Poisonwell
Page 150
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLV
The subterranean cavern swirled with greenish mist and pungent odors. Cracks of light appeared in fissures on the walls, spirits trapped in glass orbs fixed into sconces. The air was sulfurous and heavy, and thick shadows cut in jagged angles and slits along the floor. An oppressive feeling clung to the air, a menace full of dark loathing and cruelty. It made Phae’s heart tremble with fear, even though she was immortal. The blackness pressed against her mind, hammering against her thoughts and conjuring malevolent images in the secret places inside her.
Standing across from them at a pool of bubbling quicksilver, she saw Shirikant holding a stone chalice. It looked heavy and deep, half the size of a melon, with intricate carvings set on the outside of the bowl. The lip was ridged and crumbling, and the whole thing looked ancient and defaced. Shirikant gripped it in one hand, the other clutching his Tay al-Ard. His face was creased with savage emotions, his eyes burning with pure hatred as they appeared. He seemed on the verge of lifting the chalice to his lips, but he lowered his arm, staring at them with a look that would have killed them both if it could.
“I knew you would come,” he said in a low, even tone. “Do you remember me now, Brother?”
Shion put a cautioning hand on Phae’s arm and took a step forward.
Immediately, shards of lightning flashed from the walls, hammering into Shion from three sides. The light blinded Phae, and she could feel the energy and heat swell past her, filling her with current.
The energy went into the Druidecht talisman worn around Shion’s neck, absorbing the charges before the light winked out.
“Exacerist,” Shion whispered. There was a chink of glass and spirits emerged from the cracked spheres, swirling in the air, leaving streamers of magic. “Antonium farsay. Benne.”
The light remained, the spirits not leaving after being freed. Phae realized Shion was speaking to them in another language, the pure language of Mirrowen.
“You free them but transform one form of slavery into another,” Shirikant sneered. “We are no different.”
“We are quite different,” Shion said flatly, walking forward deliberately. Phae did not hold back. She went with him, coming closer, wanting to connect with Shirikant’s eyes, but he would not look at her. He ignored her, turning the full force of his menacing eyes on his brother.
“So different,” Shirikant repeated. “How so, Brother? We are born of the same womb. We share the same immortality. You’ve served me for so long—your entire life! Why quit now? I’m close to undoing everything, to remake this world. So very close. I’ve set it all in motion. You cannot stop it.”
“I can, and I will,” Shion said coldly. “You are a usurper. Your throne is stolen. You cannot create, you can only destroy. You are of the Void, Brother. I will stop you.”
The feeling of tension in the smoky chamber intensified the dread. Phae felt as if dark shapes appeared at the corner of her vision, flickers of shadows. They weren’t alone. She felt as if someone stood beside her and the hairs on her arms pricked. As if someone were reaching to touch her and that touch would destroy her.
“How?” Shirikant said, chuckling darkly. “The Seneschal will stop me? He has done nothing these last ages. He can do nothing with the gate closed. He does nothing, but stride elegantly and spew platitudes, and shackle everyone into his own form of bondage. Mine at least is fixed for a season. There are terms and agreements. There is an end to the servitude. I would not wish to be an Unwearying One now. You are a slave, Isic.”
“I was your slave,” Shion replied coldly. “How could you do that to your own brother? What did I ever do to you to earn such contempt? I was loyal to you. We were the first mastermind. You and I. Look what you’ve become.”
“Look what I’ve become?” Shirikant said with a nasty twist in his expression, his cheeks quivering with rage. “I’ve remade this world. I built Kenatos. It’s no different than Mirrowen. I have chiseled and scraped every single reference, every mention of Mirrowen and its decrepit Seneschal from every book throughout the world. There is no mention of him anywhere. Not even the sad Druidecht order—your order!—remember him any longer. He’s nothing more than a myth and only the Dryads know of him. No mortal has trod this bridge since we did. And no one ever will again.”
Shion shook his head, standing across the bubbling cauldron of quicksilver from his brother, the greenish light playing across both their faces.
“You cannot erase the Seneschal,” Shion said simply. “In the winter, every tree appears to be dead. He’s allowed you to reign during this particular winter, Brother. But the spring comes and thaws the snow. The buds form on the trees again. Except the truly dead ones. Except for yours. You are known in Boeotia as a traitor and a deceiver. Your legend will spread throughout every land and kingdom until your title becomes a curse on men’s lips. It is over, Brother. I bring you to justice. I am taking you with me to Mirrowen.”
XLV
The subterranean cavern swirled with greenish mist and pungent odors. Cracks of light appeared in fissures on the walls, spirits trapped in glass orbs fixed into sconces. The air was sulfurous and heavy, and thick shadows cut in jagged angles and slits along the floor. An oppressive feeling clung to the air, a menace full of dark loathing and cruelty. It made Phae’s heart tremble with fear, even though she was immortal. The blackness pressed against her mind, hammering against her thoughts and conjuring malevolent images in the secret places inside her.
Standing across from them at a pool of bubbling quicksilver, she saw Shirikant holding a stone chalice. It looked heavy and deep, half the size of a melon, with intricate carvings set on the outside of the bowl. The lip was ridged and crumbling, and the whole thing looked ancient and defaced. Shirikant gripped it in one hand, the other clutching his Tay al-Ard. His face was creased with savage emotions, his eyes burning with pure hatred as they appeared. He seemed on the verge of lifting the chalice to his lips, but he lowered his arm, staring at them with a look that would have killed them both if it could.
“I knew you would come,” he said in a low, even tone. “Do you remember me now, Brother?”
Shion put a cautioning hand on Phae’s arm and took a step forward.
Immediately, shards of lightning flashed from the walls, hammering into Shion from three sides. The light blinded Phae, and she could feel the energy and heat swell past her, filling her with current.
The energy went into the Druidecht talisman worn around Shion’s neck, absorbing the charges before the light winked out.
“Exacerist,” Shion whispered. There was a chink of glass and spirits emerged from the cracked spheres, swirling in the air, leaving streamers of magic. “Antonium farsay. Benne.”
The light remained, the spirits not leaving after being freed. Phae realized Shion was speaking to them in another language, the pure language of Mirrowen.
“You free them but transform one form of slavery into another,” Shirikant sneered. “We are no different.”
“We are quite different,” Shion said flatly, walking forward deliberately. Phae did not hold back. She went with him, coming closer, wanting to connect with Shirikant’s eyes, but he would not look at her. He ignored her, turning the full force of his menacing eyes on his brother.
“So different,” Shirikant repeated. “How so, Brother? We are born of the same womb. We share the same immortality. You’ve served me for so long—your entire life! Why quit now? I’m close to undoing everything, to remake this world. So very close. I’ve set it all in motion. You cannot stop it.”
“I can, and I will,” Shion said coldly. “You are a usurper. Your throne is stolen. You cannot create, you can only destroy. You are of the Void, Brother. I will stop you.”
The feeling of tension in the smoky chamber intensified the dread. Phae felt as if dark shapes appeared at the corner of her vision, flickers of shadows. They weren’t alone. She felt as if someone stood beside her and the hairs on her arms pricked. As if someone were reaching to touch her and that touch would destroy her.
“How?” Shirikant said, chuckling darkly. “The Seneschal will stop me? He has done nothing these last ages. He can do nothing with the gate closed. He does nothing, but stride elegantly and spew platitudes, and shackle everyone into his own form of bondage. Mine at least is fixed for a season. There are terms and agreements. There is an end to the servitude. I would not wish to be an Unwearying One now. You are a slave, Isic.”
“I was your slave,” Shion replied coldly. “How could you do that to your own brother? What did I ever do to you to earn such contempt? I was loyal to you. We were the first mastermind. You and I. Look what you’ve become.”
“Look what I’ve become?” Shirikant said with a nasty twist in his expression, his cheeks quivering with rage. “I’ve remade this world. I built Kenatos. It’s no different than Mirrowen. I have chiseled and scraped every single reference, every mention of Mirrowen and its decrepit Seneschal from every book throughout the world. There is no mention of him anywhere. Not even the sad Druidecht order—your order!—remember him any longer. He’s nothing more than a myth and only the Dryads know of him. No mortal has trod this bridge since we did. And no one ever will again.”
Shion shook his head, standing across the bubbling cauldron of quicksilver from his brother, the greenish light playing across both their faces.
“You cannot erase the Seneschal,” Shion said simply. “In the winter, every tree appears to be dead. He’s allowed you to reign during this particular winter, Brother. But the spring comes and thaws the snow. The buds form on the trees again. Except the truly dead ones. Except for yours. You are known in Boeotia as a traitor and a deceiver. Your legend will spread throughout every land and kingdom until your title becomes a curse on men’s lips. It is over, Brother. I bring you to justice. I am taking you with me to Mirrowen.”
