Phae pulled back, gazing into his scarred cheeks.
“I love you, Isic,” she whispered, her heart breaking with the words. She smiled at him, a sad smile full of empathy and compassion. “I know your story. I know it better than you knew yourself, for I see the truth that you were blinded to. Your brother’s treachery. Your wife’s sacrifice. She died protecting you.” She swallowed, wondering what she should say. “You were never meant to be together. I think she always knew. But I cannot blame her for loving you. I would have done the same to save you.”
Shion’s eyes were wet with tears. “You were there,” he said in amazement. “You are the one who took my memories. I’ve always felt . . . that I knew you.”
She nodded, wiping a tear from his cheek, as her own flowed unheeded. “We must undo what your brother . . . what Aristaios did. We can end the Plague, you and I. We must end it before it destroys everyone.”
Shion stared at her, his face becoming grave. “The pool of quicksilver is tainted. How can it be cured?”
Kneeling in front of him, she put her hand on his wrist. “Only an Unwearying One can cleanse it. I am immortal, but I am not like you. I am bound for a season and I am bound to a specific tree. I can help draw the fire out of Poisonwell. But only you can cure it. You must drink it, Isic. You must drink all of the Plagues. They won’t kill you, but you will suffer.” She winced, gazing into his eyes. “You must separate the Plague from the well. That is how your brother unleashes it. He drinks from the well and carries it to another land, expelling the disease on the population. Drinking quicksilver would kill a mortal man. But you cannot die.”
He stared at her, his eyes full of wisdom and understanding. “I will do this.”
Phae retrieved the Tay al-Ard from her belt. She kissed his cheek and then offered the device to him.
They gripped the warm cylinder. Their thoughts were as one, picturing the greenish hue of the subterranean lair beneath the mountain.
Shirikant was waiting for them.
“I do not know how it happened. Someone threw open the gates of the Arch-Rike’s palace. Confusion is everywhere. They say the Arch-Rike is hiding in the dungeons. What is true and what is false? No man knows. There is no end to the deceptions.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XLV
The subterranean cavern swirled with greenish mist and pungent odors. Cracks of light appeared in fissures on the walls, spirits trapped in glass orbs fixed into sconces. The air was sulfurous and heavy, and thick shadows cut in jagged angles and slits along the floor. An oppressive feeling clung to the air, a menace full of dark loathing and cruelty. It made Phae’s heart tremble with fear, even though she was immortal. The blackness pressed against her mind, hammering against her thoughts and conjuring malevolent images in the secret places inside her.
Standing across from them at a pool of bubbling quicksilver, she saw Shirikant holding a stone chalice. It looked heavy and deep, half the size of a melon, with intricate carvings set on the outside of the bowl. The lip was ridged and crumbling, and the whole thing looked ancient and defaced. Shirikant gripped it in one hand, the other clutching his Tay al-Ard. His face was creased with savage emotions, his eyes burning with pure hatred as they appeared. He seemed on the verge of lifting the chalice to his lips, but he lowered his arm, staring at them with a look that would have killed them both if it could.
“I knew you would come,” he said in a low, even tone. “Do you remember me now, Brother?”
Shion put a cautioning hand on Phae’s arm and took a step forward.
Immediately, shards of lightning flashed from the walls, hammering into Shion from three sides. The light blinded Phae, and she could feel the energy and heat swell past her, filling her with current.
The energy went into the Druidecht talisman worn around Shion’s neck, absorbing the charges before the light winked out.
“Exacerist,” Shion whispered. There was a chink of glass and spirits emerged from the cracked spheres, swirling in the air, leaving streamers of magic. “Antonium farsay. Benne.”
The light remained, the spirits not leaving after being freed. Phae realized Shion was speaking to them in another language, the pure language of Mirrowen.
“You free them but transform one form of slavery into another,” Shirikant sneered. “We are no different.”