Shirikant smiled broadly. “We’ve searched every forest in every kingdom. I myself sailed to the Vaettir homeland in my youth and searched there. But the tales all say that this land is the home of Poisonwell. Unfortunately, my kingdom is vast. Where haven’t we tried, Master Cartographer? What say you, Gault?”

Gault had a trimmed mustache over his blocky face, his hair well salted with silver. He sat back in his stuffed chair, frowning with deep thoughts. “My lord, we’ve crisscrossed the lands methodically, starting in the mountains in the east, the plains in the south. We’ve explored all the reaches of our own borders, went to the seashore beyond the mountains, and finally looked into the woods west. You’ve personally been emissary to the Vaettir across the sea as well as met the Empress of Boeotia. That leaves one final stretch of woods to explore. It’s uninhabited as far as we know. The woods to the north, beyond the lake and the mountains. It’s a vast land. By my estimation,” he tapped his lips thoughtfully, “it will take four years to fully explore that region. Every Finder who has been there comes back with news that it’s a peaceful, forgotten place so far away that no one would ever want to dwell there. It’s on the edge of the known world, far from all the trade routes, except for the occasional Romani wagon. But if we want to be methodical about this, Prince Isic should look there next. Now, if you want to know my view, I think it’s a waste of time and energy because the roads are . . .”

“No, Gault,” Shirikant said, waving him silent. “I’ve told you before to express your facts, not your doubts. Do not poison our minds with such thoughts.” He went back to the window seat and sat down next to the book he had been looking at earlier. He patted it reverently. “Every scrap of lore about Mirrowen has been written in here. Every clue we have pursued. Every scrap. My father started this quest before I was born and his father before him. It is said that my line comes from Mirrowen itself, that we descend from the kings of old. We are the Moussion. We are scholars and learners and artists and sculptors. We are patient. We are patient, and we are determined.” He turned to Shion, fixing him with his blazing eyes. “Rest yourself, Brother. Get what sleep and rest you can. But I send you next up north. Take as many Druidecht as you desire. Take Kishion with you. He can train and teach you to fight along the way. I have a feeling . . . no, I have a premonition that makes my blood hot that this is where we will find success. We will find the gate to Mirrowen. You will find it, Isic. I know you will. You have all of my resources at your disposal. But it is not gold or jewels that will make you successful. It is believing that you can succeed and moving forward despite obstacles. We few are a mastermind. We few. As my ancestors have taught, there is great good that can be done in this world if a group of wise men and women assembles toward a common purpose. That is a mastermind.”

“What about the Gardener?” Odea said. “What would you give that you might claim one of the fruit?”

Shirikant’s eyes blazed with determination. “I would give up my kingdom.”

“Memory is the mother of all wisdom.”

- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

XXXIX

The world lurched, spinning rapidly, and then it was still again, the magic of the Tay al-Ard bringing them to another place, another time. Phae gripped the Seneschal’s arm, finding herself in a lush forest of oak trees. Light came slanting in from many angles, causing a radiant flash on the bark and glossy leaves. Specks of gnats flitted in the air and the drone of bumblebees wafted nearby. The forest was majestic and beautiful, but it was also poignant, rich with spirit life and full of promise as well as warning.

“Where are we?” Phae asked, looking around. It was unfamiliar to her.

“The Scourgelands,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Before the cursing.”

She watched a robin flutter down from a tree and hop on a boulder, its head shifting back and forth, studying them. Then it flew away.

“I’m beginning to understand a little,” Phae said. “They are brothers then. Born from the same mother?”

“Indeed. There were sisters in between who married nobles from other lands. They were a proud race, but not in the sense of haughtiness. They come from a line of master stonemasons, men who are patient and very hard and formidable. They are persistent yet calculating, not using more force than is necessary to shiver loose a piece of rock. They study the stone they hammer, looking for imperfections. Timing the blow to meet the purpose. They are the Moussion. The lost race.”

“Why are they lost?”