Poisonwell
Page 90
Annon stared at her expression, wrestling with his feelings. “Who told you it was fallen? Was it Shirikant? He is a deceiver.”
“I saw it through his mind, Druidecht. He destroyed it. The bridge must remain closed or the Abyss will flood this world. He keeps the gate shut. He is the Seneschal now. His name is not Shirikant.”
Annon stared at her, perplexed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. But Mirrowen is not fallen. I am a Druidecht from another forest. There are spirits there, Ruhamah. This place is cursed. These woods are cursed. But I am come from far away, where the forest is healthy and there are many gardens.” He pressed his hand against the side of her head. “Where is it? Where is Poisonwell?”
She took his hand between hers, gripping it as if his fingers were a rope and she were drowning. Her mouth frowned even more, stricken. “Is it true?”
“I swear it by the talisman I wear. It was given to me by the spirits of Mirrowen. Feel it—it bears the symbols.”
Her fingers traced over the pattern on his talisman, following the curving lines. She gasped with recognition. “A lie? What he showed me . . . was a lie?”
“He is no longer your master,” Annon said. “Where can I find it? The bridge must be opened again. Where is it?”
“Are you certain? The floods of the Abyss will drown this world if there is no Seneschal at the gate. You risk killing everyone, sending all into chaos. Are you certain?”
“I am,” Annon replied, though he felt more uncertain with each passing moment. “Where can I find it?”
“That way,” Ruhamah said, pointing directly with her finger. “It is a league from here. In the middle of the forest, there is a promontory of stone jutting out from the earth. The ruins of a keep are there. But the bridge between the worlds is hidden in caves beneath the promontory. It is a vein to the core of the earth. There are fumes and heat. Be wary. I cannot guide you to it. Only the Mother Tree guards that secret. She guards the secrets of the bridge and knows the word to pass between the worlds.” Her hands clasped Annon’s tightly. “She is mad with suffering and grief, Druidecht. Her daughter was stolen. Long ago. She was stolen and killed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The man who travels with you is not mortal. He is disfigured by scars. He is the one, Druidecht.” Her fingers touched the side of his face. “He is the one who killed her.”
Dread flooded inside Annon.
Shion.
“Where is the Mother Tree?” Annon asked hoarsely. He gripped her shoulder. “On the promontory?”
“No,” she answered. “It is an ancient tree, even more ancient than this one. It no longer bears the shape of a tree. The heaviest branches fell off years ago and new ones have grafted. It’s pockmarked and misshapen, like the soul of the Dryad mother who is bound there. The trunk is split into two legs, forming a small archway, almost like a cave, between them. That is the Mother Tree. Her will is stronger than mine, Druidecht. She knows you are coming. Her roots run deep and touch nearly every tree in the woods. She knows you are here. She will summon all defenses to protect the tree. Hidden there are secrets held since the beginning of time.”
“Thank you, Ruhamah,” Annon said. “Can you not return to Mirrowen through your tree?”
Ruhamah shook her head. “I am no longer worthy to enter. I was taught this by the Seneschal when I made my oaths. May I have your true name as well?”
“I am Annon of Wayland,” he answered.
Tyrus’s voice boomed from the stillness. “Hasten!”
“Will the dawn never come? Yet I dread its arrival. How much of the city of Kenatos has fallen during the night? The barbarians are shrieking in the dark. One cannot sleep through their howls.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXVII
Weariness from the run enveloped Phae like a cloak. Tyrus had used the command to summon Annon back from the Dryad Tree, but instead of using the Tay al-Ard, they had fled through the woods on foot to escape. She huddled in the dark, arms crossed over her knees, her shoulder pressed against Shion’s. They found shelter in a small gully, bone-dry and thick with smooth stones. Not even the deepest level was damp, but the dirt was soft and provided some cushion. She felt her head bobbing and longed to sleep. After brushing her eyes with her forearm, she tried to make out the shadows of her companions.
Prince Aran guarded one end of the gully, about a stone’s throw away. Hettie protected the other end, bow resting on her lap. Annon and Tyrus spoke in low tones nearby as he related what he had learned from the Dryad tree. For some reason, he had insisted on speaking to Tyrus privately.
“I saw it through his mind, Druidecht. He destroyed it. The bridge must remain closed or the Abyss will flood this world. He keeps the gate shut. He is the Seneschal now. His name is not Shirikant.”
Annon stared at her, perplexed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. But Mirrowen is not fallen. I am a Druidecht from another forest. There are spirits there, Ruhamah. This place is cursed. These woods are cursed. But I am come from far away, where the forest is healthy and there are many gardens.” He pressed his hand against the side of her head. “Where is it? Where is Poisonwell?”
She took his hand between hers, gripping it as if his fingers were a rope and she were drowning. Her mouth frowned even more, stricken. “Is it true?”
“I swear it by the talisman I wear. It was given to me by the spirits of Mirrowen. Feel it—it bears the symbols.”
Her fingers traced over the pattern on his talisman, following the curving lines. She gasped with recognition. “A lie? What he showed me . . . was a lie?”
“He is no longer your master,” Annon said. “Where can I find it? The bridge must be opened again. Where is it?”
“Are you certain? The floods of the Abyss will drown this world if there is no Seneschal at the gate. You risk killing everyone, sending all into chaos. Are you certain?”
“I am,” Annon replied, though he felt more uncertain with each passing moment. “Where can I find it?”
“That way,” Ruhamah said, pointing directly with her finger. “It is a league from here. In the middle of the forest, there is a promontory of stone jutting out from the earth. The ruins of a keep are there. But the bridge between the worlds is hidden in caves beneath the promontory. It is a vein to the core of the earth. There are fumes and heat. Be wary. I cannot guide you to it. Only the Mother Tree guards that secret. She guards the secrets of the bridge and knows the word to pass between the worlds.” Her hands clasped Annon’s tightly. “She is mad with suffering and grief, Druidecht. Her daughter was stolen. Long ago. She was stolen and killed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The man who travels with you is not mortal. He is disfigured by scars. He is the one, Druidecht.” Her fingers touched the side of his face. “He is the one who killed her.”
Dread flooded inside Annon.
Shion.
“Where is the Mother Tree?” Annon asked hoarsely. He gripped her shoulder. “On the promontory?”
“No,” she answered. “It is an ancient tree, even more ancient than this one. It no longer bears the shape of a tree. The heaviest branches fell off years ago and new ones have grafted. It’s pockmarked and misshapen, like the soul of the Dryad mother who is bound there. The trunk is split into two legs, forming a small archway, almost like a cave, between them. That is the Mother Tree. Her will is stronger than mine, Druidecht. She knows you are coming. Her roots run deep and touch nearly every tree in the woods. She knows you are here. She will summon all defenses to protect the tree. Hidden there are secrets held since the beginning of time.”
“Thank you, Ruhamah,” Annon said. “Can you not return to Mirrowen through your tree?”
Ruhamah shook her head. “I am no longer worthy to enter. I was taught this by the Seneschal when I made my oaths. May I have your true name as well?”
“I am Annon of Wayland,” he answered.
Tyrus’s voice boomed from the stillness. “Hasten!”
“Will the dawn never come? Yet I dread its arrival. How much of the city of Kenatos has fallen during the night? The barbarians are shrieking in the dark. One cannot sleep through their howls.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXVII
Weariness from the run enveloped Phae like a cloak. Tyrus had used the command to summon Annon back from the Dryad Tree, but instead of using the Tay al-Ard, they had fled through the woods on foot to escape. She huddled in the dark, arms crossed over her knees, her shoulder pressed against Shion’s. They found shelter in a small gully, bone-dry and thick with smooth stones. Not even the deepest level was damp, but the dirt was soft and provided some cushion. She felt her head bobbing and longed to sleep. After brushing her eyes with her forearm, she tried to make out the shadows of her companions.
Prince Aran guarded one end of the gully, about a stone’s throw away. Hettie protected the other end, bow resting on her lap. Annon and Tyrus spoke in low tones nearby as he related what he had learned from the Dryad tree. For some reason, he had insisted on speaking to Tyrus privately.
