It will only add to your pain
Phae heard the whisper and watched Shion closely, her heart leaping into her throat. He was being given a choice. She could feel the wrongness of the choice, could sense that the outcome would be terrible. Yet Shion’s desire to be with his wife blinded him and deafened him to the subtle pulse of the whisper. His grief was too new, too raw.
Shion bowed his head in grief, trying to control his breathing. His quavering muscles began to calm. The intensity of his feelings was seen in his stormy eyes. In the skies above, a swirling vortex had opened up, painting the clouds in hues of green. The storm could not be felt inside the city gardens, but Phae knew the surf was hammering again.
Lifting his chin, Shion faced the Seneschal. He slowly rose to his feet and outstretched an arm. Opening his mouth, he started to sing.
Phae’s eyes widened, recognizing the tune from the gold locket. A tune that generations of those from the Paracelsus Order had captured and bound in trinkets. Shion’s song wove through the air, full of pathos and sorrow, building in power as his voice became stronger. Phae’s knees trembled with the weight of it, recognizing again how many ties had bound them together. She had first heard the tune huddled and frightened in an abandoned homestead. It was Shion’s song—a song he had lost.
Tears poured from her eyes as she listened to the notes fade into stillness. All of Mirrowen was hushed with his mourning anthem. All the Unwearying Ones paid homage to his suffering.
Phae saw tears in the Seneschal’s eyes. “Leave Mirrowen. I will send her spirit walking behind you to the Mother Tree. There is a gap in the trunk, a portal to Mirrowen. If you look back, even once, to see if she follows, then she will vanish. Do not gaze back or you will lose her forever. This was your choice. Depart.”
Shion bowed his head, nodding in gratitude with a broken, “Thank you,” passing from his lips. He started away, walking back across the bridge.
The Seneschal gestured and a gossamer spirit appeared, a lovely young maiden—his daughter, the Dryad-born. Phae could see the wisps of spirit magic trailing from her. She looked at her father, bowing her head in respect and love, and then flitted off after Shion.
“What happens now?” Phae whispered, wiping her eyes.
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.