Poisonwell
Page 27
The choice of words the Empress used reminded Annon of something Erasmus had said. He sat up straight, leaning forward and listening intently. His mouth went dry.
The Empress’s gaze met Annon’s. “I think you begin to understand,” she whispered eagerly. “Trust your intuition, Druidecht. There is magic in Mirrowen beyond our understanding and even our dreams. It is a realm where there is no death. Imagine if you understood how that was done. What if a mortal made it to Mirrowen, learned the secret of living always, and returned? That man would live in a world full of death. But he would never die. There is such a man. He has been purged from every history book, stripped away by generations of Archivists who did not know what they were doing or that they were serving an evil purpose. Every mention of this man was removed, copy by copy. Page by page. There are only a few references left, and they were so obscure and hidden that very few would even know what they were reading if they happened upon it. This is a great and terrible secret. Yet it must be told again for fear of it being shrouded if the line of Empresses fails.” Her smile wilted; her eyes were like daggers. “You fight not against a mortal man, Tyrus Paracelsus. You fight against the first of your kind. The first who bore the fireblood. The father of your race. He is no more the Arch-Rike of Kenatos than he is the dead King of Stonehollow . . . or likely the King of Wayland next. He is already shifting his strategy, preparing a new guise, another metamorphosis. All the attention goes to Kenatos but he is preparing to alter his identity again and rule with another man’s countenance.”
Tyrus looked at Mathon, his eyes blazing. He said nothing, but his jaw was set.
“It’s true,” Mathon said, his voice throbbing with emotion. “We were both betrayed by the Arch-Rike, but not the man who he was. Not Band-Imas. We were tricked by the one who supplanted him and locked him away somewhere in the dungeons, and then took his place when he discovered that you were not to be dissuaded from entering the Scourgelands. This is the man, the Intelligence, who has unleashed the full fury of the Scourgelands upon us. And he is waiting for you to enter it again, Tyrus, with even more evil beings to do his bidding this time. You must understand this, Tyrus. You must understand that you are fighting a man who cannot be killed.”
Annon noticed a twitch in Tyrus’s cheek. It was a twitch that stopped him from turning his head and looking back. Phae, on the other hand, did not have the same self-control. Annon watched her head jerk and she stared back at the Quiet Kishion in shock.
“For what cannot be cured, patience is best.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VIII
Tell me what you know of this enemy,” Tyrus said softly, eagerly.
Annon watched as the Empress’s gaze tracked Phae’s movement. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. A sickening curl twisted inside Annon’s stomach. The woman was observant, shrewd, and he could not know her thoughts or what she intended. Her attention went back to Tyrus.
“There is not much time remaining before they come,” she murmured softly. “I will say what I can.”
“Who is coming?” Annon demanded.
“Those who seek to destroy me. I will be quick.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Tyrus’s leg. “I do not know the name of our ageless enemy. In our tongue, he is called Shirikant—it means ‘the Accuser’ in your language. Let me describe the pattern to you, for it happened here in Boeotia and it has happened repeatedly since our fall. A wise man arrives, seeking to trade knowledge and wisdom that he has assembled in a vast book. He is friendly, considerate, rather charming. Some believe he is a Druidecht, for he wears a talisman. He has the fireblood but never uses it but to light candles or quench a flame. He is calm and works hard, winning trust easily. Such a man came to Boeotia long ago. He was given access to the records of the Empress, seeking knowledge about the history of the people. He jotted down his notes and studies, trading quips with the best scholars in the realm. He was fluent in many languages, but most importantly, the unspoken language of influence. When trust is earned, he brought several students to come as well. They are his disciples and help spread word of his fame.”
She stopped, eyeing something deeper in the chamber. A small frown tugged at her mouth.
“Go on,” Tyrus said.
“As the disciples pore over the records as well, they begin to steal snippets. They are covert. Sometimes they painstakingly copy a page or corrupt the text, changing the meaning of words. These deeds were done in secret, but the Empress Kosonin had them watched and observed. When she learned what was happening, rather than challenge the visitor, she began to study what the changes were and what things were being erased. Can you guess, Tyrus Paracelsus? Can you guess what information was being destroyed?”
The Empress’s gaze met Annon’s. “I think you begin to understand,” she whispered eagerly. “Trust your intuition, Druidecht. There is magic in Mirrowen beyond our understanding and even our dreams. It is a realm where there is no death. Imagine if you understood how that was done. What if a mortal made it to Mirrowen, learned the secret of living always, and returned? That man would live in a world full of death. But he would never die. There is such a man. He has been purged from every history book, stripped away by generations of Archivists who did not know what they were doing or that they were serving an evil purpose. Every mention of this man was removed, copy by copy. Page by page. There are only a few references left, and they were so obscure and hidden that very few would even know what they were reading if they happened upon it. This is a great and terrible secret. Yet it must be told again for fear of it being shrouded if the line of Empresses fails.” Her smile wilted; her eyes were like daggers. “You fight not against a mortal man, Tyrus Paracelsus. You fight against the first of your kind. The first who bore the fireblood. The father of your race. He is no more the Arch-Rike of Kenatos than he is the dead King of Stonehollow . . . or likely the King of Wayland next. He is already shifting his strategy, preparing a new guise, another metamorphosis. All the attention goes to Kenatos but he is preparing to alter his identity again and rule with another man’s countenance.”
Tyrus looked at Mathon, his eyes blazing. He said nothing, but his jaw was set.
“It’s true,” Mathon said, his voice throbbing with emotion. “We were both betrayed by the Arch-Rike, but not the man who he was. Not Band-Imas. We were tricked by the one who supplanted him and locked him away somewhere in the dungeons, and then took his place when he discovered that you were not to be dissuaded from entering the Scourgelands. This is the man, the Intelligence, who has unleashed the full fury of the Scourgelands upon us. And he is waiting for you to enter it again, Tyrus, with even more evil beings to do his bidding this time. You must understand this, Tyrus. You must understand that you are fighting a man who cannot be killed.”
Annon noticed a twitch in Tyrus’s cheek. It was a twitch that stopped him from turning his head and looking back. Phae, on the other hand, did not have the same self-control. Annon watched her head jerk and she stared back at the Quiet Kishion in shock.
“For what cannot be cured, patience is best.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
VIII
Tell me what you know of this enemy,” Tyrus said softly, eagerly.
Annon watched as the Empress’s gaze tracked Phae’s movement. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. A sickening curl twisted inside Annon’s stomach. The woman was observant, shrewd, and he could not know her thoughts or what she intended. Her attention went back to Tyrus.
“There is not much time remaining before they come,” she murmured softly. “I will say what I can.”
“Who is coming?” Annon demanded.
“Those who seek to destroy me. I will be quick.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Tyrus’s leg. “I do not know the name of our ageless enemy. In our tongue, he is called Shirikant—it means ‘the Accuser’ in your language. Let me describe the pattern to you, for it happened here in Boeotia and it has happened repeatedly since our fall. A wise man arrives, seeking to trade knowledge and wisdom that he has assembled in a vast book. He is friendly, considerate, rather charming. Some believe he is a Druidecht, for he wears a talisman. He has the fireblood but never uses it but to light candles or quench a flame. He is calm and works hard, winning trust easily. Such a man came to Boeotia long ago. He was given access to the records of the Empress, seeking knowledge about the history of the people. He jotted down his notes and studies, trading quips with the best scholars in the realm. He was fluent in many languages, but most importantly, the unspoken language of influence. When trust is earned, he brought several students to come as well. They are his disciples and help spread word of his fame.”
She stopped, eyeing something deeper in the chamber. A small frown tugged at her mouth.
“Go on,” Tyrus said.
“As the disciples pore over the records as well, they begin to steal snippets. They are covert. Sometimes they painstakingly copy a page or corrupt the text, changing the meaning of words. These deeds were done in secret, but the Empress Kosonin had them watched and observed. When she learned what was happening, rather than challenge the visitor, she began to study what the changes were and what things were being erased. Can you guess, Tyrus Paracelsus? Can you guess what information was being destroyed?”
