Shion exhaled slowly, shaking his head. The experience had happened in the past but Phae could still see the lingering effects of grief on his countenance.
“What happened to Marq?”
“He went mad,” Shion said, grunting. “When Paideia crumpled into the water, he thought she was drowning. He went after her but Tenblec grabbed his arm and struggled to keep him near the gully with the rest of us. Marq isn’t a big man, but he was suddenly enraged that Tenblec stopped him. They were struggling and before anyone could break them up, Marq struck him on the head with the pommel of his dagger. Then Marq was splashing in the waters and struggling to reach the tree. By the time he reached it, he’d forgotten about Paideia and he also grabbed for the fruit and died. The rest of us managed to drag Tenblec’s body through the gulch. As soon as we tried to leave, the insects all went berserk and fluttered around us, going inside our garments.”
Phae trembled at the memory, her eyes riveted on Shion’s face. Her flesh crawled.
“Tenblec was dead when we reached the safety of the woods again, his skull caved in where the dagger pommel had struck. I didn’t realize how fragile life is, Brother. Three were dead so quickly. The trail was false. It led to a tree with special fruit, but it was not the portal to Mirrowen.”
Shirikant breathed deeply, shaking his head in dismay. He hugged his brother and held him a moment, his own expression mimicking the desolation of Shion. “I’m sorry, Isic. That’s a blow. That’s a hard blow. I’m grateful you didn’t succumb to the lure.”
Shirikant turned to the Preachán. “What do you think, Odea? What struck you about this tale?”
The Preachán was older than Shirikant, his hair receding. He was fit and trim, not a tall man, and his head seemed full of ideas. He had a pensive, thoughtful look. “I think we’re lucky Prince Isic is wise. Wisdom is worth pursuing, lad. You found some in this latest foray. This is not the tree to Mirrowen. This is a setback that would crush the determination of ordinary men. It means we are very close to discovering Mirrowen.”
Shirikant smiled at the statement, nodding indulgently. “There is always a setback. An obstacle to overcome.”
“I know,” Shion said. “You told me before we started this effort that we’d face challenges. I wasn’t expecting them to hurt this deeply. But I thought the same thing. Looking back, we should have retreated from the gully and left it alone. The clues warned us away, but I didn’t heed them soon enough. Those three paid with their lives.”
“I grieve for all their families,” Shirikant said. “They will want for nothing. We all accepted the risks. What do you say, Kishion?” He nodded toward the Cruithne guarding the door.
“Best to send me along on the next trip,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Can’t trust a group of Druidecht with fighting or squeamish business. Let me go.”
“You will,” Shirikant said, rubbing his smooth lower lip. “Isic—you should stay here for a fortnight or more. You need the rest and the chance to grieve. We’ll scour the records yet again to see what clues we find.”
Shirikant started to pace the chamber, his shoulder hunched with deep thought. His expression was full of energy, his eyes gleaming with hope. “We are so close!” he said vehemently. “I cannot believe that all the tales are false. Every people, whether they are Vaettir, Cruithne, Preachán, Boeotian, or even Moussion like me—like us—we all have traditions of how the world started. Land coming from the waters. Plants and trees coming next. Then fish and fowl. The Book of Breathings left by the Copts probably has the most detailed descriptions and flourishes to the tales. They speak about a Garden. They speak about a tree with a river gushing from it.” He pointed to the Cruithne. “One of the rivers in your homeland is named after it! They speak of the Gardener who allows mortals to come to Mirrowen, to learn the ways of the Unwearying Ones. The tree grants immortality.” His voice was thick with emotion, with passion and energy. “How can all of these sundry civilizations all share a common core, a common myth, a common origin story? There must be a pea of truth inside this shell. Master Archivist, say again what happened to this Garden?”
The Preachán folded his arms smugly, his expression revealing delight over being called out again. “It was first on this world with us. But the mortals were driven away. A bridge separates us, guarded by a terrible plague. Only those who know the name of the bridge can cross it. The name handed down through the ages is Poisonwell, though that is only an interpretation of a translation from Hidemic texts. Find Poisonwell, learn its password, and you can cross into Mirrowen, where the Plague will not kill you. The leaves from the tree cure any poison or disease. It would take courage to cross such a bridge, knowing that crossing it will kill you. The only question, my lord, is if the bridge is literal or metaphorical. Is it symbol or is it structure?”
“What happened to Marq?”
“He went mad,” Shion said, grunting. “When Paideia crumpled into the water, he thought she was drowning. He went after her but Tenblec grabbed his arm and struggled to keep him near the gully with the rest of us. Marq isn’t a big man, but he was suddenly enraged that Tenblec stopped him. They were struggling and before anyone could break them up, Marq struck him on the head with the pommel of his dagger. Then Marq was splashing in the waters and struggling to reach the tree. By the time he reached it, he’d forgotten about Paideia and he also grabbed for the fruit and died. The rest of us managed to drag Tenblec’s body through the gulch. As soon as we tried to leave, the insects all went berserk and fluttered around us, going inside our garments.”
Phae trembled at the memory, her eyes riveted on Shion’s face. Her flesh crawled.
“Tenblec was dead when we reached the safety of the woods again, his skull caved in where the dagger pommel had struck. I didn’t realize how fragile life is, Brother. Three were dead so quickly. The trail was false. It led to a tree with special fruit, but it was not the portal to Mirrowen.”
Shirikant breathed deeply, shaking his head in dismay. He hugged his brother and held him a moment, his own expression mimicking the desolation of Shion. “I’m sorry, Isic. That’s a blow. That’s a hard blow. I’m grateful you didn’t succumb to the lure.”
Shirikant turned to the Preachán. “What do you think, Odea? What struck you about this tale?”
The Preachán was older than Shirikant, his hair receding. He was fit and trim, not a tall man, and his head seemed full of ideas. He had a pensive, thoughtful look. “I think we’re lucky Prince Isic is wise. Wisdom is worth pursuing, lad. You found some in this latest foray. This is not the tree to Mirrowen. This is a setback that would crush the determination of ordinary men. It means we are very close to discovering Mirrowen.”
Shirikant smiled at the statement, nodding indulgently. “There is always a setback. An obstacle to overcome.”
“I know,” Shion said. “You told me before we started this effort that we’d face challenges. I wasn’t expecting them to hurt this deeply. But I thought the same thing. Looking back, we should have retreated from the gully and left it alone. The clues warned us away, but I didn’t heed them soon enough. Those three paid with their lives.”
“I grieve for all their families,” Shirikant said. “They will want for nothing. We all accepted the risks. What do you say, Kishion?” He nodded toward the Cruithne guarding the door.
“Best to send me along on the next trip,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Can’t trust a group of Druidecht with fighting or squeamish business. Let me go.”
“You will,” Shirikant said, rubbing his smooth lower lip. “Isic—you should stay here for a fortnight or more. You need the rest and the chance to grieve. We’ll scour the records yet again to see what clues we find.”
Shirikant started to pace the chamber, his shoulder hunched with deep thought. His expression was full of energy, his eyes gleaming with hope. “We are so close!” he said vehemently. “I cannot believe that all the tales are false. Every people, whether they are Vaettir, Cruithne, Preachán, Boeotian, or even Moussion like me—like us—we all have traditions of how the world started. Land coming from the waters. Plants and trees coming next. Then fish and fowl. The Book of Breathings left by the Copts probably has the most detailed descriptions and flourishes to the tales. They speak about a Garden. They speak about a tree with a river gushing from it.” He pointed to the Cruithne. “One of the rivers in your homeland is named after it! They speak of the Gardener who allows mortals to come to Mirrowen, to learn the ways of the Unwearying Ones. The tree grants immortality.” His voice was thick with emotion, with passion and energy. “How can all of these sundry civilizations all share a common core, a common myth, a common origin story? There must be a pea of truth inside this shell. Master Archivist, say again what happened to this Garden?”
The Preachán folded his arms smugly, his expression revealing delight over being called out again. “It was first on this world with us. But the mortals were driven away. A bridge separates us, guarded by a terrible plague. Only those who know the name of the bridge can cross it. The name handed down through the ages is Poisonwell, though that is only an interpretation of a translation from Hidemic texts. Find Poisonwell, learn its password, and you can cross into Mirrowen, where the Plague will not kill you. The leaves from the tree cure any poison or disease. It would take courage to cross such a bridge, knowing that crossing it will kill you. The only question, my lord, is if the bridge is literal or metaphorical. Is it symbol or is it structure?”
