His head remained bowed. Phae saw sweat trickling down his cheek. His jaw muscles were clenched.
“Rise, Prince Aristaios. I grant your boon. I charge you to build of stone this monument to Mirrowen as you described. I will carve a path through the woods that your workers may pass unhindered. I give you the mountains to the south to quarry and polish the stone. They will be your domain, a seat of your power for generations to come. Inasmuch as you seek to preserve the knowledge of Mirrowen, the structure will never fall. May it stand as a tower in the midst of the woods and draw mortals to learn of our ways. You may take one fruit from the tree. You may choose it freely or you may allow me to choose it for you. I must warn you, Prince Aristaios, that the tree contains serpents. If you seek to pluck a fruit and are not worthy of it, a serpent will strike your hand and you will die. These serpents have power over death. Make your choice.”
Prince Aristaios’ eyes widened with surprise and concern. “I . . . I thank you,” he stammered. He crossed the paving stones to the base of the tree, where waters gushed from the roots. He stared at the variety of fruit, casting his eyes across them all, looking for similarities. Phae knew which fruit granted immortality. She could see Shirikant’s eyes pass over it several times, pausing particularly at it, but still he searched.
Shion remained kneeling before the Seneschal, but he glanced up at his brother, watching him with a hopeful look.
Aristaios’s expression hardened with frustration. This was what he wanted. All his years of studying the legends had prepared him for this moment. But in none of the legends had they described what the fruit looked like. There were twelve choices. How could he know which was the one he desired?
Phae saw the look of determination on his face. He studied each one, but he did not raise his hand.
The Seneschal looked at him gravely, his face impassive. His daughter did not look at Prince Aristaios—her eyes were fixed on Shion’s face. Though she clung to her father’s arm, her eyes bored into Shion’s. She looked . . . tormented.
Prince Aristaios began to reach for one of the fruit. It was the fruit of immortality. Phae recognized it. As his hand came near, she saw a little white serpent raise its head. It was so slender and small, it looked as if it were part of the branch. Small black eyes opened. The forked tongue flicked out once as if to hiss, I will not bite you, mortal. Trust me.
The Prince’s hand froze midair. He stared at the serpent, his eyes widening with suppressed fear. His mouth twitched with panic. His hand began to tremble. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He withdrew his hand and backed away from the tree, his eyes never leaving the fruit.
“I will trust your judgment,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You pick for me.” His whole body trembled.
The Seneschal looked at him with a slight nod. “So be it.” He motioned for his daughter and she went and plucked a different fruit, one that was small and blue—the size of a cherry. The Seneschal’s daughter brought it to the Prince and extended it to him.
He stared at her, his eyes fixated on the fruit in her hand, then on her face. He seemed to know intrinsically that it wasn’t the one he desired.
“What is your name?” Aristaios asked her.
“I will not tell you my name,” she replied simply. “It would give you power over me.” She offered him the small fruit from her hand.
Prince Aristaios took it, his fingers grazing her palm. He stared at her, lost for a moment, his expression growing pale. Then he blinked quickly and put the fruit to his mouth and bit into the juicy skin. In a moment, he had devoured it.
He stared at the juice stains on his fingers, watching as the blue drops began to dance and then ignite.
The Seneschal bowed his head reverently. “You and your posterity will inherit this gift,” he said, his voice firm. “It is called the Fireblood. You will sire a race that bears this gift, Prince Aristaios. It is a fruit of ambition. But it must be controlled. You must control your anger, or the flames of ambition will consume you. Remember these words and teach them to your posterity. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas. If you think these words—in your mind—then you will control the power of the fireblood and accomplish any task that you set your mind to. With it, your achievements will impact generations. I warn you, Prince Aristaios. If you fail to control the fireblood, it will control you. I charge you and your posterity to fulfill your oath.” He nodded with finality.
Phae stared at Prince Aristaios—at Shirikant. The horror began to churn inside of her at the realization. She contained the fireblood herself. Was she a descendent of this man?
“Rise, Prince Aristaios. I grant your boon. I charge you to build of stone this monument to Mirrowen as you described. I will carve a path through the woods that your workers may pass unhindered. I give you the mountains to the south to quarry and polish the stone. They will be your domain, a seat of your power for generations to come. Inasmuch as you seek to preserve the knowledge of Mirrowen, the structure will never fall. May it stand as a tower in the midst of the woods and draw mortals to learn of our ways. You may take one fruit from the tree. You may choose it freely or you may allow me to choose it for you. I must warn you, Prince Aristaios, that the tree contains serpents. If you seek to pluck a fruit and are not worthy of it, a serpent will strike your hand and you will die. These serpents have power over death. Make your choice.”
Prince Aristaios’ eyes widened with surprise and concern. “I . . . I thank you,” he stammered. He crossed the paving stones to the base of the tree, where waters gushed from the roots. He stared at the variety of fruit, casting his eyes across them all, looking for similarities. Phae knew which fruit granted immortality. She could see Shirikant’s eyes pass over it several times, pausing particularly at it, but still he searched.
Shion remained kneeling before the Seneschal, but he glanced up at his brother, watching him with a hopeful look.
Aristaios’s expression hardened with frustration. This was what he wanted. All his years of studying the legends had prepared him for this moment. But in none of the legends had they described what the fruit looked like. There were twelve choices. How could he know which was the one he desired?
Phae saw the look of determination on his face. He studied each one, but he did not raise his hand.
The Seneschal looked at him gravely, his face impassive. His daughter did not look at Prince Aristaios—her eyes were fixed on Shion’s face. Though she clung to her father’s arm, her eyes bored into Shion’s. She looked . . . tormented.
Prince Aristaios began to reach for one of the fruit. It was the fruit of immortality. Phae recognized it. As his hand came near, she saw a little white serpent raise its head. It was so slender and small, it looked as if it were part of the branch. Small black eyes opened. The forked tongue flicked out once as if to hiss, I will not bite you, mortal. Trust me.
The Prince’s hand froze midair. He stared at the serpent, his eyes widening with suppressed fear. His mouth twitched with panic. His hand began to tremble. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He withdrew his hand and backed away from the tree, his eyes never leaving the fruit.
“I will trust your judgment,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You pick for me.” His whole body trembled.
The Seneschal looked at him with a slight nod. “So be it.” He motioned for his daughter and she went and plucked a different fruit, one that was small and blue—the size of a cherry. The Seneschal’s daughter brought it to the Prince and extended it to him.
He stared at her, his eyes fixated on the fruit in her hand, then on her face. He seemed to know intrinsically that it wasn’t the one he desired.
“What is your name?” Aristaios asked her.
“I will not tell you my name,” she replied simply. “It would give you power over me.” She offered him the small fruit from her hand.
Prince Aristaios took it, his fingers grazing her palm. He stared at her, lost for a moment, his expression growing pale. Then he blinked quickly and put the fruit to his mouth and bit into the juicy skin. In a moment, he had devoured it.
He stared at the juice stains on his fingers, watching as the blue drops began to dance and then ignite.
The Seneschal bowed his head reverently. “You and your posterity will inherit this gift,” he said, his voice firm. “It is called the Fireblood. You will sire a race that bears this gift, Prince Aristaios. It is a fruit of ambition. But it must be controlled. You must control your anger, or the flames of ambition will consume you. Remember these words and teach them to your posterity. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas. If you think these words—in your mind—then you will control the power of the fireblood and accomplish any task that you set your mind to. With it, your achievements will impact generations. I warn you, Prince Aristaios. If you fail to control the fireblood, it will control you. I charge you and your posterity to fulfill your oath.” He nodded with finality.
Phae stared at Prince Aristaios—at Shirikant. The horror began to churn inside of her at the realization. She contained the fireblood herself. Was she a descendent of this man?
