Poisonwell
Page 126
The Seneschal smiled, patting her hand. “Not yet. He’s also known to you by the name Shirikant. But that is not his true name. Quiet . . . watch.”
Shirikant sat on the throne, leaning forward as if it were uncomfortable and pained him. He gestured to someone in the crowd. His voice was rich and powerful and he had an easy smile and a natural charm. “My friends, thank you for gathering for the feast tonight. It gives me pleasure that you come to honor my brother, who has returned from his long travels. As you know, he is a Druidecht, and they tend to roam abroad when the fancy suits them. My brother is a wanderer. He does not have the affairs of state to pinion him as they do me, but I don’t begrudge him his freedom. Under much pressure and even a little compulsion, I’ve convinced him to sing for you tonight. Welcome home, Brother Isic. Welcome home. Sing for us.”
Phae’s heart nearly burst when she saw Shion stand and approach the dais.
“I have written what the Empress has revealed to me about the existence of Shirikant. I find it difficult to believe that there is a being among us who is immortal, who cannot be killed, but I have heard enough such rumors to give it credence. I believe he is part of the nameless race, the race that is persecuted in Stonehollow. Knowledge of that race has been lost forever and it seems systematically so. If there were only a way to recover something that time has so meticulously erased.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXXVIII
They are brothers,” Phae whispered, clutching the Seneschal’s arm tightly. The impact of the realization struck her with tremendous force. Shion and Shirikant were brothers, born of the same kingdom.
“Watch.”
As Shion walked toward the dais, he was admired by many in the crowd, many of them women who seemed to vie to meet his gaze. From her vantage point, Phae watched him cross right in front of her, his expression a mixture of melancholy and resignation. He did not look pleased to be asked to perform in front of everyone.
He had some small stubble on his lower jaw, but there was no evidence of scars on his smooth cheeks. He was smaller, probably sixteen or seventeen—her own age. Her heart thrilled when she saw him unharmed, saw the stormy countenance but not the look of danger and threat. He carried a lute in one hand and then seated himself on the edge of the dais, before his brother’s throne. A hush settled across the great hall. Even the murmur of the torch flames seemed to still.
Shion nestled against the lip of the dais, positioning himself, sinking his shoulders as he relaxed, his fingers positioned against the lute strings. Phae stared at him, her heart hammering inside her.
Then there was music.
The sound he coaxed out of the lute strings was nothing like the festive dance tunes she had grown up to in Stonehollow. The chords were plaintive and mournful and penetrated her emotions, wrapping her in a veil of sadness. Then his voice joined the sounds, strong and rich, and it brought the mood from her ears into her bones. It was not the tune from the locket, but she knew instinctively that he was the one who had created that song. The Seneschal looked at her, smiling in approval, and nodded, patting her hand delicately.
The singer and his melody cast a spell across everyone assembled in the great hall. She could almost see the music as streamers of magic, coiling around the minds of those assembled, making them forget the moment, forget even time itself—all there was in the world was the sound of Shion’s voice, accentuated by the stirring strains of the lute, mixing together in such a way as to coax tears from Phae’s eyes. She saw she was not alone, that others wept. The spell endured, washing over every person until the final note hung in the air, tormented with grief, fading into an echo—then gone.
Shion bowed his head, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve. He slowly stood as the spell unraveled, and suddenly he was mobbed with well-wishers and people who longed to see him. He met them with shy reserve and silence, not deigning to answer questions, looking uncomfortable being the focus of attention.
There were several young ladies, fancily dressed, and they persisted, trying to draw him out. He ignored them, looking around the crowd for a way to escape.
His eyes, desperate for a way to extract himself, suddenly found hers.
“He can see us,” Phae whispered in shock.
She saw the slight crinkle in his expression as his look shifted from discomfort to curiosity. He started through the crowd toward them, moving around the bodies that harangued and tried to get his attention.
Phae stiffened, feeling a sense of panic welling inside her.
Watch.
The Seneschal’s thoughts were forceful, but calming.
Shirikant sat on the throne, leaning forward as if it were uncomfortable and pained him. He gestured to someone in the crowd. His voice was rich and powerful and he had an easy smile and a natural charm. “My friends, thank you for gathering for the feast tonight. It gives me pleasure that you come to honor my brother, who has returned from his long travels. As you know, he is a Druidecht, and they tend to roam abroad when the fancy suits them. My brother is a wanderer. He does not have the affairs of state to pinion him as they do me, but I don’t begrudge him his freedom. Under much pressure and even a little compulsion, I’ve convinced him to sing for you tonight. Welcome home, Brother Isic. Welcome home. Sing for us.”
Phae’s heart nearly burst when she saw Shion stand and approach the dais.
“I have written what the Empress has revealed to me about the existence of Shirikant. I find it difficult to believe that there is a being among us who is immortal, who cannot be killed, but I have heard enough such rumors to give it credence. I believe he is part of the nameless race, the race that is persecuted in Stonehollow. Knowledge of that race has been lost forever and it seems systematically so. If there were only a way to recover something that time has so meticulously erased.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXXVIII
They are brothers,” Phae whispered, clutching the Seneschal’s arm tightly. The impact of the realization struck her with tremendous force. Shion and Shirikant were brothers, born of the same kingdom.
“Watch.”
As Shion walked toward the dais, he was admired by many in the crowd, many of them women who seemed to vie to meet his gaze. From her vantage point, Phae watched him cross right in front of her, his expression a mixture of melancholy and resignation. He did not look pleased to be asked to perform in front of everyone.
He had some small stubble on his lower jaw, but there was no evidence of scars on his smooth cheeks. He was smaller, probably sixteen or seventeen—her own age. Her heart thrilled when she saw him unharmed, saw the stormy countenance but not the look of danger and threat. He carried a lute in one hand and then seated himself on the edge of the dais, before his brother’s throne. A hush settled across the great hall. Even the murmur of the torch flames seemed to still.
Shion nestled against the lip of the dais, positioning himself, sinking his shoulders as he relaxed, his fingers positioned against the lute strings. Phae stared at him, her heart hammering inside her.
Then there was music.
The sound he coaxed out of the lute strings was nothing like the festive dance tunes she had grown up to in Stonehollow. The chords were plaintive and mournful and penetrated her emotions, wrapping her in a veil of sadness. Then his voice joined the sounds, strong and rich, and it brought the mood from her ears into her bones. It was not the tune from the locket, but she knew instinctively that he was the one who had created that song. The Seneschal looked at her, smiling in approval, and nodded, patting her hand delicately.
The singer and his melody cast a spell across everyone assembled in the great hall. She could almost see the music as streamers of magic, coiling around the minds of those assembled, making them forget the moment, forget even time itself—all there was in the world was the sound of Shion’s voice, accentuated by the stirring strains of the lute, mixing together in such a way as to coax tears from Phae’s eyes. She saw she was not alone, that others wept. The spell endured, washing over every person until the final note hung in the air, tormented with grief, fading into an echo—then gone.
Shion bowed his head, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve. He slowly stood as the spell unraveled, and suddenly he was mobbed with well-wishers and people who longed to see him. He met them with shy reserve and silence, not deigning to answer questions, looking uncomfortable being the focus of attention.
There were several young ladies, fancily dressed, and they persisted, trying to draw him out. He ignored them, looking around the crowd for a way to escape.
His eyes, desperate for a way to extract himself, suddenly found hers.
“He can see us,” Phae whispered in shock.
She saw the slight crinkle in his expression as his look shifted from discomfort to curiosity. He started through the crowd toward them, moving around the bodies that harangued and tried to get his attention.
Phae stiffened, feeling a sense of panic welling inside her.
Watch.
The Seneschal’s thoughts were forceful, but calming.
