Poisonwell
Page 156
“Yes, you are, Uncle,” Hettie said. “You used the fireblood too much. You were raging a moment ago.”
“I was,” Tyrus said, nodding emphatically. His eyes were reflective, calm. “My thoughts are clearing like those storm clouds. Phae? Is that you? Shion?”
Phae rushed forward and sank down on her knees, drawing Tyrus into her arms. “The madness is banished,” she announced to everyone, her heart throbbing with joy. “The curse of the fireblood is no more. The Plague has ended. Father, it is over. You triumphed!” She cupped his cheek tenderly. “You were right. You did not know all of what happened in the past, but you figured out so much on your own. You’ve been hearing the whispers from Mirrowen all along. They brought you here. They brought you here to heal the land.”
She felt wetness on his back and when she pulled her hand back saw the drops of blood sticking to her fingers. His face was pale, his strength fading with each breath. His body was full of gashes and wounds. She withdrew the strange, moss-like plant from Mirrowen from a pouch at her side and pressed it against Tyrus’s back. She felt her father tense with surprise as the magic coursed through him, closing his savage cuts and healing his wounds and his weariness. Color came back to his cheeks.
She stared at him, stroking his face, smiling through her tears. “Father, we defeated Shirikant! Shion was the one who destroyed the Plague. His memories are restored. I know him now, I know about our race . . . about the history of our family.” She bowed her head, unable to speak all that was in her heart, realizing that her time with him was not ending, only beginning—that their time together would be lasting. “You were right in what you chose, Father. All that you sacrificed, all that you surrendered to succeed. It was worth all the hardships! The Plagues have ended. We were immune because of who we are. We’re descendants of Shirikant, Father. And we now have a destiny to prevent this evil from returning.”
I will speak with him
Phae felt the whisper as it rushed through her heart. She rose, drawing her father up with her. She held him close, burying her face in his chest, feeling his strength but trying to suffuse part of hers into him again. She gripped his hands and then turned, facing Shion and the Seneschal.
“Father, this is the Seneschal of Mirrowen. There is a task he will give you. I know him, Father. Our family must reverse the evils caused by our ancestor.”
Tyrus stared at Shion, seeing the change that had overcome his countenance, the steadiness and confidence. The compassion. She could see Tyrus’s eyes noticing the talisman around Shion’s neck. Then he faced the Seneschal. Slowly, Tyrus eased down on one knee.
“What would you have me do?” he whispered.
The ground beneath Annon rumbled. A sudden jolt from below knocked him flat. A crack—as if the earth had split in half—sounded, deafening them. The remaining columns toppled, causing shrieks of fright to come from the quivering soldiers of Kenatos. Annon rose to his feet quickly, rushing up the final length of the ramp to the upper heights. He had passed the field unchallenged, seeing dead Weir all around. In the mist, he thought he had seen larger beasts ghosting in the shroud of vapor, their bulk twice the size of the Weir. He had hurried across the field, passing the carcasses, until he reached the ramp.
As he stepped onto the top of the hill, he saw the shattered ruins up close. Some ancient fortress seemed to have once stood proudly, but it was toppled. As he stepped over a fallen buttress, he saw a shock of pale hair and recognized it. The dead eyes of Lukias stared absently, a trickle of blood coming from his ear. Annon stared at the corpse, feeling a twist of anguish mixed with relief. He realized in the image that the Order of the Rikes would fade into memory now. Would any remain to carry on their false traditions? What would be said of them in the future? That they were a mad religion that enslaved the races in a prison island known as Kenatos?
Annon stared at the face, shook his head, and then pressed toward the center of the destruction. He felt a strange exhilaration in his blood, a sense of giddiness instead of fear. As he walked, the lightness in his chest grew to euphoria. All around him was devastation and destruction, but he felt peaceful and calm. He heard a whisper coming from the center of the ruins. The whisper sizzled in his heart, making his eyes sting with tears. His pace broadened, his mouth burning with thirst. Was that the sound of water? Up at the heights? He could not understand it. Where was it coming from?
Spirits began to flit through the air. He saw them, dazzled by the streaks of color and intensity. A Shain spirit came up to him with enthusiasm.
Come, Druidecht. Come! The Seneschal is here. The Seneschal of Mirrowen! Come!
“I was,” Tyrus said, nodding emphatically. His eyes were reflective, calm. “My thoughts are clearing like those storm clouds. Phae? Is that you? Shion?”
Phae rushed forward and sank down on her knees, drawing Tyrus into her arms. “The madness is banished,” she announced to everyone, her heart throbbing with joy. “The curse of the fireblood is no more. The Plague has ended. Father, it is over. You triumphed!” She cupped his cheek tenderly. “You were right. You did not know all of what happened in the past, but you figured out so much on your own. You’ve been hearing the whispers from Mirrowen all along. They brought you here. They brought you here to heal the land.”
She felt wetness on his back and when she pulled her hand back saw the drops of blood sticking to her fingers. His face was pale, his strength fading with each breath. His body was full of gashes and wounds. She withdrew the strange, moss-like plant from Mirrowen from a pouch at her side and pressed it against Tyrus’s back. She felt her father tense with surprise as the magic coursed through him, closing his savage cuts and healing his wounds and his weariness. Color came back to his cheeks.
She stared at him, stroking his face, smiling through her tears. “Father, we defeated Shirikant! Shion was the one who destroyed the Plague. His memories are restored. I know him now, I know about our race . . . about the history of our family.” She bowed her head, unable to speak all that was in her heart, realizing that her time with him was not ending, only beginning—that their time together would be lasting. “You were right in what you chose, Father. All that you sacrificed, all that you surrendered to succeed. It was worth all the hardships! The Plagues have ended. We were immune because of who we are. We’re descendants of Shirikant, Father. And we now have a destiny to prevent this evil from returning.”
I will speak with him
Phae felt the whisper as it rushed through her heart. She rose, drawing her father up with her. She held him close, burying her face in his chest, feeling his strength but trying to suffuse part of hers into him again. She gripped his hands and then turned, facing Shion and the Seneschal.
“Father, this is the Seneschal of Mirrowen. There is a task he will give you. I know him, Father. Our family must reverse the evils caused by our ancestor.”
Tyrus stared at Shion, seeing the change that had overcome his countenance, the steadiness and confidence. The compassion. She could see Tyrus’s eyes noticing the talisman around Shion’s neck. Then he faced the Seneschal. Slowly, Tyrus eased down on one knee.
“What would you have me do?” he whispered.
The ground beneath Annon rumbled. A sudden jolt from below knocked him flat. A crack—as if the earth had split in half—sounded, deafening them. The remaining columns toppled, causing shrieks of fright to come from the quivering soldiers of Kenatos. Annon rose to his feet quickly, rushing up the final length of the ramp to the upper heights. He had passed the field unchallenged, seeing dead Weir all around. In the mist, he thought he had seen larger beasts ghosting in the shroud of vapor, their bulk twice the size of the Weir. He had hurried across the field, passing the carcasses, until he reached the ramp.
As he stepped onto the top of the hill, he saw the shattered ruins up close. Some ancient fortress seemed to have once stood proudly, but it was toppled. As he stepped over a fallen buttress, he saw a shock of pale hair and recognized it. The dead eyes of Lukias stared absently, a trickle of blood coming from his ear. Annon stared at the corpse, feeling a twist of anguish mixed with relief. He realized in the image that the Order of the Rikes would fade into memory now. Would any remain to carry on their false traditions? What would be said of them in the future? That they were a mad religion that enslaved the races in a prison island known as Kenatos?
Annon stared at the face, shook his head, and then pressed toward the center of the destruction. He felt a strange exhilaration in his blood, a sense of giddiness instead of fear. As he walked, the lightness in his chest grew to euphoria. All around him was devastation and destruction, but he felt peaceful and calm. He heard a whisper coming from the center of the ruins. The whisper sizzled in his heart, making his eyes sting with tears. His pace broadened, his mouth burning with thirst. Was that the sound of water? Up at the heights? He could not understand it. Where was it coming from?
Spirits began to flit through the air. He saw them, dazzled by the streaks of color and intensity. A Shain spirit came up to him with enthusiasm.
Come, Druidecht. Come! The Seneschal is here. The Seneschal of Mirrowen! Come!
