As Phae looked up, he saw the Dryad girl she had seen before on the Seneschal’s arm—his daughter. Phae recognized her from the previous vision and saw that she was older now. She had a look of calm wisdom, an untroubled face. She wore a simple but beautiful gown and a thin silver tiara—it looked as delicate as spiderwebs. She was a beautiful young woman, and Phae could sense her Dryad magic. The girl looked toward her at the bench, but her eyes did not focus, as if she could sense Phae but not see her. A small wrinkle appeared in her forehead, but it smoothed as the two princes arrived.
Phae’s heart churned when she saw Shion. He gazed at the enormous city, his eyes wide with wonder, his face full of fascination and delight at the myriad forms of spirit magic. There were creatures Phae had never seen before, more beautiful than butterflies, with bright gossamer wings and legs of various sizes and shapes. The plethora of beings surrounding Shion was breathtaking. Each seemed to be drawn to him, seeking to commune with his thoughts. He gripped his brother’s shoulder, whispering the word, “Amazing!”
Aristaios looked determined, his expression more guarded, but he also seemed overwhelmed by the sights he was watching. However, his gaze was riveted on the tree behind the Seneschal. A look of desperate hunger was clearly in his eyes.
“Greetings, Princes of Moussion,” the Seneschal said in a cordial voice. “You are welcome here so long as you abide by our laws. You were both infected with a plague when you crossed the Pontfadog, but my servants have already cured it from you. This is my daughter. Be at peace. Why are you here? What do you seek?”
Shion nodded to his brother to go first. He stared at the Seneschal, his expression turning grave with respect. Both brothers dropped to one knee.
“I am Aristaios Moussion,” the older brother said. “I seek a piece of fruit from your tree. You are known to us as the Gardener of Mirrowen. Long have I studied the myths and legends pertaining to you. Their words do not give even a moment of justice to the grandeur I see before me here. I am grateful you have granted audience. In return for a piece of fruit from the tree, I commit all the resources of my kingdom. I had intended . . .” he swallowed, his voice catching. “I had intended to build a temple in your honor, but I see that even with the skilled craftsmen at my command, I could not offer you anything you do not already possess, and by much more skilled hands.” He bowed his head. “However, I beseech you to grant my boon. I will erect a place, in the very heart of the forest we just traveled, a place where knowledge of you and of Mirrowen may be preserved so long as there are people left in the mortal world. I seek to build it so that others may learn the ways of Mirrowen, may learn to master their thoughts to be able to hear the whispers. I desire that this shrine, this temple, this sanctorum shall stand when my kingdom has crumbled into dust. I would call it Canton Vaud. Give me this charge, I pray you. And give me the strength of heart to see it fulfilled.”
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.