“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?”
Shirikant smiled broadly. “We’ve searched every forest in every kingdom. I myself sailed to the Vaettir homeland in my youth and searched there. But the tales all say that this land is the home of Poisonwell. Unfortunately, my kingdom is vast. Where haven’t we tried, Master Cartographer? What say you, Gault?”
Gault had a trimmed mustache over his blocky face, his hair well salted with silver. He sat back in his stuffed chair, frowning with deep thoughts. “My lord, we’ve crisscrossed the lands methodically, starting in the mountains in the east, the plains in the south. We’ve explored all the reaches of our own borders, went to the seashore beyond the mountains, and finally looked into the woods west. You’ve personally been emissary to the Vaettir across the sea as well as met the Empress of Boeotia. That leaves one final stretch of woods to explore. It’s uninhabited as far as we know. The woods to the north, beyond the lake and the mountains. It’s a vast land. By my estimation,” he tapped his lips thoughtfully, “it will take four years to fully explore that region. Every Finder who has been there comes back with news that it’s a peaceful, forgotten place so far away that no one would ever want to dwell there. It’s on the edge of the known world, far from all the trade routes, except for the occasional Romani wagon. But if we want to be methodical about this, Prince Isic should look there next. Now, if you want to know my view, I think it’s a waste of time and energy because the roads are . . .”