The Seneschal’s daughter rushed to the tree and plucked one of the immortal fruit from the branch. The serpent did not rear its head that time. Phae watched as she presented it to Shion, offering it to him with obvious delight.
Aristaios’s face was hardening by the moment, but he mastered himself. He stared at his brother, still on his knees. A curl of contempt flickered across his mouth and then was gone.
Shion took the fruit from her hands and sank his teeth into it. A surprised look came next, and she remembered the strange bitter taste of it when she had eaten it herself. He devoured the fruit, bit by bit, then slowly stood, his body full of strength and vigor.
The Seneschal stepped forward and placed his hand on Shion’s shoulder. “You are one of the Unwearying Ones now. You may pass through Pontfadog without death. You are welcome here. My daughter has chosen you, Prince Isic. She has chosen you to be her husband. I have chosen you to be my heir. One day you will inherit the Voided Keys that were entrusted to me, if you honor your oath to serve the mortal world. My daughter has an obligation to fulfill. But before she is bound to her tree, she would like to visit the mortal world, to visit the kingdom of the Moussion. She wishes to meet and know your people, your kindred. Marry her according to your laws and customs. Then return her here and I will bind you according to ours.” He smiled at Shion then, a fatherly look. “This was your secret desire, Prince Isic. I cannot forbid it. May you find joy in your decision. May you endure the pain of it as well.”
Phae stared at the Seneschal’s daughter and Shion, her stomach clenching with dread and an awful premonition. When she looked next at Aristaios, his face was cold and smooth, betraying nothing of what he felt. His hands were clasped behind his back, clenched tightly. His fingers were glowing blue with flames.
“The Vaettir have a saying that I find of utmost relevance in our dilemma now: Prayer is a groan.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLII
Phae’s mind whirled with the implications of what she had seen. Sitting on the stone bench, she gripped the edges tightly, squeezing hard. Along with the thoughts came a storm front of emotions as well. The swirl of memories, the places she had been, it all thundered inside of her, trying to sort itself out, to fit together.
When she lifted her eyes, the two brothers were gone. A faint wind rustled the leaves of the majestic tree. A honeyed smell drifted on the air and far away, someone was singing a rich, melodious aria. The smell and sound contrasted to her stormy emotions.
“Good is not good until it is tested,” the Seneschal said, his voice thoughtful and reflective. “Aristaios became Shirikant when he failed the test of self. All his life, he had prided himself on his discipline, his wisdom, his good fortune. He came to believe that everything in the world worked together for his good. He was unused to disappointment. He couldn’t bear the thought of failure.”
Phae stared at him, her face scrunching with concern. “He wanted immortality. I could see it in his eyes.”
The Seneschal shook his head. “He wanted that when he came here. But when he saw Mirrowen—when he beheld its splendor for himself, he realized his kingdom was only an imitation of perfection. He began to lust for things that he had not earned. The station I hold. The tree I protect. The daughter I sired. He was used to Isic giving way to his ambition. He could not bear the thought that his younger brother would become all that he desired.”
“You knew this?” Phae asked, looking at him deeply. “You knew what he would become when he came here?”
“I did.”
“And you allowed it to happen? So many have been destroyed because of that man. Why do you permit him to poison the mortal world?”
The Seneschal reached down and caressed her hair. “Does an ox gain strength if it has no burden to pull? As I’ve taught you, child, the Decay seeks to rip apart all that has been created. Only the firmness of the Unwearying Ones holds it at bay. It takes strength to resist its inexorable pull. Evil must exist, just as fire is needed to purify ore. Shirikant plays a purpose, though he does so unwittingly. Yes, I allow it. I must. When Aristaios left Mirrowen, he struggled with his feelings. He began immediately to construct the fortress of Canton Vaud. The best stonemasons and builders in his kingdom were summoned. It was a mighty charge and a colossal task. Stone was quarried from the mountains, and they discovered caves beneath the range. It became a secret lair, which he named Basilides. He visited Mirrowen often, gaining ideas for the construction by the designs he saw here. He wanted it to be a piece of Mirrowen in the mortal world, a gatehouse to protect the bridge to this world.”
Phae’s eyebrows crinkled. “I must ask this, though I fear the answer. The fruit that you chose for him yielded the fireblood. Are we all descendants of Shirikant?”