Poisonwell
Page 142
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.
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.
