Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen #3)

Shion tightened his grip on the daggers and planted himself in front of her, his neck muscles bulging. Prince Aran joined them and also positioned himself in front of her. Phae gritted her teeth, feeling nauseous with the sudden onset of pain in her belly. She winced and groaned, her knees beginning to weaken, but she kept herself upright.

The Weir snarled and charged, loping through the woods. Shion sprung into their midst, slashing viciously with his blades. Aran hammered at the Weir with his bare fists and palms, striking at their eyes, the soft flesh around the throats. Though he did not carry a blade, he struck with a force that injured them, and he could not be budged from his stance. She heard the shred of fabric and felt blood from Aran’s sleeve spray her face, but although he was wounded, he did not back down.

Tyrus joined them next, his arms spread wide as he unleashed the fury of his fireblood on the attackers. Flames began to spread through the dried leaves, causing plumes of smoke and snapping twigs as they caught fire.

“Come!” Tyrus shouted. “Before they surround us.”

Annon and Hettie were the last to leave the gully and together they smashed into the ranks of the Weir, leaving a fog of smoke in their wake.




Dawn crept over the tangled woods of the Scourgelands. Phae walked with leaden steps, one hand fastened to Shion’s tattered cloak. She was sleeping while she walked, she felt, and the ground passed in a dreamlike state. Her other hand clutched her stomach. The pain was persistent now, coming in faster and faster bursts. All night it had tormented her, receding for a short while before returning with a vengeance. She was too sick to eat, but Tyrus made her choke down some dried strips of meat. Their water skins were drying up and the small sips did little to slake her thirst.

She cast her eyes around the dull light, seeing the haggard and worn expressions on all their faces. Purple bruises stained the eyelids. Annon walked, clutching his shoulder, and she could see the blood staining his tunic. His face was a mask of determination and foreboding. Hettie’s hair was tangled with snarls and brush, her look sorrowful. Prince Aran was wounded too, his black jacket shredded from the Weir attacks. He walked with sternness, his face hard and without compassion or suffering. Phae mourned when she looked at him, remembering the secret looks that Khiara had given the solemn man.

A preternatural silence hung over the air and Tyrus stopped short, holding up his hand. Something creaked in the trees, something massive and hulking. They all halted. Tyrus motioned for them to draw near him and withdrew the Tay al-Ard.

A chuffing cough sounded in the gloomy dawn. It came from above their heads. Branches snapped and crashed down. A tree groaned, coming up by the roots, and started to fall toward them, its huge branches sweeping down like an avalanche.

Phae clung to her father’s arm as the Tay al-Ard swept them away from the danger. When the spinning ended, Phae found herself on the ground, vomiting violently into the turf. It felt like the world was still spinning, even though the magic had already deposited them. Her ears rang and she wheezed and choked as every bit inside her stomach came out. The spasms clenched hard and painfully and she trembled with the efforts. Soon black bile was all she had left and she planted her palm on the ground, feeling a trail of it cling to her lip.

Shion knelt next to her, mopping her face with the edge of his cloak. She was so exhausted, so spent, she tottered against him, knowing she’d faint if she tried to stand.

“Drink,” Tyrus whispered, handing her his own flask.

She shook her head, waving it away.

“You must,” he said. He knelt beside her as well and pressed the flask against her mouth. She took a small sip and nearly gagged. It was awful, acidic. She waited a moment, hoping the pain would recede. It did—barely—and she took another drink. When she looked up, she saw the worried faces clustered around her. They were not looking at her, though.

Lifting her gaze, she stared at the woods, not recognizing anything. She knelt in a small grove of ancient oaks, but the limbs were glittering with freshly spun spiderwebs, thick as linen strands. The entire forest was covered in a veil of webs, from the trees above and between each.

“Where are we?” Phae whispered, stifling a moan.

Tyrus looked around, his face betraying his alarm. “Where we were yesterday. The Dryad tree is over there. I think I can make it out. But these webs were spun last night. By what, I do not know.”





   “If you only believe what you like, and reject what you don’t like, it is not truth you believe, but yourself.”


- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos





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