Poisonwell
Page 72
The Fear Liath snarled at him, its breath too hideous to endure, and then it loped away into the woods, fleeing for the darkness of its lair.
“Kill it, Kiranrao!” Tyrus shouted. “It is vulnerable to you now. Kill it!”
“I know it’s vulnerable,” the Romani said. “I sensed it the moment the rock burst.”
“This is the chance to be rid of it. It will hunt us again at night and finish the destruction it started.”
“No.”
Annon, face burning with pain, struggled to his feet. The finality in Kiranrao’s voice was startling.
“You can’t take the Tay al-Ard from me,” Tyrus said. “Even if you stole it, I would get it back. You are trapped here with us until we finish the task we came here to finish.”
“I’m not your puppet! I dance to no man’s strings. Give me the Tay al-Ard!”
“I am not as defenseless as you imagine.”
Kiranrao snorted. “Hand it over, or I will end your foolish quest right now.”
Prince Aran appeared from the woods, his face haggard with grief. “It is over. Phae’s dead, Tyrus. Shion’s with the body. She’s dead!”
Annon dropped the smoking rock, seeing the pain in Tyrus’s eyes. He looked as if a dagger had been plunged into his stomach.
A single deep, full breath swelled Paedrin’s chest and he opened his eyes again as his body began to rise off the forest floor. The soothing, peaceful warmth permeated his entire frame. The pain in his belly was gone, even though his robes were stained with blood.
Tears of relief streamed down Hettie’s face as she embraced him, burying her face against his chest. He pulled her tightly to him, savoring the feelings and sensations that still coiled around him.
“Thank you, Khiara,” Hettie whispered, her voice choked. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” She released Paedrin and grabbed the Shaliah’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
Khiara looked ashen, but she acknowledged the gratitude. She rose to her feet, swaying slightly when Prince Aran appeared with the dreadful news.
Khiara’s eyes flashed with dread and she sprinted away, rushing in the direction that Phae had fled earlier.
Paedrin quickly made it to his feet, pulling Hettie up with him, and grabbed his fallen blade. He looked at Kiranrao with defiance, wondering what he would do after hearing the news.
“Dead?” Kiranrao said, his face twisted with surprise.
“I watched the Fear Liath sniff her corpse,” the Prince said, his expression hardening from sorrow to fury. “Tyrus, there is no point in going on! She was the key to this.”
“Khiara can revive her,” Tyrus said, his voice choked. He marched after the Shaliah.
“She cannot bring back the dead!” Aran said flatly. “She cannot do that keramat.”
Paedrin grasped Hettie’s hand and pulled her with him after the others. Even Annon followed, blood streaming down his face from the Fear Liath’s wound.
They arrived at a broken oak tree choked with mistletoe. One of the tree’s massive branches had cracked off. Next to it, Shion knelt, holding Phae in his arms. He was stroking her leaf-strewn hair, shaking his head, the look of abject misery on his horror-stricken face.
Khiara knelt nearby, her hand on Phae’s brow, shaking her head. “I cannot heal her.”
Paedrin squeezed Hettie’s hand, tears pricking his eyes at the sight.
Annon stared at the scene with mute grief. His heart ached, seeing the lifeless pallor on Phae’s ashen cheeks. There was no breath. Her arms were limp in Shion’s embrace, dragging on the earth floor. He took a tentative step forward, overwhelmed by his emotions—overwhelmed at seeing the grief on Shion’s face, the quivering mouth contorted with anguish, the brooding and haunted look in the eyes. The eyes especially, Annon knew firsthand, revealed the true torture of someone’s soul. Annon knew of that kind of pain personally and felt empathy overshadow him. Everything they had fought for was over. The quest had failed. It struck him so deeply that he felt like weeping. Tyrus shook his head in rock-hard determination, unwilling to submit to the brutal truth.
Kiranrao, almost in amazement, wandered up and stared down at Phae’s body, as if not believing what he saw. “She is dead,” he said tonelessly. Then he turned to Tyrus, his expression hardening with rage. “You failed again.”
The impact of his words seemed to strike like thunder.
Tyrus looked haunted, his face a mask of blood, debris, and coalescing sadness and misery. They were all blood-spattered and exhausted.
“Kill it, Kiranrao!” Tyrus shouted. “It is vulnerable to you now. Kill it!”
“I know it’s vulnerable,” the Romani said. “I sensed it the moment the rock burst.”
“This is the chance to be rid of it. It will hunt us again at night and finish the destruction it started.”
“No.”
Annon, face burning with pain, struggled to his feet. The finality in Kiranrao’s voice was startling.
“You can’t take the Tay al-Ard from me,” Tyrus said. “Even if you stole it, I would get it back. You are trapped here with us until we finish the task we came here to finish.”
“I’m not your puppet! I dance to no man’s strings. Give me the Tay al-Ard!”
“I am not as defenseless as you imagine.”
Kiranrao snorted. “Hand it over, or I will end your foolish quest right now.”
Prince Aran appeared from the woods, his face haggard with grief. “It is over. Phae’s dead, Tyrus. Shion’s with the body. She’s dead!”
Annon dropped the smoking rock, seeing the pain in Tyrus’s eyes. He looked as if a dagger had been plunged into his stomach.
A single deep, full breath swelled Paedrin’s chest and he opened his eyes again as his body began to rise off the forest floor. The soothing, peaceful warmth permeated his entire frame. The pain in his belly was gone, even though his robes were stained with blood.
Tears of relief streamed down Hettie’s face as she embraced him, burying her face against his chest. He pulled her tightly to him, savoring the feelings and sensations that still coiled around him.
“Thank you, Khiara,” Hettie whispered, her voice choked. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” She released Paedrin and grabbed the Shaliah’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
Khiara looked ashen, but she acknowledged the gratitude. She rose to her feet, swaying slightly when Prince Aran appeared with the dreadful news.
Khiara’s eyes flashed with dread and she sprinted away, rushing in the direction that Phae had fled earlier.
Paedrin quickly made it to his feet, pulling Hettie up with him, and grabbed his fallen blade. He looked at Kiranrao with defiance, wondering what he would do after hearing the news.
“Dead?” Kiranrao said, his face twisted with surprise.
“I watched the Fear Liath sniff her corpse,” the Prince said, his expression hardening from sorrow to fury. “Tyrus, there is no point in going on! She was the key to this.”
“Khiara can revive her,” Tyrus said, his voice choked. He marched after the Shaliah.
“She cannot bring back the dead!” Aran said flatly. “She cannot do that keramat.”
Paedrin grasped Hettie’s hand and pulled her with him after the others. Even Annon followed, blood streaming down his face from the Fear Liath’s wound.
They arrived at a broken oak tree choked with mistletoe. One of the tree’s massive branches had cracked off. Next to it, Shion knelt, holding Phae in his arms. He was stroking her leaf-strewn hair, shaking his head, the look of abject misery on his horror-stricken face.
Khiara knelt nearby, her hand on Phae’s brow, shaking her head. “I cannot heal her.”
Paedrin squeezed Hettie’s hand, tears pricking his eyes at the sight.
Annon stared at the scene with mute grief. His heart ached, seeing the lifeless pallor on Phae’s ashen cheeks. There was no breath. Her arms were limp in Shion’s embrace, dragging on the earth floor. He took a tentative step forward, overwhelmed by his emotions—overwhelmed at seeing the grief on Shion’s face, the quivering mouth contorted with anguish, the brooding and haunted look in the eyes. The eyes especially, Annon knew firsthand, revealed the true torture of someone’s soul. Annon knew of that kind of pain personally and felt empathy overshadow him. Everything they had fought for was over. The quest had failed. It struck him so deeply that he felt like weeping. Tyrus shook his head in rock-hard determination, unwilling to submit to the brutal truth.
Kiranrao, almost in amazement, wandered up and stared down at Phae’s body, as if not believing what he saw. “She is dead,” he said tonelessly. Then he turned to Tyrus, his expression hardening with rage. “You failed again.”
The impact of his words seemed to strike like thunder.
Tyrus looked haunted, his face a mask of blood, debris, and coalescing sadness and misery. They were all blood-spattered and exhausted.
