images of serpents clung to the vines. There were other beings carved into it as well, one kneeling and raising a single hand. Another grabbed a fruit from the vine. It was the story of Shirikant and Shion. The entire legend had been painstakingly engraved into the stone chalice.
“What must we do?” Shion asked her, trembling from the memories they had endured. He stared at her worriedly, his expression tightening with the impending sense of more pain to come.
She stared at the bubbling cauldron, seeing the sheen of it. She understood how Shirikant had cursed it. His memories were now hers too. It would take one with the fireblood to tame the fire unleashed inside Pontfadog. And she knew the Seneschal had foreseen she would have it.
Phae reached out a calming hand. “Pericanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.”
She felt heat from the pool gathering together. Blue flames began to dance atop the frenzied churn of bubbles. The flames grew brighter and coalesced into a sphere that floated to her hand and then absorbed into her skin. She felt a rush of magic as her fireblood responded to it, meshing the magics together, taming them. A haze of steam lingered over the pool, the heat dissipating quickly. Soon the pool was a glassy sheen, still as a mirror.
Both she and Shion crouched near the edge of it.
“I must drink it, mustn’t I?” Shion whispered, looking at her.
Her heart ached. “Yes. The Plague is a protection to this place, a way of defending it against intruders and to prevent those who haven’t earned the right to enter.”
“Yes, I know,” Shion said. “He joined the magics together, somehow.”
“He used fire to bind them,” Phae explained. “I’ve taken that away. If you drink from the pool, your body will separate the Plague from the quicksilver.” She closed her eyes, sorting through the memories. “You must suffer the effects of the Plague in order to rid it from the pool. It will be painful.”
He looked her in the eye. “It must be done.” He gripped the stone chalice and dipped it into the calm mirror surface. The liquid rippled and filled the cup.
Shion raised it to his lips and drank it down, wincing with each swallow. Phae watched a series of hives appear on his face and skin, boils that swelled and turned livid. He groaned with pain, staring at his arms, his hands, watching the pustules ripple and quiver. He shuddered, his entire body trembling like a tree shaken in a windstorm. Before the first effects of the Plague had run their course, he dipped the cup a second time into the pool and drank it down. Phae watched in mute horror as another Plague was unleashed on him. Then another.
She clung to him and wept.
“This is the last one,” Phae whispered, tears
tains on her cheeks. The pool was almost empty.
“Help . . . me. Please. To drink . . . it.” He lay trembling, exhausted—blistered and pocked.
She dipped the chalice into the dwindled, shallow pool, a volcanic pockmark in the dim green haze of phosphorescent light. Small beads of quicksilver seemed to draw themselves into the stone cup when she tipped it down at the bottom to gather the last. The final Plague sat quivering in the dregs of silver. She stared at it, wondering if she should drink it herself.
“No,” Shion said, choking, his face puffy and ravaged. His bloodshot eyes were full of suffering and also with the knowledge that she was tempted to drink it herself. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and gently raised the cup to his mouth, tilting it so that he drank the final bit, the dregs of the Plague.
He winced, sputtering and choking, his body trembling under the multiple and varied symptoms of the Plagues of mortality. His breath was in shallow gasps, his forehead wrinkled with unbearable agony. He looked at her pleadingly, his expression begging it to be over. Vomit stained his shirt and purple bruises covered his lumpy skin in patches. Every breath brought a pained shudder.
“It is done,” she said.
Shirikant sat across from them, staring at the empty pool. He sat in brooding silence, watching but not understanding. He had asked a few questions, but nothing they said made sense to him. He watched, uncomprehending that his entire plan for destroying the world was being purged, sip by sip.
Shion struggled to sit, then leaned against Phae as he trembled with fever and chills. He was as weak as a kitten, spent and broken.
“Help me . . .” he begged.
Phae pulled him up gently, helping him face the pool. He planted his hands on the liquid’s edge, his arm muscles quivering as if the effort were more than he could bear. His whole body bucked and heaved, and Phae watched in shocked silence as tiny beads of silver began to gather from the pores of his skin. Little specks trickled down his arms and began filling the pool. He shuddered violently and groaned, experiencing wave after wave of nausea and anguish, and she watched the pool begin to fill with quicksilver. His skin bubbled and popped, thick pustules of silver emerging. It looked agonizing as she watched, her stomach churning with disgust. The stream came faster, and with it, the distant sound of rushing waters began to echo inside the chamber. It was a sound she recognized, the rushing of the waters coming from the tree in the garden in Mirrowen.
A halo of light filled the gruesome chamber, driving away all the shadows. The smell of salt and the sea filled the air, and a breeze tousled Phae’s hair. With the light came a feeling of immense peace and relief. Joy exploded inside her heart.
“Isic, I think it is over!” she said, beaming through her tears. “It is finished!”
A window to another world opened up from inside the pool. It was so bright that Phae shielded her eyes for a moment. Shirikant shrank from it, fleeing to one of the edges of the chamber, staring at the light with shock and dread. He cowered in fear.
The Seneschal, Melchisedeq, stepped through the portal and entered her world.
“Well done,” he said with a broad smile. “Well done!”
He set his hand on Shion’s head and said, Calvariae!
The word seemed to gush out from him in a whisper that could be heard anywhere throughout the world. Strength filled Shion’s arms and legs and the boils and rashes on his skin were healed. As she stared at him, she saw that the scars from the Fear Liath were still there . . . small and hardly noticeable unless she really looked hard to see them.
“It is time to set things in order,” the Seneschal said. “To usher in a new season. Isic Moussion, I bestow upon you one of the Voided Keys.”
Isic knelt before the Seneschal, shaking his head. “I am unworthy of such a gift,” he said softly.
“With much suffering comes much wisdom, Isic. This is the day I saw when you pledged to serve me. This is the hour I knew would come. You will earn more Voided Keys as you assume more responsibility for governing this world. The keys are mine to bestow upon whom I will. I give this one to you.”
He produced one of the ancient, gnarled iron keys with a leather strap running through the empty part. He gestured for Shion to rise and fashioned it around his waist, so that the key dangled there. Phae stared at him with pride, smiling with pleasure at seeing him finally fulfilling his destiny.
“What shall we do with your brother?” the Seneschal asked. “You must name his punishment.”
Shion looked at the Seneschal in surprise. He stared at the cowering form, shrinking from the gaze of the Unwearying Ones. Phae looked at him as well, seeing no trace of power left in him, no threat to anyone.
“He will be imprisoned,” Shion said firmly, coldly, but not vengefully. “He has a book of the Paracelsus order. A book where he has written all of his means to bind spirits and the will of men and women. All of his cunning. All of his sources of power are contained in this book. Evil cannot be destroyed. But it can be bound.” He turned to face the Seneschal again. “I do not want his memories tainting Phae’s tree. Can you bind his memories to the book, bind his spirit to the book? He is too dangerous to be allowed to walk the earth. He is unwilling to obey any power other than himself. Let him be caged like the spirits he caged. The Druidecht order will forbid anyone from reading that book and we will protect it as our sworn duty.”
The Seneschal paused, staring at Shion. Phae could tell that he was looking into the future, into a decision made and its impacts down to the ends of time. A slow smile crept over the Seneschal’s mouth.
“Phae, you still have the stone your father gave you. The stone that traps a mortal’s spirit. Give it to me and I will use it to bind him to the book you spoke of. It is time to heal the Scourgelands, to restore them to their proper use. To fulfill the oath to build Canton Vaud, the Druidecht stronghold. By the Voided Keys, I revoke the curse tainting the fireblood.”
He raised his right hand, holding his palm toward the cleft of rock overhead. An earthquake rocked the cavern, splitting the dome of the ceiling, shattering the rocks and bringing in the natural light of day at last.
Phae felt something change inside her blood, filling her with peace. She grabbed Shion’s hand, staring into his eyes, beaming at him.
He smiled lovingly at Phae, his eyes crinkling with tenderness and warmth, and then dipped his head and kissed her.
“Maybe the Vaettir are the wisest of all, not the Preachán. They put it best: Love is not to be purchased, and affection has no price.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLVI
Paedrin’s heart raced with dread and a welling sense of hopelessness. Gusts of wind whipped him off course as he searched from the sky at the ruins of the fortress for a sign of Hettie, Tyrus, or Baylen. Every moment increased the sense of panic. He was too late. The soldiers were scattering like a hive of ants whose hill had been kicked over by an angry boot. Flashes of lightning from the turbulent skies warned him of the danger of staying aloft much longer. A brilliant bloom of blue fire exploded through the haze of mist below and he altered his course, shooting down to it. Flashes of red light came in response and Paedrin saw four shapes, wearing black, advancing on a man trapped in the middle. As he drew closer, he saw the streak of white light connecting the four men, boxing a fifth man in between.
“Closer! Closer! He’s wavering!” came a shout.
A gurgling scream of agony wailed from the midst of the light streamers. Another detonation of blue flame came, toppling one of the arches, and one of the men was crushed beneath the weight.
“Quickly! Don’t let him escape!”
Paedrin saw that the men were Paracelsus and he recognized the magic they used, for he had been entrapped by it as well. The more force used against it, the more force was repelled back. Tyrus was hunched over in agony, trying to get back on his feet. The thre
e continued to lean forward, struggling with each step to draw the net of magic tighter, to immobilize him.
A shriek of curses came from Tyrus next, and he spit at them, screaming again as he tried to counter their magic with his own.
“Almost!” one of the Paracelsus shouted in triumph. “Bring him down! Shoot him! Shoot him!”
Paedrin swept into range from above and plunged the Sword of Winds into the lower back of one of the dark-clad Paracelsus. The man crumpled, his legs suddenly useless, and the spray of light went wide.
“No!” another wailed in terror, the net of magic scattering.
Tyrus’s head lifted, his eyes glazed with savage fury. He held up his hand, exposing a ring on his finger, and one of the Paracelsus went flying backward, arcing into the sky to smash into one of the stone columns still standing. Paedrin dove forward, coming up into a high leap and smashed his heel into the last Paracelsus’s face, dropping him to unconsciousness.
Paedrin whipped the blade around and turned to Tyrus. “Where is Hettie?” he shouted.
Blue flames irrupted from Tyrus’s outstretched arms, flooding toward Paedrin. Only his Bhikhu reflexes saved him and he leapt high into the air, summoning the blade’s magic to carry him up and over Tyrus’s head.
“It’s me, Paedrin!” he screamed and realized with anguish that Tyrus’s mind was no longer his own. Flames rippled from the man’s fingers, which were hooked like talons. There was no euphoria on his face, only malice and madness. Another burst of flames raced at him, and Paedrin swept it away quickly, barely dodging it.
“Stop!” Paedrin pleaded, trying to meet the gaze. It reminded him of the Boeotian Tasvir Virk and his heart crumpled with pain. Not Tyrus—not him. It was too much to lose him.
