He put his arm around her shoulders and brought out the Tay al-Ard again.
With a whorl of magic, they appeared inside a dense cave, thick with shadows and streaming with green light. The air smelled strongly of earth and spoiled vegetation and it was unusually warm. There was a strange green moss lighting the walls of the cave, forming a brilliant glow with crystalline stalactites and stalagmites. It was an unearthly place, lit, yet void of light from the sun.
She looked and saw a pool of molten silver in the cave’s center. The surface rippled as gusts of heat disturbed it. There were several inset stone pillars surrounding the pool, and each glowed with a round sphere. It was spirit magic.
The Seneschal gestured to the pool of quicksilver.
Pontfadog/Poisonwell
Standing at the edge of the pool was Shirikant, his face haggard and lined with hard edges. He whispered harsh words in another language, his fingers weaving together as he summoned the fireblood. Blue flames danced from his fingertips and then he unleashed it into the pool of quicksilver. As he did so, a greenish mist rose from the moss surrounding the walls, sending dark vapors to fill the cavern. The flames burned hotter, summoned by Shirikant. The mist began to creep from the walls and swell, coiling into Shirikant’s skin and clothes. Still the fireblood coursed into the pool, making the silver liquid bubble like a cauldron.
He binds the magic of Poisonwell to serve him—he unleashes a Plague on himself that will strike the workers building Canton Vaud—this is the birth of the first Plague
Shirikant’s face twisted with pain as the green mist surrounded him. She could see the effects of the disease blistering his skin, but it did not kill him. He poured the fireblood into the pool of quicksilver until steam began to wreathe his hands and arms, mixing with the mist from the lichen.
He has bound Poisonwell to himself for a thousand years—it will serve only him until another claims its obedience—he will unleash Plague after Plague, destroying every civilization one by one until the binding ends
She turned to look at him. What can end it?
The pool must be cleansed by an Unwearying One—it is a bitter cup that must be drunk—the gateway to Mirrowen will remain closed until then
Am I an Unwearying One? Phae thought to him.
You are Dryad-born—you are not yet an Unwearying One—your oath is not fulfilled
In her mind, the pieces began to fit together. She could see the pattern now; she could see what she needed to do to stop the Plagues.
“I understand now,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “There is one more stop we must make now, isn’t there?”
He smiled tenderly. “You are wise, child. Do what must be done.” He extended the Tay al-Ard to her again.
She gripped it and they vanished from the polluted chamber of roiling fumes beneath the scaffolding of Canton Vaud.
In a moment, they stood near the Dryad Mother Tree at the edge of the woods deep in the Scourgelands. Phae could hear the screaming as the Plague attacked and killed the workers from Stonehollow who were gathered there building the first arches of Canton Vaud. Thick green mist hung like a poisoned fog in the air, seeping into the woods, seeking victims.
This was the birthplace of the Plague. Her mind began to trace and see connections, realizing the fear that would spread as word of the devastation spread. The woods would earn a reputation for deadliness. The caretaker of the woods, Shirikant, would make sure the notoriety spread, preventing Druidecht from seeking the bridge to Mirrowen. After centuries the woods would be named the Scourgelands. She could see it all unfolding in her mind.
The Dryad tree was beautiful and healthy, the trunk split in the middle, showing a gap between. From her vantage in the woods, she saw Shion emerge from the tear in the wood, his hands touching the rough bark. He craned his head, listening to the shouts of fear and pain as hundreds perished. He looked alarmed, panicked even, not understanding the devastation happening in the stone hill nearby. She saw the tension in his neck, saw the indecision of what to do.
He had emerged from the portal to Mirrowen at the Dryad tree, not from Pontfadog. No doubt his brother was sealing off the chamber, hoping to trap Isic inside to prevent him from venturing back into the world. It all made sense to Phae, and she saw the look of confusion and determination wilt. Behind him floated a shade of a Spirit, her face the same as the Seneschal’s daughter.
Shion turned to look back at her and in doing so, saw past her into the breach, into Mirrowen. His eyes widened with shock and terror, realization flooding him at what he had done.
“No!!” he screamed, reaching to grab the Spirit wife. Her hand reached for his and then she dissolved into tufts of pollen, scattering in the wind.
With a whorl of magic, they appeared inside a dense cave, thick with shadows and streaming with green light. The air smelled strongly of earth and spoiled vegetation and it was unusually warm. There was a strange green moss lighting the walls of the cave, forming a brilliant glow with crystalline stalactites and stalagmites. It was an unearthly place, lit, yet void of light from the sun.
She looked and saw a pool of molten silver in the cave’s center. The surface rippled as gusts of heat disturbed it. There were several inset stone pillars surrounding the pool, and each glowed with a round sphere. It was spirit magic.
The Seneschal gestured to the pool of quicksilver.
Pontfadog/Poisonwell
Standing at the edge of the pool was Shirikant, his face haggard and lined with hard edges. He whispered harsh words in another language, his fingers weaving together as he summoned the fireblood. Blue flames danced from his fingertips and then he unleashed it into the pool of quicksilver. As he did so, a greenish mist rose from the moss surrounding the walls, sending dark vapors to fill the cavern. The flames burned hotter, summoned by Shirikant. The mist began to creep from the walls and swell, coiling into Shirikant’s skin and clothes. Still the fireblood coursed into the pool, making the silver liquid bubble like a cauldron.
He binds the magic of Poisonwell to serve him—he unleashes a Plague on himself that will strike the workers building Canton Vaud—this is the birth of the first Plague
Shirikant’s face twisted with pain as the green mist surrounded him. She could see the effects of the disease blistering his skin, but it did not kill him. He poured the fireblood into the pool of quicksilver until steam began to wreathe his hands and arms, mixing with the mist from the lichen.
He has bound Poisonwell to himself for a thousand years—it will serve only him until another claims its obedience—he will unleash Plague after Plague, destroying every civilization one by one until the binding ends
She turned to look at him. What can end it?
The pool must be cleansed by an Unwearying One—it is a bitter cup that must be drunk—the gateway to Mirrowen will remain closed until then
Am I an Unwearying One? Phae thought to him.
You are Dryad-born—you are not yet an Unwearying One—your oath is not fulfilled
In her mind, the pieces began to fit together. She could see the pattern now; she could see what she needed to do to stop the Plagues.
“I understand now,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “There is one more stop we must make now, isn’t there?”
He smiled tenderly. “You are wise, child. Do what must be done.” He extended the Tay al-Ard to her again.
She gripped it and they vanished from the polluted chamber of roiling fumes beneath the scaffolding of Canton Vaud.
In a moment, they stood near the Dryad Mother Tree at the edge of the woods deep in the Scourgelands. Phae could hear the screaming as the Plague attacked and killed the workers from Stonehollow who were gathered there building the first arches of Canton Vaud. Thick green mist hung like a poisoned fog in the air, seeping into the woods, seeking victims.
This was the birthplace of the Plague. Her mind began to trace and see connections, realizing the fear that would spread as word of the devastation spread. The woods would earn a reputation for deadliness. The caretaker of the woods, Shirikant, would make sure the notoriety spread, preventing Druidecht from seeking the bridge to Mirrowen. After centuries the woods would be named the Scourgelands. She could see it all unfolding in her mind.
The Dryad tree was beautiful and healthy, the trunk split in the middle, showing a gap between. From her vantage in the woods, she saw Shion emerge from the tear in the wood, his hands touching the rough bark. He craned his head, listening to the shouts of fear and pain as hundreds perished. He looked alarmed, panicked even, not understanding the devastation happening in the stone hill nearby. She saw the tension in his neck, saw the indecision of what to do.
He had emerged from the portal to Mirrowen at the Dryad tree, not from Pontfadog. No doubt his brother was sealing off the chamber, hoping to trap Isic inside to prevent him from venturing back into the world. It all made sense to Phae, and she saw the look of confusion and determination wilt. Behind him floated a shade of a Spirit, her face the same as the Seneschal’s daughter.
Shion turned to look back at her and in doing so, saw past her into the breach, into Mirrowen. His eyes widened with shock and terror, realization flooding him at what he had done.
“No!!” he screamed, reaching to grab the Spirit wife. Her hand reached for his and then she dissolved into tufts of pollen, scattering in the wind.
