“No, Gault,” Shirikant said, waving him silent. “I’ve told you before to express your facts, not your doubts. Do not poison our minds with such thoughts.” He went back to the window seat and sat down next to the book he had been looking at earlier. He patted it reverently. “Every scrap of lore about Mirrowen has been written in here. Every clue we have pursued. Every scrap. My father started this quest before I was born and his father before him. It is said that my line comes from Mirrowen itself, that we descend from the kings of old. We are the Moussion. We are scholars and learners and artists and sculptors. We are patient. We are patient, and we are determined.” He turned to Shion, fixing him with his blazing eyes. “Rest yourself, Brother. Get what sleep and rest you can. But I send you next up north. Take as many Druidecht as you desire. Take Kishion with you. He can train and teach you to fight along the way. I have a feeling . . . no, I have a premonition that makes my blood hot that this is where we will find success. We will find the gate to Mirrowen. You will find it, Isic. I know you will. You have all of my resources at your disposal. But it is not gold or jewels that will make you successful. It is believing that you can succeed and moving forward despite obstacles. We few are a mastermind. We few. As my ancestors have taught, there is great good that can be done in this world if a group of wise men and women assembles toward a common purpose. That is a mastermind.”
“What about the Gardener?” Odea said. “What would you give that you might claim one of the fruit?”
Shirikant’s eyes blazed with determination. “I would give up my kingdom.”
“Memory is the mother of all wisdom.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXXIX
The world lurched, spinning rapidly, and then it was still again, the magic of the Tay al-Ard bringing them to another place, another time. Phae gripped the Seneschal’s arm, finding herself in a lush forest of oak trees. Light came slanting in from many angles, causing a radiant flash on the bark and glossy leaves. Specks of gnats flitted in the air and the drone of bumblebees wafted nearby. The forest was majestic and beautiful, but it was also poignant, rich with spirit life and full of promise as well as warning.
“Where are we?” Phae asked, looking around. It was unfamiliar to her.
“The Scourgelands,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Before the cursing.”
She watched a robin flutter down from a tree and hop on a boulder, its head shifting back and forth, studying them. Then it flew away.
“I’m beginning to understand a little,” Phae said. “They are brothers then. Born from the same mother?”
“Indeed. There were sisters in between who married nobles from other lands. They were a proud race, but not in the sense of haughtiness. They come from a line of master stonemasons, men who are patient and very hard and formidable. They are persistent yet calculating, not using more force than is necessary to shiver loose a piece of rock. They study the stone they hammer, looking for imperfections. Timing the blow to meet the purpose. They are the Moussion. The lost race.”
“Why are they lost?”
“You will see, Phae. You will see it all. Several years have passed since you last saw the young prince, Isic Moussion. He is a Druidecht, but it is a primitive version of what you are familiar with. He studied the spirit creatures from all the lands, taking copious notes of his observations. He began to name the spirits, to understand their powers and properties. To enlist their aid. He roamed the woods with a band of friends from the mastermind. The Cruithne . . . his name was Kishion. He was one of the first teachers of that order, back when they were protectors of kings and not killers. When Isic and his companions came here, to these hallowed woods, they met the protections left to guard here. You can imagine how frustrating it was when they returned to Stonehollow with no memory of why they had even come. Shirikant was wise and realized that spirit magic was robbing their memories. They did not understand the nature of the Dryads. Not yet. But after several years, they began to understand that the bridge to Mirrowen—Poisonwell—was here all along. They set up small outposts to help funnel supplies and men to help narrow the search.”
Phae looked up at his face, saw the curious expression. “Why not let them come, Seneschal? Why all the obstacles?”
“There is a price to pay for knowledge, child. Some mysteries must be earned. I test the persistence of mortals. Only those who persist discover the way. Isic was not easily discouraged.”
Phae smiled at that, remembering how he came across to her so many times. Relentless.
“Indeed,” the Seneschal said, responding to her thoughts. “Soon you will see the next turning point. The next crucial pivot. During his wanderings in the woods, Isic began to rely on his insights. He understood a little about my nature. He understood that there was a Gardener in Mirrowen. He reasoned it out that I could hear his thoughts. He began to speak to me from his mind as he scoured the woods for clues. I began to teach him through the whispers. I warned him not to share the knowledge, not to write it down, but to print it in his heart. He began to journey alone, searching the woods for hidden trails. Eventually, he began to trust me. He could not find Mirrowen by searching for it. Not with his eyes. I suggested to his mind, through a whisper, that he would find me if he closed his eyes.”
Phae’s mind expanded with the thought. “Yes,” she said, growing excited. “By keeping his eyes closed, he could pass the Dryad protectors without losing his memories. He would not be able to see the direction, but you would lead him on the right path!”
“Yes. After sufficient time, he trusted me enough. He blindfolded himself and took leave of his friends, warning them not to follow him. Through the whispers, he made it to your tree, the one you are bound to now. From that tree one learns the word to cross the bridge. You remember it.”
“Pontfadog,” Phae repeated. “So the Dryad I met was protecting the tree even then?”
The Seneschal stopped, his face turning troubled, if slightly, as if a heaviness passed over him—a cloud momentarily veiling the brilliance of the sun. “No. He met my daughter.”