The Gates of Dawn

1

Tristan of the House of Galland smiled slightly to himself as he looked down at his twin sister Shailiha. He was watching her sleep, just as he had for so many days now.

They were in the Redoubt of the Directorate, the secret haven where the many consuls of the Redoubt, the lesser wizards of Eutracia, had been trained. It was also the place where he had first reluctantly admitted to both his now-dead father and the murdered Directorate of Wizards the secrets he knew regarding the Caves of the Paragon. He had found that day so painful and difficult, but now he wished with all his heart that he could have it back.

The happy times, he thought. Before all the madness began.

Sometimes during his quieter moments, his weary mind still tried to convince his heart that everything that had so recently occurred had been long ago. As if year after year of his life had already passed. In reality it had only been several months. But because so much had changed, it still sometimes felt as if it were all a dream.

No, he told himself as he continued to look down into Shailiha’s beautiful face. Not a dream—a nightmare. One from which Shailiha is finally waking up.

Running a hand through his dark hair, he uncoiled his long legs and walked the short distance to where Morganna, Shailiha’s baby daughter, lay sleeping in her crib. The baby girl had been born both healthy and alert, despite the horrific circumstances of her arrival into the world. Her birth had come on the same day that both the Coven of Sorceresses and Kluge, their taskmaster, had been killed by Tristan. She had been born in Parthalon, before Wigg, Geldon, Shailiha, Morganna, and Tristan had finally returned to Eutracia.

A tear came to one eye as he thought of the one he’d had to leave behind.

The droplet gathered slowly in size until it finally overcame the lower lid and rolled down his cheek. My son, my firstborn, did not survive to come back with us. For that I shall be forever sorry. Nicholas, forgive me.

Taking a quick breath he looked up at the ceiling, remembering what the palace above had been like before the horrible onslaught of the Coven and their Minions of Day and Night. The palace had once been his home, and full of gaiety, life, and love.

He shook his head, staggered by the madness of it all and the confounding fact that he was now the new lord of the Minions. They were the winged army of over three hundred thousand that had butchered his family, the wizards of the Directorate, and much of the populace of Eutracia. The incredibly potent force still resided in Parthalon, awaiting his orders.

So much has changed, he mused. And I must change with it.

Looking up from the crib and into a mirror that hung upon the wall, he saw a man who had matured, who had killed and would kill again, if need be, to protect his family. He also saw a man who had discovered many secrets about himself, but also knew that there were so many more to learn.

He took in the longish dark hair, deep blue eyes, hollow cheeks, and what some would call the rather cruel mouth. Along with black breeches, he wore the same knee boots and worn leather vest that laced across his bare chest in the front that he had worn daily for the last several months. The dreggan, the Minion sword he had been forced to use to kill his father, lay in its black, tooled scabbard across the back of his right shoulder, beside his throwing knives.

The familiar yet at the same time unknown figure in the mirror stared back at him with a calmness that was born of a certain, hard-won knowledge: that he was the male of the Chosen Ones, and the only person in the world who possessed azure blood. Very soon Wigg and Faegan would want to begin training him in the craft of magic. For Eutracia—because his nation desperately needed him.

Their travels from Shadowood back to Tammerland had been arduous, since both Shailiha and the wizard Faegan had been difficult to transport. Shailiha was difficult to move because she was still suffering the lingering effects of her mental torture at the hands of the Coven. Faegan’s journey had been even more problematic because of the crippled legs that kept him bound to his chair on wheels. And traveling with the princess’ newborn further complicated matters. But with the combined efforts of both the wizards and more than a modicum of the use of the craft, they had finally succeeded in reaching Tammerland. And now the Redoubt, the secret place below the palace, had become their home.

They had been accompanied by Geldon, the onetime slave of the Coven, and two of Faegan’s irascible gnomes and their wives. Despite his worries, Tristan managed another little smile. The gnomes had been helpful, if difficult to control. Both the bombastic Michael the Meager, the gnome elder, and the egotistical, ale-loving Shannon the Small had come. They were accompanied by their wives, Mary the Minor and Shawna the Short.

“Tristan,” Shailiha called out sleepily. “Is that you?”

He turned quickly and went to her bed, looking down into her face. Thanks to the constant ministrations of Faegan and Wigg, the Shailiha he had known and loved was continuing to return a little more each day. The blond hair, hazel eyes, and firm jawline that he knew so well remained as lovely as ever.

“Yes, Shai, it’s me,” he answered softly. On the trip back from Shadowood he had begun calling her by this pet name. Somehow it had stuck, despite the expected, vociferous protests from Wigg that one of the royal house should not be called by such abbreviations. But just as they had done in their youth, the two of them had simply smiled at him in his huff. Deep down, Tristan knew Shailiha really liked the name. But sometimes, to tease him, she would wrinkle up her nose when he said it. Just as she was doing now. Then a different concern seized her, and she quickly sat up in bed.

“Is Morganna all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, Shai,” Tristan answered quietly. “She’s fine. Just like her mother is going to be.” He gently pushed her back down into the luxurious bedsheets.

She wrinkled up her nose again, something he loved to see, though he would never tell her so. “I’m hungry,” she said suddenly. “No, actually I’m starved! I have to get something to eat!”

“Then it’s a good thing I came prepared,” Tristan answered happily. From a nearby table he produced a silver tray of breakfast pastries and a pot of tea that he hoped was still hot. “Fresh from the gnome wives,” he told her. “Actually, they’re quite good.” Shailiha grabbed up one of the pastries. He watched as she quickly went on to devour two of them.

Shailiha’s recuperation had been slow but steady, thanks largely to the attention of the wizards. They had worked with her constantly, using the craft to help her both forget her torture by the Coven and regain her other memories and identity. The most difficult part for all of them had been watching her as she learned for the second time that her husband, Frederick, and her parents had been murdered.

It had been especially difficult for her to learn that her father, the king, had died by Tristan’s own hand. The prince’s heart ached for her, and he had vowed to take the best care of her that he could.

Looking up into his deep blue eyes, she put her teacup down.

“Tristan,” she began uncertainly, “Wigg has mentioned to me that we are somehow special. That our blood is the most highly endowed in the world—yours slightly more so than mine. Because of that we are something called the Chosen Ones.” She paused, taking the measure of her words. “I am still unsure of what all of this means. But please tell me something. Did our parents and Frederick go to your coronation knowing that they might die that day? Die in the hope that you and I would survive?”

Lowering his head slightly, Tristan closed his eyes against the pain. My tragic coronation day, he thought. The day everything changed.

“Yes, Shai, they did,” he answered. “Even the Directorate of Wizards knew of the potential danger. Their plans were designed for Wigg and the two of us to survive if anything happened. Those plans were not completely successful, and you and the Paragon were taken.” He managed a small smile through the pain. “But Wigg and I came to Parthalon to get you, and we brought you home. And now, thank the Afterlife, not only are you home, but both you and your baby are well. Frederick died that day, but lives on in your child. And our parents live on in our hearts, because you and I are still together.”

She bit her lower lip, and a small tear came to one eye. “Wigg also tells me that your child, Nicholas, did not live to see his birth. And that you buried him there in Parthalon . . .” She trailed off, clearly not knowing how to proceed.

“Yes,” Tristan answered. “I hope to go back one day soon to visit the grave. I would like to return the body to Eutracia, and bury it with the rest of our family.” A short silence followed.

“I forgive you, Tristan,” she said finally, softly.

“You forgive me?” he asked, confused.

Swallowing hard, Shailiha looked down. The next words were going to be difficult for both of them. But she wanted her brother to be absolutely sure of how she felt. “I forgive you,” she said. “I forgive you for killing our father. In fact, there truly is nothing to be forgiven. For I know from Wigg that you were forced to do it. That father even ordered you to do it. I forgive you, and I shall love you always.”

There were simply no words. He just continued to sit there in the moment with his sister—the twin he had come so close to losing forever. His heart was so glad that she and her baby were still alive.

Finally she gave him the impish smile she was so famous for, at the same time reaching out to grasp the gold medallion around his neck—the one that had been a gift from their parents, just before his coronation. It carried the lion and the broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland.

“So you still wear this,” she said happily. “I’m glad. And it seems that I have acquired one of my own.” She reached down to touch the exact duplicate of his medallion that lay around her neck. “Although I haven’t the faintest clue of how I acquired it,” she added.

“Nor do Wigg, Faegan, or I,” Tristan answered. “But the wizards feel that it may somehow be the physical remnants of the incantation the Coven used upon you. By some unknown means it remained with you, even after the sorceresses’ deaths. The wizards have examined it closely, and say that it is all right for you to continue to wear it. But what is most important about the medallion is that wherever the two of us may go or whatever we may do, all we have to do is to look down to that bit of gold to know that there is still someone in our family who continues to love us.”

Tristan paused for a moment, thinking back to the many times his own medallion had helped keep him going through the hardships of finding his sister and defeating the Coven. “My medallion is what finally saved you, you know,” he said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“It twinkled in the light, and you saw it. It apparently sparked something in your subconscious just before I was about to be forced to . . . just before I . . .”

Again no words would come. How could he explain to her what Wigg had told him on that fateful day? That he must steel his resolve and kill his own sister. That her mind and soul were still infected with the Coven’s spell, making it impossible for her to come back to Eutracia with them. But just as he was about to bring his dreggan down upon her neck she had recognized the medallion, and blinked.

“Tristan,” she asked, “will you do something for me?”

He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in mock ferociousness. “Haven’t I done enough already?”

She smiled, but he saw the underlying sadness in her gaze. “I’m serious,” she said. “I truly do need you to perform a special task for me. Something important.”

“Anything, you know that.”

“Wigg and Faegan tell me that our parents and Frederick are buried a short distance from here. They also say I am still too weak to travel. I would ask you to visit their graves for me, until I can go there myself. Please let the spirits of mother, father, and Frederick know that I live, and that I love them.” She looked with tearful eyes to the child in the crib, and then added, “Let them also know that there is now another of their blood in the world.” She burst into tears.

He took her in his arms. “Of course I’ll go,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

Collecting herself, she pulled away a little, tentatively smiling up through her tears. “Wigg and Faegan probably won’t like the idea, you know.” She sniffed. “Whenever they’re together they fuss at each other like a pair of old scullery maids.”

Tristan just couldn’t help it. He laughed long and hard, for the first time in what felt like forever. “That’s the best description of those two I have ever heard!” he exclaimed.

Before he could say more, they heard a soft knock, and the door slowly opened a crack. “Begging your pardon, Tristan, but the two wizards are calling for you,” a voice said, the door opening farther. “They say you are to come at once.”

Shannon the Small stood rather sheepishly in the open doorway. The little gnome was bouncing from one foot to the other, as was his habit when nervous.

Shannon had red hair and a matching beard, and dark, intelligent eyes. He was dressed as usual in a red shirt, blue bibs, black cap, and upturned boots. A corncob pipe stuck out jarringly from between his teeth. The gnome seemed quite anxious to deliver Tristan to the wizards and be done with the entire affair. “They say it is quite urgent,” he added tentatively.

“It’s always urgent with those two.” Tristan winked at Shailiha. He turned to the gnome. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I will come.” He turned to his sister to say good-bye.

“You promise, Tristan?” she asked him again. “To do what we talked about?”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and then stood up, stretching the sleepy muscles in his legs. “Yes, Shai,” he said. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

When he approached the doorway he gave the gnome a serious look. “Once we have reached Wigg and Faegan, please ask your wife to come and sit with the princess,” he said. “I want to make sure the baby is watched over, in case Shailiha falls asleep again.”

“Yes, Prince Tristan,” Shannon answered respectfully.

The prince turned to blow a kiss to his twin sister. After gently closing the door he began to follow the anxious, waddling gnome down the labyrinthine hallways of the Redoubt.

2

Tristan never ceased to be amazed at the sheer size of the Redoubt of the Directorate—the vast, hidden, interconnecting series of hallways and rooms below what had once been his home, the royal palace. It was only several months ago that he had even learned of the Redoubt’s existence. The only other persons sharing the secret had been the Directorate of Wizards, the lesser wizards called the consuls, who studied here, and his now-deceased parents. How such a huge place could exist, and the comings and goings of such a large order as the consuls be kept such a closely guarded secret, was truly one of the great accomplishments of the wizards.

That accomplishment had proven invaluable for Tristan and his companions. Not only did the Redoubt house most of the nation’s resources for the use of the craft, but it also provided a much-needed hiding place until the situation in Tammerland could be more thoroughly assessed.

Geldon, the Parthalonian hunchbacked ex-slave who had returned to Eutracia with them, had become their eyes and ears out in the world, using his talent at coming and going virtually unnoticed. From what he had learned so far, Tammerland was still a very dangerous place. Lawlessness was commonplace, especially at night.

The prince wanted desperately to leave the Redoubt and see the city for himself. He knew this was something the wizards would vehemently object to. But his twin sister’s request of him to visit the graves in her stead provided him with a perfect excuse. He would go—with or without the approval of Faegan or Wigg. As he anticipated their joined outbursts of protest, one corner of his mouth turned upward into a wry smile.

As he followed Shannon, Tristan took the opportunity to look around, amazed as always at the triumph of subterranean architecture that was the Redoubt of the Directorate. It was built in the form of a wagon wheel, with a large central hub that had once served as a meeting place for the thousands of consuls who had visited and studied here. Outward from the center hub ran the many seemingly endless hallways, connecting at their far ends to the outer edge of the wheel. Smaller hallways connected the larger ones every hundred paces or so, allowing the traveler to reach his destination without the burdensome task of always going to the end of any given spoke, and numerous circular stairways linked the various levels. The subterranean chambers could be dizzying in their vastness.

Each hallway or room was more beautiful than the last. The walls, ceilings, and floors were of the finest, highly polished marble. Wall sconces and chandeliers gave off a delicate, ethereal hue, offsetting the massiveness that might otherwise seem overbearing. Each of the rooms was elaborately decorated; the doors were hand carved of solid mahogany. The prince sighed inwardly. He doubted he would ever come close to seeing the interiors of even the slightest fraction of these rooms.

Before actually living here, Tristan had never known that there were so many different colors of marble. Each of the hallways had its own distinct color; the entire spectrum was represented. Just now Tristan and Shannon were walking up a hallway of the most delicate violet, shot through with streaks of indigo.

As the heels of his black knee boots rang out against the marble floors, the prince’s mind went back to the day he had first been brought here by Wigg, the day he had been dressed down by his father and the entire Directorate. Hundreds upon hundreds of talented consuls had been in the Redoubt then, scurrying to and fro, each wearing a dark blue robe. Now the emptiness that filled these halls brought more than a hint of sadness.

So much had changed since that day. Even Tristan himself had been changed irrevocably. After he had unexpectedly used his untrained endowed powers to help defeat the Coven, his very blood had altered in color from red to azure. Azure—the color of the various manifestations of the craft. The amazing change to his blood had first been discovered after his battle to the death with Kluge, the commander of the Minions of Day and Night.

“We are unsure of what other changes might occur within you, should you continue to try to make further use of your still untrained gift, or continue to wear the stone,” the wizards had said as they removed the Paragon, the bloodred jewel that empowered endowed blood, from around his neck.

He had been forced reluctantly to agree. But he still had a great many questions to ask the old wizards, especially now that his sister was well. And he intended to get his answers very soon.

He already knew something of the Vigors, the beneficent side of the craft to which the wizards had devoted their lives. And he had seen firsthand the evil of the Vagaries, the darker, more damning side. He had learned and come to accept that he was the male of the Chosen Ones, supposedly meant to lead his nation forth to a new age. He knew that he was the only person destined to read all three volumes of the Tome—the Vigors, the Vagaries, and the Prophecies. His mind whirled with the complexities of it all. His supremely endowed blood constantly called out to him to begin his education in the craft. But still the wizards put off his training.

At last Shannon stopped before one of the massive mahogany doors that lined the violet hallway. Moving from one foot to the other, he looked up at the prince.

“They await you inside,” he said anxiously. “I will now make sure that someone goes to watch over Princess Shailiha and the baby.” He seemed eager to be gone.

Watching the gnome waddle back down the corridor, Tristan realized that he was standing in an area of the Redoubt with which he was entirely unfamiliar. One corner of his mouth came up. Not knowing exactly where he was hardly seemed unusual, considering the size of this place. What did perplex him was why the wizards would require his presence so suddenly. He opened the great door.

The room he entered was large, and elaborately decorated. The walls, ceiling, and floor were of a very rare and elegant Ephyran marble, dark blue swirled with the lightest of gray. Numerous oil lamps and chandeliers added to the soft glow of the fire burning in the light blue marble fireplace in the right-hand wall.

Wigg, seated at a long table, looked up calmly from the volume he had been reading. The wizard’s gray hair fell from a widow’s peak at his forehead only down to the nape of his neck. The customary braided wizard’s tail had been cut off during his imprisonment by the Coven less than one month ago. Tristan smiled inside, knowing that Wigg would let it grow back out of respect for his dead friends, the deceased wizards of the Directorate. The bright, aquamarine eyes in the craggy face had lost nothing of their intensity, and the gray robe of his once-lofty office draped loosely over a body that remained muscular, protected from old age and disease by time enchantments.

As always, Faegan was seated in his rough-hewn chair on wheels. His legs, useless as a result of torture by the Coven, dangled down over the edge of the seat. His worn, black robe seemed too large for him, and the wild salt-and-pepper hair that was parted down the middle of his head fell almost to his shoulders. His eyes were an unusually intense, green-flecked gray. His impossibly dark blue cat, Nicodemus, sat patiently in his lap.

Then Tristan noticed the fourth person in the room. He automatically backed away, drawing his dreggan from its scabbard. The deadly song of the dreggan’s blade resounded reassuringly through the room, bouncing briefly off the marble walls before finally, reluctantly fading away.

“You can put that away,” Wigg said wryly. His right eyebrow arched up into its familiar expression of admonishment. “He is in no condition to harm any of us. He is, in fact, a consul.”

Embarrassed, Tristan replaced the dreggan into its scabbard. He then slowly walked to where the inert figure reclined on an overstuffed sofa that sat along one wall. The prince looked down into the face of the battered consul who lay before him.

The man on the couch was a little older than the prince—perhaps thirty-five New Seasons of Life. He seemed to be in a very bad way. His dark blue robe was ripped and dirty, and only partially hid the fact that the poor fellow was apparently half starved. His blond hair was in knots; his face was bruised and bloodied; his cheeks were hollowed from malnutrition. Despite his condition, he was still a good-looking man.

Tristan bent over to grasp the man’s right arm. Lifting it up, he slid the sleeve up to view the right shoulder. He saw what he was looking for. The tattoo of the Paragon, in bright red, identified the man as a consul of the Redoubt. Satisfied, the prince slid the sleeve back down and gently placed the arm back alongside the body. Then he turned back to Wigg.

“As I mentioned, he is a consul,” Wigg said rather quietly.

“Do you know him?” Tristan asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Wigg answered. “His name is Joshua, and despite his relative youth he is one of the more gifted and powerful of the Brotherhood. He was one of those in charge of the squads I sent out to hunt down the stalkers and harpies, just before the arrival of the Coven. As far as I know, he is the only one to have ever returned.” Wigg closed the book that lay in front of him. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his gray robe, he suddenly seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“And you, Faegan,” Tristan asked the wizard in the chair. “Do you know him, too?”

“No, Tristan, nor do I know any of the others of that brotherhood,” Faegan replied in his gravelly voice. A look of mild envy crossed his face. “The Redoubt is an entirely new concept to me, since it was formed after the Sorceresses’ War and I was already living in Shadowood by then. But I am truly interested in what this man will have to say when we revive him.” The elder of the wizards sat quietly, thinking to himself, and Tristan was reminded that unlike Wigg, who was used to being in the Redoubt, Faegan was still overwhelmed by the place and what it represented. Being envious of another wizard’s knowledge was something Faegan was not used to, and sometimes it showed.

Layers of thought and deed, Tristan thought, as the often-repeated phrase jumped into his mind. It was said that the thoughts and actions of wizards were piled one atop another, like the layers of an onion. One layer was removed, only to reveal another beneath it. He thought for a moment about what his sister had said to him, about how these two wizards could forever argue with each other like a pair of old scullery maids. They were probably trying to outthink each other right now, he realized. But it was also apparent that whatever bitterness might have remained as a result of the war some three centuries ago had been forgiven.

“How did this consul get here?” Tristan asked. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Geldon found him as he started out through one of the tunnels, to go to buy food in the city,” Faegan mused, half to himself. “When he found Joshua unconscious and bleeding, he immediately brought him here. We examined him and found him to be basically sound, despite the malnutrition and a dislocated right shoulder. Wigg used the craft to reset the joint, and I invoked an incantation of accelerated healing over it. I then induced a deep sleep within him. We were only waiting for you to come before we woke him up, so that you too might hear whatever he has to say.”

“Then I suggest you revive him,” the prince said simply.

Wigg looked to Faegan, and the elder wizard nodded. Narrowing his eyes, Wigg stared intently at the consul, and an azure glow began to surround the stricken man. It was the glow that always accompanied any significant use of the craft, and it was proof that the wizard was working his magic on the consul.

As the clear blue glow intensified, the consul began to stir. Tristan walked over to the couch and looked down.

The glow faded away. The consul opened his eyes and slowly looked around the room. When he saw Wigg, tears filled his eyes. “Wigg,” he whispered breathlessly, “is it really you?”

Wigg quickly stood, picking up his chair to go sit at the side of the couch. “Yes,” he said compassionately, “it’s me. You’re safe now, and in the Redoubt. You’re all right, but you had a dislocated shoulder, and you’re starving. You need food and rest. But first we must know what happened to you.”

As if Wigg’s question had suddenly triggered a flood of horrific memories, the consul cried out, trying to get up off the couch. Wigg gave him a narrow-eyed stare, and Joshua settled down. But it was plain to see that he was still in shock.

“It was horrible!” he said, his hazel eyes wide with the terror of his memories. “The things, they came from the eggs . . . the eggs in the trees . . . endowed . . . dripping azure . . . unbelievable . . . Then the awful birds came out of them . . .” His forehead bathed in sweat, Joshua collapsed farther down onto the couch and began to sob again.

Faegan wheeled his chair closer and looked down at the consul. It was clear that both he and Wigg were very concerned.

“Try to calm yourself,” Wigg said softly, “and tell us what happened. Start at the beginning.”

“I lost my entire squad to a harpy, and I was traveling alone,” Joshua began. “I did not find another squad for a long time—much longer than I thought it would have normally taken. My food was running out . . .” He paused, trying to control his emotions. “I finally found another squad of four and joined them. They were led by Argus.”

A hint of recognition came into Wigg’s aquamarine eyes. “Argus,” he said. “He was one of the best of the consuls.”

“Yes,” Joshua said. “With us were three others: Jonathan, Galeb, and Odom. Did you know them?”

“I knew all of the ones that I sent out,” Wigg replied.

“We had only been together for three days when we started to feel it.”

“When you started to feel what?” Wigg asked.

“The sensation of being near such unusual, highly powered, endowed blood,” Joshua continued. “I had never felt anything like it, nor had any of the others. We were only one day away from the Redoubt when they struck us . . . Only one day . . .”

His voice began to trail off, and the tears came again. “We had decided to stop looking for stalkers and harpies and come straight here, to see if there was still anyone of endowed blood to report this to,” he added weakly. “Both Argus and I thought it that important.”

“And then?”

Joshua swallowed hard, as if still fearful that whatever had attacked the squad was somehow now here, in this very chamber. “The trees above us began to glow, and very large eggs started to take shape in the branches,” he said softly. “After a little bit we could see that they were actually transparent, with birds of prey curled up inside each of them, waiting to hatch. And then they broke free of their eggs, and came for us.”

Joshua began to cough, and Tristan reached to the table for some water. He walked over to the couch and held out the glass to the stricken consul. Seeing him, Joshua’s eyes went wide. “Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me; I did not recognize you.”

“That is unimportant,” Tristan said kindly. “Please continue as best you can.”

But now Joshua, curious about his audience, was looking around again. His eyes fell on the strange man in the chair with the blue cat in his lap. “And you sir, do I know you?” he asked.

“No, you do not,” Faegan replied. “I am Faegan, and I am a wizard. But please continue.”

After another swallow of water, Joshua began again. “The first of them that broke free of its egg made an awful noise, and Argus and Galeb sent bolts against it. But the thing just shook them off, as though their gifts did not exist.” He glanced at Wigg. “It was unbelievable. And then it flew in a direct line toward Argus, knocking him to the ground. The other creatures went after the rest of us in the same way. I was somehow sent flying down over an embankment, where I hurt my arm. I crawled back up as best I could to take a look, and what I saw . . .” He shook his head.

“And that was?” Wigg prompted.

“The birds’ eyes . . .” Joshua said, seemingly lost in the moment. “It’s their eyes, Lead Wizard. I shall never forget them.”

“What about their eyes?”

“They were bright red, and glowed with an intensity that was almost blinding.” He closed his own eyes for a moment. “It was hideous. They did this for some time, apparently surveying the campsite. Then they carried off the consuls in their claws. The entire squad, except myself . . . My friends . . . now all gone . . .”

Faegan wheeled his chair even closer and looked hard at the consul with his intense, gray-green eyes.

“About the eyes,” he said. “Tell me, did they glow constantly?”

Wigg frowned, not pleased that Faegan was pushing the consul so hard.

“Yes,” Joshua answered, “but sometimes more than others.”

Faegan let loose a small cackle and sat back in his chair. Tristan shot a quick glance at Wigg. Faegan has some knowledge of this, Tristan speculated. He made a mental note to speak to Faegan of it later. But right now he had some questions of his own.

“And our nation?” Tristan asked anxiously. “How fares Eutracia? None of us except one has been outside of these walls for weeks, and even on our way here it seemed that Eutracia was in the grip of something we did not fully understand. Can you tell us more?”

“It is indeed as bad as you fear,” Joshua said, his heart obviously heavy. “The entire nation is in chaos. There is simply no authority to enforce the laws and restore order. Crime, murder, and looting are everywhere, and food is growing scarce. More people are moving into the cities every day, mistakenly believing places like Tammerland to be their best chance for survival. Many of these cities, especially Tammerland, are now straining with the flood of refugees. I fear that very soon famine may take hold in the cities, since few farmers dare to bring their crops or livestock to the market, for fear of being assaulted and robbed on the way.” He paused for a moment.

“It is said that the citizens are killing each other for the mere basics of life,” he went on. “Many men—husbands, fathers, and sons—were lost in the recent hostilities. The poorest of the women have been reduced to selling their bodies in the streets, even in the light of day.”

Tristan couldn’t bear any more. He walked slowly to the fireplace at the other side of the room. Leaning his hands against the mantel, he looked down into the glowing embers. With his nation in tatters, how could he remain in this marble tomb and do nothing? He had to get out and at least see for himself. I will leave tonight instead of tomorrow, he resolved. And I will not tell the wizards.

“But what about the consuls?” Wigg asked urgently. His hands were balled up into fists, his knuckles white with anger. “It is their very mission in life to do good deeds among the populace, and hopefully at least some of them survived the attack by the Coven and the Minions of Day and Night. Are they not helping?”

Joshua looked down at his hands. “I fear, Lead Wizard, that there are perhaps too few of us left to do any real good,” he answered. “And if the things in the trees that carried off the others of my squad are still active, perhaps we now know why. Especially if there are more of them than I saw. I had to travel for weeks to find Argus and his group. We both know that such a thing could not have happened under normal circumstances. With all of the consuls away from the Redoubt and in the countryside, we should have been bumping into one another.”

Joshua paused for a moment, to let his words sink in. “But now, I fear, even the consuls of the Redoubt may be few. This could add immeasurably to our troubles,” he said weakly.

The strain was clearly starting to show again in the consul’s face, and both Wigg and Faegan could see he was near the point of total exhaustion.

“It is time for you to rest,” Faegan said gently. “I am going to put you into a deep, induced sleep. When you wake we will feed you, wash you, and give you a new robe. But right now, your most important mission is to rest. Do you understand?”

Joshua nodded weakly and closed his eyes. The elder wizard closed his eyes also, and immediately the consul was surrounded by the azure glow of the craft. In a moment, he was deeply asleep, and the glow was gone.

Faegan turned to look at Wigg, and Tristan finally returned from his stance in front of the fireplace to rejoin the wizards. A seemingly interminable period of silence reigned in the room.

The madness never ends, Tristan thought sadly to himself. Finally it was Faegan who broke the silence. He closed his eyes as he began to speak.

“ ‘And there shall be a great struggle in the skies, but it shall be as only one part of the larger, more perilous carnage below,’ ” he began. “ ‘In this the ones of the scarlet beacons shall struggle with the others who also have dominion in the firmament. And the blood of each, endowed and unendowed alike, shall flow down upon the ones below as rain, and caress the white, soft ground of the nation before it is completed. And the child himself shall be forever watching.’ ” Faegan opened his eyes and smiled slightly, waiting for the inevitable questions.

“Another quote from the Tome?” Wigg asked. Faegan was the only living person to have read the entire volumes of both the Vigors and the Vagaries. Gifted with the very rare power of Consummate Recollection, the older wizard could recall anything he had ever seen, heard, or read throughout his entire lifetime. Wigg leaned forward intently, his curiosity at equal measure with the sadness he felt at hearing the consul’s disturbing words.

“Yes, quite,” Faegan whispered almost to himself, obviously lost in his own thoughts. “It is a quote that has long intrigued me.” He looked up and smiled again. “For over three hundred years, in fact. I have never been certain of its meaning, but I believe we may be at least one step closer to learning its secrets. The ‘ones of the scarlet beacons’ I believe to be Joshua’s birds with the bright red, glowing eyes. There has been no other creature in my personal experience with such unique attributes. Still, I have absolutely no idea about what is meant by ‘the white, soft ground of the nation.’ And I certainly do not know what it means when it says that ‘the child himself shall be forever watching.’ The only child I can think of that might in any way be relevant would be Morganna, Shailiha’s baby. But for the life of me I can’t understand how or why.” He sat back in his wooden chair and stroked his cat.

Tristan turned to Wigg to see that the lead wizard was also lost in the maze of questions that lay before them. “Do you believe the consuls to be dead?” he asked bluntly.

Pursing his lips, Wigg placed a thumb and forefinger to either temple. “That is impossible to say at this time,” he answered. “It would certainly explain why none of them have returned to the Redoubt.”

“One thing is sure,” Faegan ruminated. “These things—these birds of prey—are definitely not a product of the Vigors. They are without compassion, and their ends are served only through violence. Azure radiates about them, meaning that they are a product of the craft. But they also do not sound as if they are of great intelligence, and therefore may be controlled by another, higher power somewhere.”

He paused for a moment, then turned his gray-green eyes to Wigg and Tristan. “This means, my friends, that someone in Eutracia is again practicing the Vagaries,” he said angrily. He looked down at his useless legs and, as if in shame, pulled the hem of his robe down a bit, covering them more completely. “There is nothing in the world that angers me as much as the misuse of the craft,” he added softly. The meaning of his words were not lost upon the prince and Wigg. It had been the Vagaries that had destroyed his legs.

Tristan would never forget that day upon the mountain when Wigg had called forth the physical manifestations of both the Vigors and the Vagaries. The Vigors had appeared as a giant orb of dazzling, golden light. The Vagaries had been an orb of the same size, but black, ominous looking, and literally dripping with the energy of destruction. The two opposite orbs of the craft were constantly attracting each other but never able to touch, immediately repelling each other when coming too close.

Wigg had explained to him then that the improper combination of their energies would result in the total destruction of everything they knew. Supposedly Tristan, the Chosen One, was to be the first to successfully join these opposite powers for the good of the land. Just now it seemed such a day was far off, indeed.

“Joshua remains our only key to the answers about the flying creatures,” Wigg added. “But we must wait until he awakens. Then we shall tend to his health. He has been through a great deal.”

A dense, almost palpable silence reigned, the only sound the occasional snapping of the wood burning in the fireplace. Tristan looked down into the face of the sleeping consul as a sad, ironic notion suddenly came to him.

Even this injured consul has more freedom than I do now. I have been a virtual prisoner in this cavern of marble. Perhaps even a criminal in my own country—for crimes I was forced to commit. But tonight, at least, I will see the graves of my family—wizards or no wizards.

Feeling the need to check on his still-fragile sister, the prince walked slowly to the door. Wearily, he faced the others. “I will meet with you both again in the morning,” he said. “Now I go to see Shailiha.”

He turned and walked through the door, leaving the two wizards lost in their contemplations.

3

The afternoon was darkening as Geldon carefully guided his bay mare through the ragged streets of Tammerland. A rainy night was coming, and he made a mental note to be sure to leave the city early enough to avoid it. The strengthening wind occasionally picked up litter from the unkempt streets, blowing it around into little maelstroms of filth and debris. It only added to the general drabness and oppression that now characterized this place.

Such a pity, the hunchbacked dwarf thought. This city must have been magnificent before the coming of the Coven and the Minions of Day and Night. Perhaps the wizards and the Chosen One can somehow make it so again.

Out of habit he reached up to his throat, the place where he had once worn the collar of the second mistress of the Coven. He would never forget the jeweled band of slavery he had worn for over three hundred years, until Wigg had removed it after the fall of the sorceresses. But all of that sometimes seemed a thousand lifetimes ago. The members of the Coven were all dead, and their soldiers, the Minions, were stationed far away in Parthalon, the nation across the Sea of Whispers. Tristan had ordered the Minions to stand down from their violence. They were to rebuild Parthalon, helping the citizens there to regain free and useful lives.

Geldon could see evidence of the Minions’ depraved butchery as he went down the various streets. As was their custom, they had used the blood of their victims to paint obscenities and symbols of their victory on the walls and buildings, just as they had done in Parthalon. Geldon knew that the psychological stain of what they had done would remain long after their horrific, telltale artwork had vanished.

He patted his horse to take his mind from the butchery, then smiled to himself at how clever the two wizards living in the Redoubt were. Fearing that the horses would be stolen from the palace stables above ground, Wigg and Faegan had converted a small part of the Redoubt to underground stables, and the horses were now boarded there full time, along with the tack and feed. It had become a part of Geldon’s duties to care for them, and he loved his job.

He had ridden his bay mare out one of the many secret tunnels leading out of the Redoubt. Each of the winding tunnels exited in a different area of the palace or its surrounding landscaping. Their entrances were cleverly disguised, and he had to be very careful never to be seen entering or exiting. From the palace it was only a short ride into the heart of the city. But each time he visited this place it depressed him.

He was headed for the section that had once been the center of Eutracian culture and commerce. Most of the storefronts and shops had been long since looted, but there were still a handful of them open, their owners apparently well heeled enough to pay hired thugs to protect them. This was also the place where most of the idle citizens now seemed to congregate, as if being together would somehow add to their own safety.

The area known as Bargainer’s Square was now a hotbed of whores, thieves, con artists, mercenaries for hire, and beggars. But it was the place where he was most likely to pick up the latest gossip. He knew the danger factor there was high, especially for a hunchbacked dwarf whose size might well make his self-defense more problematic.

As he approached the huge, cobblestone square he could see that it was unusually busy today. In fact, the place was literally teeming with life. He kept his pace slow and his head down, purposely trying not to invite attention. No one need tell him that simply being a hunchbacked dwarf might be enough to invite harassment from rowdies looking for fun.

Street whores with come-hither glances brazenly plied their trade in the open. From many of the alleyways could be heard the homely, visceral sounds of crude, urgent intercourse. Oftentimes the men could be seen standing in line, waiting their turn. Beggars approached him at every corner. Some of them seemed truly needy, while others were simply looking for a coin or a piece of bread to get them through another day without having to work. He bit his lip as he went along, almost crying at what he saw. Some of the unfortunates here were mere children. Orphans, he assumed. Lost and alone in a giant world not of their making, many were filthy and starving.

He would sometimes come across the menacing eyes of those he knew to be the most dangerous—the killers for hire. Professional assassination had become a healthy business since the loss of the Royal Guard. There were many citizens who were more than happy to spend the necessary kisa to eliminate a wealthy relative, adulterous spouse, or more successful business rival. Kisa, the gold coin of the realm, was the only thing that guaranteed survival. And what these mercenaries were willing to do to get it was without limits. With enough money, virtually anyone here could be killed, with no trace remaining of the assassin.

And then there was the final group of unfortunates. The hobbling, crippled souls who were wounded, and nearly dead. Those who had somehow survived the clash with the Minions, but had lost an arm, a leg, or an eye. These men and women were the ones who seemed truly lost, walking the streets as if in a daze. Their eyes were constantly searching, but they seemed to recognize little. Every such encounter with the Minions, Geldon knew, bred such poor souls like flies. And it was plain to see that many of them here were soon to lose it all to the ravages of their quickly advancing gangrene. They had apparently never found anyone of the craft capable of properly tending their wounds.

Thank the Afterlife Tristan has not seen this, Geldon thought. There would be no end to the rage and sorrow he would feel. As if mere cloth could somehow protect him from the horrific scene, he slowly pulled the hood of his robe up over his head and traveled on.

Geldon had made six other such visits to the city. He had purposely not been trying to find out too much, for fear of seeming overly inquisitive. The last thing he needed was undue scrutiny. But he had struck up several potentially valuable acquaintances—people he thought he could now trust enough to tell him at least some semblance of the truth. It was to the first of these he steered his mare.

Familiarity first, the wizards had warned him. Then and only then should come the questions.

He stopped his horse in front of one of the more rowdy, notorious taverns and looked down at the partial amputee seated on the walk. The fellow’s legs were gone just below the hips, no doubt a result of the Minions’ carnage. What was left of his squat body was strapped to a rather poorly made wooden box. Around both of his hands were wrapped dirty bandages, and in each fist he gripped a handle. Each handle was connected to a separate block of wood. In this way he could move along much faster than one would have ever imagined. He would repeatedly extend the blocks of wood before him, then lift his body-box upward and forward, placing it down into the space between them. He was known only as Stubbs, and his dark, dirty hair and black eye patch were always the same. He seemed to be quite sure, as he looked up at Geldon, that at least a few kisa were about to come his way. He smiled, several of his front teeth missing.

“And how are you this fine day?” Stubbs asked the dwarf, his greedy smile far from retreating. “Have you come for yet more supplies?”

Geldon took a quick look around the unusually crowded square before responding, making sure there was no one else within earshot. “Yes,” he said simply, continuing to gaze down at the cripple.

“For the life of me, I don’t know why you don’t get a wagon,” Stubbs added, rubbing a hand over his grizzled, salt-and-pepper chin. “It would make life a lot simpler, and you wouldn’t have to come into town so often.” Reaching out, he placed the blocks one step in front of his truncated body. Hoisting himself into the space between them, he moved a little closer to the hooves of Geldon’s horse. He used his good eye to look up at the dwarf. “Nobody honest ever comes to this part of town ’less they have to. That is, unless they’re in need of a good time from one of the ladies.” He winked knowingly. “I could do with a bit of that myself, if you know what I mean.”

Geldon opened the leather cinch bag that was tied around his waist and took several low-denomination kisa from it, holding them casually in his hand. He jingled them lightly together. “Perhaps I could help you with that,” he said softly.

Stubbs took another of his small leaps forward, his eyes shining with greed. “What do you need, m’lord?” he asked quickly. “I can get you anything you want: liquor . . . women . . . or perhaps there’s someone you’d like to see out of the way?”

“Just some information,” Geldon answered shortly. He looked around again, pausing to let a group of loud, drunken men go by. “Why is Bargainer’s Square so busy today?” he asked. “I’ve never seen it like this.”

Stubbs tilted his head and smiled again, holding out his hand. Geldon flipped one coin down. Before he knew it, the cripple had bitten hard into it, testing its worth. Stubbs smiled with approval. “News is there’s goin’ to be some kind of big announcement today, and very soon now,” he said conspiratorially.

“What kind of announcement?”

Stubbs just smiled. Geldon tossed down another coin.

“They say it’s goin’ to be big doin’s, and has to do with somebody important.” Again he stopped. Yet another coin came down.

“Who?” Geldon asked.

Stubbs smiled nastily. “The prince,” he said softly.

Geldon froze. That’s impossible, he thought. No one knows Tristan is here.

He tried to keep his composure. “What about the prince?” He pursed his lips as if the information he had just paid for had been a bad bargain. “I don’t know very much about him, much less care, and I’ve half a mind to come down there and get my money back.” He glared angrily at the cripple. “There must be more to it than that.”

“Only that there is to be some kind of announcement in the Hog’s Hoof Tavern, in about one hour,” Stubbs said. “I swear to the Afterlife, m’lord, that’s all I know.”

Finally believing him, Geldon tossed down one more coin. “Consider that to be a down payment on my next visit,” he said sternly. “As for now, do the smart thing and erase me from your memory until you see me again. We never talked.”

“Yes m’lord,” Stubbs said gleefully. He headed off, leaping and bounding awkwardly across the cobblestones of the square, aiming straight for the first of the street whores he could find, happily holding out his kisa like a schoolboy entering a candy shop.

But the amusement Geldon felt at watching Stubbs quickly vanished as he turned his horse toward the Hog’s Hoof. His thoughts were darkening with every moment. No one, as far as they knew, was aware that the prince and Wigg had returned to Eutracia. The thought of some kind of announcement about Tristan unnerved him. And the only way to learn more would be to go to the tavern—a prospect he was not particularly fond of.

The Hog’s Hoof had the worst reputation in all of Tammerland, and had long been known as a gambling house, a haven for criminals, and a brothel of the most perverted standards. Geldon had been there only one other time, during one of his first trips into the city. He had quickly left in fear of his life. Still, he had no choice but to brave the place again. He owed Tristan his freedom and his life—a debt he would never stop trying to repay.

Dismounting in front of the great, overbearing edifice of the tavern, he tossed the leering brutes on the sidewalk several coins to watch his horse, then stepped inside the belly of the raucous, human carnival that was the Hogs’s Hoof.

It was exactly as he had remembered it. The noise, smells, and laughter coming from the various areas of the great front room seemed to have a unique, dangerous texture all their own. A very long, hand-hewn bar of highly polished hibernium wood stretched from one end of the rear wall to the other. The rest of the entire room seemed to be a mass of tables, chairs, and men in various stages of drunkenness. Women worked the room constantly, either serving liquor or plying their other trade, trying to entice the men into going upstairs. There were many takers.

But everyone was not always happy in this place, and he knew a fight could break out at any moment. Anxious, oftentimes angry men leaned over the gaming tables, seemingly trying to throw their money away as fast as possible. From the far corner of the room he could see more of them standing in a small crowd, yelling down at the floor and throwing their kisa into the circle before them. There was obviously a cockfight going on. And the vast majority of the men in the room were armed, wearing both sword and dagger.

The square, open room was two stories high; on the second floor, the chambers of the whores opened onto a railed balcony that overlooked the main tavern below. Scores of oil lamps hanging from the elaborately carved ceiling gave off a harsh, glaring glow, and the various hues of red, the predominant color, gave the tavern a cheap, glaring, dangerous cast. The entire place smelled of liquor, sweat, and greed.

Carefully walking through the crowd to reach the bar, Geldon realized that it would be the man standing behind it who would most probably be the best source of information. The dwarf laboriously hoisted himself up onto one of the relatively high chairs.

“Ale,” he said simply.

The man behind the bar gave Geldon a curious look. Then, with a slight smile, he poured the dwarf a tankard of the tavern ale. Geldon took a draught of the strong, bitter swill, smiled his approval to the bartender, and jangled several kisa down on the bar top.

The server was an older man, with a liquor-induced, ruddy complexion. He had a shiny, bald head, save two tufts of unruly, white hair on either side. He wore a white, stained apron that did little to cover his protruding stomach. But underneath it all Geldon could see that this man was heavily muscled, and no doubt exceptionally strong. He probably needs to be, the dwarf realized.

But the server’s demeanor seemed kind, so the dwarf decided to chance a conversation.

“Bargainer’s Square is very busy today,” he began casually, “and so is the Hog’s Hoof. I’ve never seen so many people here.”

“Business is good,” the man said. He began wiping glasses with a cloth that was less than clean. “Rumor has it that something is going to happen here, and very soon. I don’t know what it is, but if I were you I’d keep my ears open, say little, and be prepared to leave in a hurry if need be. In my opinion, we were all given two ears and only one mouth for a reason. And that is because we should listen twice as much as we talk. One never knows what’s going to happen next in this place, and drawing attention to yourself is never a good idea.”

Excellent advice indeed, Geldon thought. He was beginning to like the fat, red-faced man behind the bar, and he decided to press a little. “My name is Geldon,” he tried.

The man nodded. “Rock,” he said.

“Rock?”

“Yes, Rock.” He smiled. “Can’t you imagine why?”

Geldon smiled back as he looked at Rock’s bulging arms and large, gnarled hands. “Yes,” he said. “Indeed I can.”

Rock leaned forward a little, motioning for Geldon to do the same. “Like I said, something is about to happen,” the barman whispered. “And I think it has to do with—”

Suddenly Rock’s voice trailed off as he looked up to the door at the other side of the room. He swallowed hard, then straightened back up, saying nothing. His face had lost some of its color, and he stood stock-still, as if waiting for something. The entire room had also gone amazingly silent. Geldon turned around, trying to see what it was that would stop such a powerful man dead in his tracks.

Someone had entered the tavern. Standing in the doorway, the stranger was backlit by the streetlight outside, and Geldon could not make out his features. As he walked farther into the large room it became clear that he was very well known. Tables and chairs screeched and scratched out of his way as he moved forward. No one spoke. As the man finally came into view, Geldon knew that he was looking into the face of a cold, professional killer.

It was true that a great many such men had sprung up since the assault by the Minions, but somehow this man was different. Geldon could immediately tell that he would not only be one of the fastest, most efficient of assassins, but would also have absolutely no remorse regarding his chosen craft. This one was a true professional.

He was tall, just a bit taller than Tristan, yet also quite thin—almost emaciated. His face was long, narrow, and angular, his leanness showing up in the gray hollowness of his cheeks and the sallow, almost sunken eyes. His aquiline nose ended just above a fairly small mouth, and his eyes were dark and piercing, their gaze missing nothing. Long, dark hair reached almost to his sharp jawline. His broad shoulders and narrow hips moved quickly and gracefully, almost like a dancer.

Looking closer, Geldon could see that the man was holding something under his left arm. A roll of papers, perhaps. His clothes were mostly of dark brown leather, and his high, black boots had silver riding spurs attached to the heels. A long dagger in a black sheath was fastened low on his belt at the man’s left hip, a tie-down strap holding it to his thigh. But what caught Geldon’s nervous attention was the man’s right arm.

The right sleeve of the man’s leather shirt was rolled up to the biceps. Strapped to the top of his right forearm was a miniature crossbow, the likes of which Geldon had never seen. Its general shape and construction at first seemed fairly basic. But on closer examination it could be seen that instead of carrying a single arrow, this one carried five. They were arranged on a circular wheel, attached between the bow and the string. The bow was cocked, with an arrow notched in it and ready to fly. The width of the cocked bow was not more than that of the man’s forearm. Beneath and behind the bow ran a series of several tiny, interlocking gears. Geldon was at first stymied to understand why, until he deduced that after one arrow was shot, the gears could apparently automatically cock the bow, notching another one. It seemed quite possible that the man could literally loose one arrow after another until all five were gone. The entire affair took up so little space that if the man had been wearing his sleeves down, one would hardly notice the difference. And then the dwarf noticed something else strange.

The tips of each of the five miniature arrows were stained with yellow. Geldon turned back to Rock with a questioning expression.

“Scrounge,” Rock answered quietly. “The most accomplished assassin in all of Eutracia. It is said that he works for only one benefactor, but no one seems to know who that is. Nonetheless you should not cross him, for he also kills for pleasure. The death of a hunchbacked dwarf would mean nothing to him.”

The one called Scrounge walked up to the bar and arrogantly stood up on one of the chairs, then walked back and forth on the top of the bar itself, his spurs jangling lightly. He kicked off many of the liquor bottles and glasses in his way, including Geldon’s ale tankard. Smiling, he watched them explode on the tavern floor in broken splatters of liquor and glass. He looked down at the dwarf for a moment, and Geldon’s heart missed a beat.

But Scrounge simply smirked at him, then lifted his face to the waiting crowd. The room was as silent as death.

“Good,” he began in a loud voice. “I can see that I have your attention. Therefore I shall be brief. My benefactor has been gracious enough to ask me to come to you today with a proposition that I believe shall interest you all. It seems he has proof that a very dangerous criminal has returned to the land. My employer has offered a substantial reward for this man’s capture. Dead or alive. Actually, my benefactor would prefer him taken alive. But to my mind, dead is just as good.” He smiled, revealing several yellow, decaying teeth.

“The reward for this man is to be immediately paid in kisa. Let there be no mistake. The reward is high—the highest ever seen in the history of our nation.” He paused to allow the tension in the room to build. “The price for the head of this criminal is one hundred thousand gold kisa.”

The silence in the room was shattered by high-pitched, almost hysterical cries of delight and some loud applause. In a moment, feet were stamping the floor, and fists pounding the tabletops. Ale tankards and wineglasses jumped with the commotion, spilling their contents. Scrounge politely waited for the din to subside before continuing.

One hundred thousand kisa, Geldon thought, stunned. He had not been in Eutracia long, but he certainly knew enough to understand that such a sum amounted to more than most of these people could earn in fifty lifetimes. He turned back to watch Scrounge.

The assassin took the roll of paper from beneath his left arm and began to unfurl it, smiling. “And now for the identity of this man,” he said. He unrolled the first of the posters and held it before the crowd. Geldon’s blood froze. The crowd fell silent.

The likeness on the poster was that of Tristan of the House of Galland, prince of Eutracia, and there were words in large, dark print beneath it.

Geldon simply sat there, staring at the awful thing. The prince, the one so instrumental in not only saving his nation but also the entire world as they knew it, was now a common criminal.

No, he suddenly thought. Not common at all. This is a king’s ransom. And no one in the nation knows he is innocent except for the few of us living in the Redoubt.

Scrounge walked back and forth along the wet bar top, making sure that everyone could get a good look at the poster.

“Harbor no illusions as to the guilt of this man, this onetime member of the royal house,” he shouted. “His crime, that of taking the head of his very own father, was witnessed by hundreds of our good citizens on the very day of his coronation. It cannot be disputed. For this my patron has decided he must be brought to justice, and swiftly.” He looked out over the crowd as he continued to hold up the awful warrant. “These are about to be posted in every corner of the kingdom. As citizens, it is your duty to bring the prince in. The fee will be paid promptly upon proof that the man brought to us is indeed Tristan, prince of Eutracia.”

He unfurled the remaining posters in his arms, throwing them among the crowd. The frantic spectators began to push and shove, reaching for them. Some brief scuffles broke out, and upon seeing them Scrounge smiled widely.

“Good!” he shouted. “It is heartening to see your level of enthusiasm! Bring him to us, and you shall be rich beyond your wildest dreams!”

Geldon lowered his head, imagining the effect of these awful posters. At last he looked up and, pretending to be a part of the enthusiastic crowd, took a poster off the bar. Carefully folding it, he placed it inside his shirt.

This changes everything, he realized.

All around him, people were hungrily reading the posters and taking in the likeness of the prince. Then, from the back of the room, a man came slowly forward to stand along the wall to Scrounge’s right. His beard and hair were shot through with gray, and he had a tall, mature bearing. Ex-military, Geldon thought. The newcomer stood there glaring at the assassin as if he didn’t care what Scrounge thought of him. A Eutracian broadsword identical to those once used by the Royal Guard hung low on his left hip. He folded his arms across his chest in a clear posture of challenge, and Geldon could see that the look in his eyes was one of hate.

This cannot end well, Geldon thought.

In the relative quiet of the great room, the man suddenly drew his sword from its scabbard, the blade making a defiant, unmistakable ring through the air. Scrounge immediately turned toward the source of the sound, for the first time illustrating just how quickly his reflexes could take hold. His eyes locked upon the man brandishing the sword as its blade reflected off the oil lamps.

“You’re a liar, and a filthy one at that,” the man said almost quietly, the words dripping like venom from his mouth.

At first Scrounge seemed intrigued. “And just why is that?” he asked almost cordially. The room had become as still as a graveyard. Table and chairs began to screech away from the man with the sword. Still he held his ground, continuing to glare up at Scrounge.

“Because I had the privilege of once being a commander in the Royal Guard, and I knew Prince Tristan personally,” the man snarled. “I do not know where he is now, or why he left us. But I also know that if he killed his own father, which I seriously doubt, there must have been a good reason. A great many things happened to a great many people that fateful day—the prince included. I refuse to believe he willfully committed patricide.” He paused briefly, the light still glinting off the razor-sharp blade of his sword. “I will not let you foul the land with your perverted posters. Even if I have to kill you to stop you.” The words hung for a long time in the stillness of the room, as if begging to be answered. The challenge had been made.

“Ah, a relic from the past,” Scrounge said mockingly. Arms akimbo, he shook his head back and forth in derision. “I knew there were still a few of you left limping about the land. From what I have seen of you fellows, you really don’t constitute much of a presence. And certainly not enough to regain control of this poor, beleaguered nation. The only thing that matters these days is how many kisa a man has in his pocket, and everyone knows that. No, I’m afraid your particular brand of antiquated honor just doesn’t count for much anymore.”

The crowd burst into laughter, hoots, and hollers. Realizing the crowd was on his side, Scrounge cleverly let the jeering run its course.

“Besides,” the assassin continued almost happily, “hundreds of people saw the treacherous prince do it! They can’t all be wrong! He used one of the winged monster’s own swords to take his father’s head upon the very altar of the Paragon. No, my friend, I think you should just go back to your rather deluded memories of the past. Leave such things to those of us who know what to do, and how to do it.” The crowd jeered as the man with the sword grew red in the face.

“If you will not desist in this madness, then I shall kill you where you stand!” the Royal Guard officer exploded, taking a step closer.

This will be his mistake, Geldon thought. He is acting with his heart, instead of his brain.

Strangely, Scrounge lowered his head and closed his dark eyes. A faint smile played on his lips. Finally he looked up again and shook his head knowingly, snorting out a soft laugh. “I don’t really think you’re going to get the chance,” he said softly.

In a fraction of a second he raised his right arm, and snapped his fist toward the floor twice. Immediately two of the miniature arrows from his crossbow were flying toward the officer. They pierced him through the muscles above his clavicle and impaled him to the wall. Screaming in pain, the officer tried to free himself but could not. No one moved; no one spoke. Geldon sat stock-still at the bar. He had never seen such a fast weapon, he realized—except, perhaps, for the prince’s dirks.

Scrounge jumped down from the bar and walked to the man pinned against the wall. The officer’s toes were several inches from the floor, and rivulets of bright red blood ran down his clothing. Scrounge bent over to pick up the broadsword that the officer had dropped in his pain.

“Thank you,” the assassin said softly, wickedly. “I have long wanted one of these for my collection.” He placed the point of the blade beneath the officer’s chin, viciously forcing the man’s face up. “No wonder you couldn’t vanquish the winged ones when they came,” he added nastily.

He backed away from the man, admiring the scene as if he were a painter or a sculptor trying to decide what feature he was going to change next. He then stepped in closer, leaning conspiratorially in to the officer’s ear.

“I hope you don’t mind, but these are really quite expensive, and I need them back,” he whispered. With that he reached up and yanked the arrows from the man’s body. The officer crashed to the floor and screamed in pain. The blood from his wounds came much faster now, little rivers of it running slowly into the cracks and crevices of the dirty floor. After wiping the tips of the arrows on a nearby tablecloth, Scrounge very carefully rearranged them on the wheel of his crossbow. He acted casually, like a man who had just been target shooting rather than mutilating a fellow human being.

Bravely, the officer looked up from the floor and spat upon Scrounge’s boots. “I will yet live to kill you,” he whispered through his pain.

Scrounge smiled that curious smile again. “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “For you see, you ignorant bastard, you’re already dead.”

He then carefully put the spur of his right boot up against the officer’s cheek. With a violent, forward thrust of his foot he ran the silver spur into and along the man’s face, tearing a wide gash in his flesh from the bottom of his right earlobe to the hairline. The officer groaned and fainted from the pain.

Scrounge turned back to the spellbound crowd. “Is there anyone else here who would choose to disagree with what has been asked of you today?” he shouted. The silence in the room was palpable, and there was no hint of movement. “Good,” he said. “The next time I see any of you, it had best be because you have the prince of Eutracia in your grasp.”

Still holding the stolen broadsword, he walked purposefully from the room. Geldon, still sitting at the bar, looked down in horror at the injured officer and then back up to Rock. What had Scrounge meant about the officer already being dead?

“This is only the beginning, you know,” the barman said, shaking his head slowly. “I fear our land is in great distress indeed.”

Geldon felt the poster against his skin beneath his shirt and took a long, deep, breath.

More than you know, Rock, he thought to himself. More than you know.

4

It was good to feel Pilgrim beneath him again, Tristan thought as he made his way along the secluded trail. Even the rain on his face was a welcome relief from the confinement of the Redoubt.

The night was dark and cool. The light of the three red moons seemed to follow him as they sailed silently across the night sky. They cast a soft, almost eerie glow upon the rain-laden foliage, pointing up the silver prisms created by the raindrops still clinging to the branches and trees.

It had stopped raining only shortly before. He had actually been glad of the downpour, for it made his stallion’s hooves just that much quieter each time they struck the ground. And the clean, unmistakable scent of fresh rain had helped to blot out the horror of all he had learned and seen that night.

The purloined dark-blue consul’s robe he was wearing was cold and clammy, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. But he was appreciative of it, nonetheless. It covered both the dreggan and the dirks lying across his back, and its hood could be pulled up to hide his face if he came upon anyone.

He had chosen this particular trail because it was so seldom used, especially at night. Just the same, he chose to take no more chances than he had already committed himself to. If the wizards learned of his departure from the Redoubt they would be furious.

Rather than using the tunnels to exit the Redoubt, he had chosen to come up through the royal palace above. He had no desire to bump into Geldon upon the dwarf’s return trip from Tammerland and be forced to explain his presence in the tunnels. Although the odds of that happening were very small, it wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. Second, there was a more personal, compelling reason. He wished for the first time since the death of his family and the Directorate to visit the Great Hall, the scene of their demise.

He had walked through the palace halls quite slowly at first, overcome by a feeling of dread, as if he might be confronted by the Minions of Day and Night, or even by one of the Coven. But he was now lord of the Minions, he reminded himself, and the members of the Coven were all dead. Here in the palace, at least, there was nothing left to fear.

He walked toward the Great Hall slowly, almost reverently. The flood of memories from that awful day, the day everything in his life changed forever, came rushing back to him in an unexpectedly powerful torrent of grief.

The royal palace, the only home he had ever known, had been ransacked and looted from one end to the other.

In truth he had expected as much, but seeing it this way for the first time was still a great shock. Virtually everything of value had been taken—presumably by the Eutracian citizens, after the Minions had left. The Minions’ mission at that time had been to destroy, not to steal. The knowledge that his own countrymen had helped destroy this place only increased his pain as he walked through the broken, shattered shell that had once been his home.

The paintings, sculptures, and other works of art, including the tapestries his mother had so lovingly created, were all gone, the hallways and rooms stripped bare. Each of the passageways and chambers he now silently crept through yawned back at him sadly in their abject emptiness. Even the castle furniture was gone.

Moonlight swept through the many open and destroyed windows, casting his shadow across the walls. He approached the Great Hall with trepidation, knowing that this room would be the most difficult to bear. Finally standing at the entranceway to the room he had so longed to see, he thought at first that his heart might burst.

Like all the others, this room was empty. The windows were all smashed, their frames dangling drunkenly off the hinges. The remnants of the once-fine lace curtains were shredded and bloodied, fluttering uselessly in the night breeze. Despite the fact that this room had been looted, some responsible citizens had apparently retained the foresight to remove the hundreds of dead bodies that had once rested here. Presumably to forestall the vermin that would carry disease to the rest of the city, he reasoned. For that much at least, he found himself thankful.

But they had not cleaned the floor of its blood. The warm, crimson waves of death had simply been left to dry, virtually covering the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Upon the walls could still be seen the Pentangle, the symbol of the Coven, painted in the blood of his countrymen.

He slowly turned to find what it was he had truly come to see, to discover for himself whether they had taken that, too. He had to admit that he did not know how he would feel if it was still there. Part of him hoped that it too would be gone, so that he would not have to look upon it. But his eyes finally found it. He walked to it slowly. Gently going down on his knees, he started to weep.

He was before the altar of the Paragon—the marble edifice upon which he had been forced to take the life of his father.

He remained that way for some time, the tears coming freely as he was taken back to that awful day. Finally he stood, looking down at the top of the altar, where the Minion warriors had held his father down. Tristan forced his hand out, as though touching the marble could grant him some small measure of peace. But when his fingertips unexpectedly found the narrow groove created when his dreggan had gone through his father’s neck, he pulled his hand back in horror, the tears coming again. The altar’s top was still covered with the dried blood of the king. Tristan knew that even if the bloodstains faded into invisibility, for him their taint would live on in this piece of marble forever.

Forgive me, Father, he cried silently. And then he left the palace, hoping to leave behind the ghosts that plagued him so.

Guiding Pilgrim along the rather dark and muddy path, he knew in his heart that he was not visiting the graves simply as a favor to his sister. He was also going for himself. Turning his palms over, he could see the scars on each of them—the results of the blood oath he had taken upon himself the last time he had come here.

He stopped Pilgrim a short distance from the grave site and tied him to a tree. Then slowly, silently he drew his dreggan and stepped into the moonlit clearing.

This place had been chosen for the royal cemetery both because of its secluded location, and the fact that it overlooked one of the finest views of Tammerland. One side ended just short of a very high cliff; the other three sides were surrounded by forest. The graves appeared to be undisturbed, and for that he was thankful. The forest surrounding the grave site rustled quietly in the wind, the only other sound the quiet, reassuring calls of the tree frogs. Both the dew and the remains of the recent rain covered the ground, shimmering in the light of the three red moons. Everything seemed peaceful, and deserted.

Then, as Tristan started toward the graves, he realized that he was not alone.

Someone was standing across the clearing, his dark robe blending into the edge of the woods to Tristan’s left. The hood of his robe was up over his head. His face bowed down and his hands clasped in front of himself, he was apparently giving homage to the dead. Heart racing, Tristan waited to see what the stranger would do. And then it hit him.

He’s a consul of the Redoubt, he realized. He must be. Who else would wear such a robe and pay his respects to these graves? But how did he know who was buried here?

The unknown consul began to sob. Tristan debated whether he should make his presence known. After all, the consuls were friends. Thinking back to Joshua’s plight, he thought that perhaps this consul had suffered the same fate of losing his entire squad to brigards—or to those so-called birds of prey. But before the prince could make up his mind, the consul started to move. Running as fast as he could, the consul headed directly across the tops of the graves and toward the edge of the cliff.

Tristan froze. The consul was committing suicide!

The prince dropped his dreggan and tore from the edge of the forest, running across the graves at a right angle to the speeding consul. But the consul had been too fast, and Tristan had to change direction to have any hope of catching him before the man went over. With a last effort of will the prince launched himself forward, tightly gripping the consul around the knees. They both landed hard upon the wet earth, skidding to a stop just feet from the edge.

Tristan immediately got up on both knees, trying to turn the consul over to speak to him and to get a better look at his face. What he got instead was a quick, unexpected fist to the side of his chin—a very hard right that nearly knocked him unconscious. The consul then tried to push the prince away with pounding fists.

Tristan’s first reaction was to raise a fist to strike back, but he stopped himself. No doubt the consul did not realize who the prince was—only that he had been suddenly attacked. If the man was truly alone, he was probably frightened to death, especially if he had lost his squad.

Lowering his fist, Tristan held the consul’s arm strongly with one hand, and pulled back the hood of the man’s robe with his other. What he saw there in the moonlight took his breath away. The person in the robe was a woman.

Tristan sat there, stunned. Not only was this person no consul, but she was the most intensely beautiful woman he had ever seen. When the Parthalonian Gallipolai named Narissa had died in his arms, he had felt sure no other woman would ever equal her raw, physical beauty. But now he knew he had been wrong. Still holding her arm, he simply sat there in the wet grass, staring.

She leveled her eyes upon his with a look that seemed to go straight through him. “You’re hurting me,” she said hesitantly. There was a great deal of fear in the dark, husky voice, and her declaration to him was more than a simple statement of fact. It was an undeniable plea to let her go.

Unsure of what to do, he kept her in his grip. “If I release you, do you promise not to try to kill yourself again?” he asked. Knowing that a battle of wills had begun, he looked hard into her eyes. The memory of her blow still recent, he smiled slightly, rubbing his chin with his free hand.

“I suppose it really is true,” he said wryly. “No good deed goes unpunished. And I shouldn’t like to be struck again, especially since my deed was such a truly good one.” One corner of his mouth came up in hope that she would return his smile, but she did not. “Do you promise not to try for the cliff?”

“No,” she said simply.

Nonetheless, he let go of her arm. As a precaution, he turned his body slightly. Sitting directly across from her would make it much harder for her to get past him. The knowing look in her eyes told him she was well aware of what he had done. Still, she did not speak.

Tristan used the moment of silence to take in her beauty. Thick, dark red hair that was parted on the side cascaded in undulating waves down past her shoulders. A small swell of those same waves curved gracefully down over part of her forehead, all the while turning slightly in the night breeze. Below the hairline were large sapphire eyes, heavily hooded but never seeming to blink. Her gaze was commanding, and direct. The whites of her eyes could be seen completely encircling the bottom portions of her irises, giving them a knowing, seductive quality. Dark, fine eyebrows arched up and over them gracefully; the slim nose rested above a mouth whose lips were almost too full. The high cheekbones and perfect, white teeth helped complete the picture, the final detail being just a hint of a cleft in the firm, proud jaw.

Although the rest of her was covered by the robe, he could tell that her form was tall, yet curvaceous. Strong, yet also sensual. He caught just a hint of myrrh from her hair as the night breeze flowed around them.

He looked at her robe. Dark blue, and obviously far too large for her, it had clearly once belonged to a consul of the Redoubt. But how had she acquired it? She might have stolen it—but how could she have managed to steal the robe of an endowed consul? Had there been another, more insidious reason for her to come to these cliffs in the middle of the night? He also sensed danger. Given the alarming information he and the wizards had just acquired from the consul Joshua, he was determined to learn more. Beautiful woman or not.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

“No names,” she responded quickly. “Nor do I wish to know who you are.” Her tone told Tristan that she was doing her best not to seem afraid.

“Why are you wearing that robe?” he pressed. “Where did you get it?”

He thought he saw a touch of sadness come to her face, but she regained her composure. “It is of no matter.” She frowned, running one hand back through her hair. As her locks moved heavily across her shoulders, the scent of myrrh came to him again.

“Why were you trying to kill yourself?” he asked bluntly. “There are easier ways to do it if you’re really serious about it.” He smiled, hoping for some hint of her mood lightening.

Her eyes closed for a moment and opened again, this time with just a glimmer of shininess. “It’s easy for people like you,” she said softly, looking directly at him. “Besides, you wouldn’t understand.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Her face lowered slightly. “You want to live,” she whispered.

Her words went through the prince’s heart like a knife. I’ve captured a bird with one wing down, Tristan realized. And I don’t even know who she is.

He looked up to the sky, realizing that he must finish his business and leave soon if he was to return to the Redoubt before daybreak.

“At least tell me where you live,” he said to her. “Perhaps I could see you again. We could talk further.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away.

“No,” she said simply. She began to stand up. He stood with her, making sure she did not try to run off the cliff. Her eyes were almost on the same level with his.

“You have done me no favor by saving me from myself this night,” she said sadly. “And it would be impossible to involve you in my life.” She paused for a moment. “Besides, you would not like what you found there. Your heart would never survive it.” The shininess had reappeared in her eyes. Blinking her tears into retreat, she again proved herself the mistress of her emotions.

“Is your situation truly so bad?” he asked her honestly. “Perhaps I could help.”

“No one can help me,” she told him. “It would be foolish of you to try.”

“At least promise me that you will no longer try to take your life,” he said seriously. “You are far too beautiful to leave this world so early. The Afterlife can wait.” He reached out to touch her cheek. Almost as if it were a habit, she flinched.

“I cannot make such promises,” she said. “But if for some reason you cared enough to save me from myself, then care enough to let me go without further questions. Just let me leave this place, and you may then do whatever it is you came for.” The sapphire eyes did not waver as they stared into his own with strength and candor.

He had no choice, and he knew it. No matter how badly he wanted to know more about why she was here, there was no time. Another Tristan from another time would have let her go and then followed her, his curiosity overriding his common sense. But not this Tristan—and not on this night.

This Tristan would honor his promise to his sister, then return to the Redoubt. Taking this mysterious woman with him was out of the question. He felt his heart tug, knowing he would most probably never see her again. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Very well,” he said finally. “You are not my prisoner, and you are free to leave. But if you can, please find some peace for yourself in this life. You are far too rare a thing to live in such pain.”

Her expression softened a bit. “Thank you,” she said. With that the nameless woman walked away into the forest, the leaves and branches closing behind her.

A final, brief hint of myrrh came to his nostrils and then quickly vanished, telling him she was gone. He stood there, gazing at the place where she had reentered the forest. He wondered again who she really was. But his heart told him he would never know.

He turned to the graves. Going down on both knees before them in the fading moonlight, he bowed his head and grasped the gold medallion around his neck with both hands. He remained that way for a long time.

So much had happened to him, yet so much still seemed unresolved. He missed his parents deeply, just as he missed the wizards of the Directorate who were also buried here. This small clearing by the cliffs would always have a special place in his heart of hearts.

Finally he stood and walked to the edge of the clearing to retrieve his dreggan. Before he left the little glade he turned, almost hoping to see her there again. But of course he did not.

When he returned to Pilgrim, the horse immediately rubbed the length of his face against Tristan’s shoulder, telling the prince it was good to have him back. Tristan mounted and wheeled the horse around. The morning sun was just beginning its struggle up over the jagged horizon of the mountains as he made his way sadly back to the Redoubt.

5

Faegan sat in his wooden chair on wheels, happily playing his magnificent, centuries-old violin, one of the few personal treasures he had allowed himself to bring from Shadowood. All around him, the fliers of the fields turned and wheeled through the air, their colorful wings tracing delicate patterns as if in response to the music. Sometimes they teased him, flying close then suddenly darting away; sometimes they actually landed upon his shoulder or knee as he played. Each one had a body as long as a grown man’s forearm, with a wingspan of several feet. And each pair of diaphanous wings contained a riot of colors, in patterns that somehow were never duplicated from one flier to the next. There was nothing else like them in the world, and they were particularly special to Faegan.

He had not personally created the giant butterflies, for they had become endowed more than three centuries earlier, due to their accidental consumption of the waters of the Caves of the Paragon. But it was he who was responsible for the amazing attribute that set them apart from all the other creatures of the world, save man himself. For these butterflies were able to communicate with humans.

One of the first things Faegan had done upon arriving at the Redoubt was to construct an aviary for his winged treasures. He had spent several days conjuring it from one of the larger rooms. The chamber in which he now sat was over three stories tall, made from light blue marble, and lit by numerous glowing oil lamps. A balcony provided a wonderful view of the entire space.

Inlaid into the floor of the room were two very large, black marble circles. One contained the letters of the Eutracian alphabet, fashioned in white. The other contained the numbers one through ten, all fashioned in red. Recently Faegan had been busy trying to teach the butterflies the basics of the Eutracian numerical system. Wigg had originally been rather critical of the elder wizard spending so much of his time in this manner, but he had finally relented when Faegan had explained.

We may have great need of these friendly, beautiful creatures, the master wizard had said. And perhaps much sooner than we would like to think.

So far Geldon had been their only link to the outside world. They had briefly considered sending one or more of the gnomes out into the city to collect information, but they were afraid that would only invite undue attention, since none of their kind had been seen in this part of Eutracia for over three centuries. Therefore it was Faegan’s plan to eventually use the butterflies, who could fly unseen—at least at night—and reach places the gnomes and Geldon could not. Using the two wheels in the floor, they could then report their findings.

He laid his violin gently down on his lap. Then he raised a hand, and a particularly beautiful flier of violet and yellow came to rest upon his forearm. It remained there calmly, slowly opening and closing its great, elegant wings. They sat there, man and butterfly, regarding each other.

Faegan knew of Wigg’s impending presence long before he saw him. Wigg approached slowly, coming to stand next to the elder wizard’s chair. He admired the fliers as they soared about the room.

“And how does it progress?” he asked.

“They are coming along well, but are still not yet ready,” he replied. “I fear they still need more time than we may have, especially since we are unsure of the dangers that seem to be gathering against us.”

Wigg leaned his long, lanky frame against the balcony rail. “Do you have any more thoughts about Joshua’s flying creatures?” he asked hopefully. “I have been endlessly scouring the libraries here for a clue, but I have not yet found anything to enlighten us. Other than the fact that they are of the Vagaries, they remain a complete mystery.”

Faegan scowled. He had not been able to produce more insight into the situation other than his initial, cryptic quotation from the Tome. He slammed his free hand hard on the arm of his chair in frustration. Startled, the yellow-and-violet flier flew away. “You realize, Wigg, that we are looking in the wrong places,” he said. “If we truly wish to solve this riddle, there is another, far more valuable source where we must seek the answer. Perhaps when Geldon returns, he can tell us it is safe enough to venture out.”

“Yes,” Wigg said sadly, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “Perhaps.”

Each knew what the other was not saying: that the truth of whatever was behind both Joshua’s birds of prey and the mysterious disappearance of the consuls could most probably only be found in the Tome, somewhere within the volume of the Prophecies—the only volume Faegan had not read. But the Tome was deep inside the Caves of the Paragon. Faegan sighed. The Caves might as well have been a thousand leagues away, for all the good they could do them right now.

“And how is Joshua?” he asked.

“He is better. Now that he is eating properly, his strength continues to improve. But despite my continued questioning, he has been able to add little to his original story. It appears that everything happened so fast, much of it is still just a blur to him. Perhaps it always will be.”

The two wizards remained quiet for a time, lost in their individual thoughts as they watched the fliers soar about the aviary.

At last Faegan decided to force himself free of his depression. Carefully placing the violin on the floor, he called on the craft and suddenly levitated his chair up and over the brass rail, joining the fliers. Laughing raucously, he whirled about the room, chasing the magnificent butterflies.

Wigg simply scowled. Placing his weight upon one foot, he folded his arms across his chest, shook his head, and arched his right eyebrow sarcastically. Despite his mastery of the craft, he can be such a child! he thought, irritated. There was a task they both needed to attend to, and now was not the time to be frolicking with butterflies.

“You really must try this!” Faegan exclaimed as the giant butterflies careened and swooped about him. “Come on, Wigg!” he shouted. “Don’t be such an old curmudgeon!”

Smiling widely, the wizard in the chair soared to the brass rail directly before Wigg and hovered there. Two brightly colored fliers came to land, one upon each of Faegan’s shoulders. As far as Wigg was concerned, it only made the entire situation more ridiculous: Faegan looked more like some bizarre vendor at a Eutracian province fair than the most powerful wizard in the world.

“You take life far too seriously!” Faegan exclaimed, grinning at the imperious lead wizard from the other side of the rail. He pursed his lips, thinking. Then he smiled.

“I can make you participate, you know,” he added cryptically. “I’m more powerful than you are.”

Wigg narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare!”

That was all Faegan needed to hear. Narrowing his eyes, he caused Wigg to levitate. Wigg struggled to fight it, but it was no use. Faegan’s gift was too strong. He took Wigg higher, over the rail, to join him and the fliers in the aviary.

Faegan promptly turned Wigg upside down, so that his robes fell over his face, blinding him, and revealing bare legs that kicked futilely at the air. Faegan snickered like a schoolboy who had just dipped an unsuspecting girl’s braid into the inkwell. Or worse.

“Put me down, you fool!” Wigg shouted from within the folds of his robes, arms waving wildly.

Faegan smiled. “Say please,” he shouted back.

“Never!”

“Suit yourself,” Faegan answered happily. Leaving Wigg alone in his distress, he resumed soaring about the massive room in his chair.

“She awaits us!” Wigg finally shouted, his voice oddly muffled by his robes. “Or have you forgotten, most powerful one?” he added sarcastically.

“Yes, very well,” Faegan answered, turning his chair away from the butterflies. Waving his arm, he righted Wigg, whose face was more red from anger than from his time spent upside down. They both floated back to the balcony.

“Do you have some water from the Well of the Redoubt?” Faegan asked, his mood having turned serious again.

Still angry, Wigg gave him a nod. Saying nothing more, Faegan retrieved his violin and wheeled his chair out of the chamber and into the adjoining hall, acting for all the world as if he thought Wigg had nothing better to do than follow him wherever he went.

Wigg let out an exasperated sigh. With a thought, he commanded the doors to the aviary to close silently behind him as he followed his eccentric but benevolent tormentor.

Shailiha smiled bravely as the two wizards entered her room. As always, she managed somehow to summon up the necessary courage to endure what the wizards said they needed to do to make her whole again. She drew strength from their concern for her, from Tristan’s love and support, and from the fact that she had a daughter to care for. Even now, Morganna could be heard cooing happily in her crib, just a few feet away.

“Your Highness,” Wigg said gently. “How are you feeling today?”

“Much better, Wigg, thank you.” Shailiha stood and walked across the room to the wizards, the silk of her pink, floor-length gown rustling with her steps. “I want to thank you both for your constant care,” she said then, her words almost a whisper. “Without you and Tristan, Morganna and I would surely have been lost forever.”

Wigg cleared his throat. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said simply. She walked back to her chair and sat down, waiting for the wizards to begin.

Wigg drew up another chair, while Faegan wheeled his into place in front of the princess. She closed her eyes, just as she had done so many times before.

She has been through so much, Wigg thought. But it is almost over.

It had taken a great deal of insight, coupled with Faegan’s knowledge of the Vagaries, to finally unravel the secret to the incantation the Coven had used upon her. Shailiha’s torment at the hands of the sorceresses had proven more of a riddle than they had first thought. The spell had been treacherously seductive. Not only had it infused itself into her mind, but it had also taken command of her endowed, but still untrained blood.

The wizards had found an answer in the water of the Caves.

Untrained, endowed blood could be empowered—temporarily—by proximity to water from the Caves of the Paragon. The effect could either be painful or pleasurable. When Tristan had accidentally discovered the Caves, he had found the water irresistible. In Shailiha’s case, the closeness of the thick, red liquid had proven to be difficult to bear. However, the process was proving successful. The princess’ trials had been painful both in body and mind, but the wizards believed that she was near the end of her torment.

Wigg reached beneath his robe to retrieve a small pewter vial full of water from the Well of the Redoubt, where water from the caves was always kept. He watched as Faegan closed his eyes and began to call forth the spell that they hoped would banish yet more of the chaos from the princess’ mind. Shailiha sat completely still in her chair. The room was wrapped in total silence. Nothing stirred, not even the baby in her crib.

Slowly Faegan nodded his head. At this signal, Wigg removed the stopper from the top of the vial. Again Faegan nodded, and Wigg automatically responded by pouring a single drop of the fluid upon the open palm of the princess. The effect upon her was immediate, and far more startling than it had ever been before.

Shailiha screamed. Sweat began to soak through her gown in dark, ominous splotches. At the sound of her mother’s voice the baby immediately began crying. Shailiha’s entire body began to shake uncontrollably, her hazel eyes rolling grotesquely up into her head, leaving only the whites exposed. She tried to stand, but Wigg forced her back down, holding her in place. This time her strength was such that he was forced to use the craft to augment his own brawn, just to keep her in place. She tossed her head violently, sending long blond hair flying back and forth, and foam began bubbling from the corners of her mouth. It snaked wetly down her chin and onto her already soaked gown.

“Hold her!” Faegan shouted, his eyes still closed. “This is what we have been waiting for!”

With a last, earsplitting scream, the princess slumped forward in her chair, unconscious. Wigg barely caught her before she fell to the marble floor. Faegan opened his eyes, ending his spell. He examined Shailiha intently, looking for the sign he and Wigg hoped would prove the final banishment of the first mistress’s awful work.

From all about Shailiha now came the beginnings of a soft blue glow. It built in intensity until it had become one of the brightest ever seen by the two wizards. Then it began to coalesce, spinning into a maelstrom of swirling light that flew from her body and spun crazily around the chamber. Oil lamps crashed to the floor; the silk sheets from Shailiha’s great four-poster bed flew violently into the air. Furniture crashed and tumbled, noisily splintering against marble walls. Wigg quickly handed the inert princess to Faegan and ran to the baby’s crib, covering its open top protectively with his body.

And then, with a last, insane howl, the azure maelstrom rose to the top of the room, flattening out against the ceiling, where it dissipated into nothingness. The objects it had picked up in its whirling madness immediately fell, crashing and smashing down upon the marble floor. Bits of glass, cloth, and furniture were scattered everywhere. The shrieking of the wind ceased, and all that remained was the ordinary sound of a baby crying.

Shailiha, lying in Faegan’s arms, groaned softly and sleepily opened her eyes.

After calming the infant, Wigg returned to Faegan’s side. He gazed intently at the princess, and then a smile broke out across his long, creased face. “You’re finally well,” he said softly, a tear beginning to gather in the corner of one eye. “Free.”

She stood slowly, shakily. Reaching out, she hugged Wigg close, then bent over to embrace Faegan. But even this low level of exertion proved too much for her, and she started to fall. Wigg swept her up in his arms.

“The best thing for you now is sleep,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “The next time you wake up, you will be a new woman.” He turned her to face the crib, where Morganna lay. “A new woman with a new baby,” he added happily.

Then he laid her down upon the bed and covered her with blankets that had been caught up in the maelstrom. Faegan wheeled his chair over to look at her. Already, Shailiha was asleep, and for the first time the wizards could see in her face the true, rejuvenating sleep of the peaceful and the just.

Faegan reached one of his hands out and placed it upon the sleeping princess’ head, closing his eyes. He remained like that for several moments, then opened his eyes and smiled. “She is truly well,” he murmured gratefully. “We have done it, Wigg. I am proud to have been of service to her. I only wish I could have been here to help guide her and her brother all these years—and to witness their remarkable birth.”

Wigg was about to open his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt something inside of him slip, and his body jolted a bit.

He turned to Faegan, wide-eyed, and saw that the elder wizard had obviously felt it, too. His face white, Faegan gripped the arms of his chair in an autonomic response to his panic. Neither one spoke, as if putting words to their suspicions would somehow, unbelievably, make them true.

Lifting the Paragon from his robe, Wigg held it to the light—to see what for three centuries had always been their greatest fear.

6

As he always did when being summoned by the child, Ragnar walked through the many labyrinthine halls quickly. Scrounge followed dutifully behind him. The blood stalker had indeed expected to see the youth this day, but earlier, rather than at such a late hour. His mind, busy with the possible reasons for his delayed but still required attendance, contemplated many answers—none of which readily fit.

He always liked going to the lower places, the farthest down and darkest of the many rooms here. He had been honored to watch the child use his already-immense powers to carve the great chambers out of living rock, creating the magnificent areas through which he now walked. But even the blood stalker Ragnar did not understand the full impact of what he was about to witness upon entering these, the deepest of all the chambers.

Finally standing with Scrounge before a door of black marble, Ragnar narrowed his eyes, calling upon the craft. Immediately the door turned itself silently upon its hinges, exposing the immense room that lay below. The many winding, marble steps went down several stories and took some time to navigate.

Ragnar had been here before, but this time something was different, and standing at the entrance to the room at last, the stalker stopped short, amazed at what he saw before him. From all around the room came the glow of the craft. A vein of glowing azure rippled through the living rock walls as if it were part of the very chamber itself. Many feet wide in most places, it completely encircled the chamber like a glowing, undulating snake. It was like looking at the purest vein of Eutracian gold as it lay there, waiting to be mined. But this vein glowed, and he knew instinctively that it was infinitely more valuable than gold.

This vein is endowed, Ragnar thought as he stood speechless before its beauty. He shook his head, fully understanding that this was undoubtedly the work of the young master, and astounded at the breadth of the power the child now apparently possessed.

“Beautiful, is it not?” came the young, controlled voice from somewhere behind him.

Ragnar and Scrounge turned around to see the boy hovering before them, the amazing glow about him as always. Immediately they went to their knees.

“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar said. “I have never seen anything like it.”

“And once it is gone, you will never see its equal again,” the youth responded quietly as he watched the undulating vein throb within the living rock. He stretched out his arm to pass one hand lovingly over the glowing ribbon.

“Please, my lord, will you tell us how it has so suddenly come?” Ragnar asked, then wondered if he had overstepped his bounds. “And, if it also pleases you, for what purpose is it intended?” He raised his face to look up at the boy, taking in the dark, upturned eyes; the long, black, silky hair; the bright white robe.

“You have many questions,” the boy said quietly, sending a shiver up the spines of both the stalker and the assassin. “The vein is a subject best left for another time. Besides, you are here for different reasons.”

The young adept began to glide toward the door at the far side of the chamber. “Follow me,” he said simply. Then, only a short distance away, he stopped. Suddenly turning, he smiled briefly, showing perfect, white teeth. “For your purposes, you may call me Nicholas,” he said calmly, turning around as he made for the door.

Nicholas, Ragnar thought, looking knowingly at Scrounge. How appropriate.

Nicholas led them into another room, so large that it literally dwarfed the one from which they had just come.

Hewn out of living rock, it was over twenty stories and measured several hundred meters across in both directions. The flickering, orange flames of dozens of wall torches, enchanted by Nicholas to continue burning forever, cast sinuous shadows across the walls and floor, creating an imposing sense of dread. A door led out of the room at the far side. And carved into all four walls were row upon row of open, azure-glowing crypts. There were several thousand of them, and over half were occupied by male bodies, lying head outward, into the room.

Nicholas looked up, carefully examining the crypts.

Very soon now, my father, the child thought. Very soon you, your twin sister, and the pestilence that is the two wizards who practice the Vigors shall all know of my coming.

He glanced down to Ragnar. Softly, he said, “Come with me.” With that he began to ascend toward the highest of the rows of occupied crypts, his white robe billowing gently as he went.

Leaving Scrounge standing on the floor, Ragnar levitated himself to Nicholas’ side. From here the blood stalker could see the true size of this massive place. He estimated that with a little more than half of the crypts filled, there were at least two thousand bodies already here.

But the child would not be content with those numbers, Ragnar realized. Nicholas would not rest until he had them all . . .

Ragnar hovered closer to one of the crypts for a better look. The glow seemed brighter to him from this proximity. And although the face of the man inside was unknown to him, he recognized what the man was: a consul of the Redoubt.

Lying as if asleep, the consul was still wearing his dark blue robe. The blood stalker did not have to examine him further to know that the tattoo, the representation of the Paragon, had already been removed from the man’s right shoulder. This particular consul had a great, gray beard, and was rather mature. He had probably been a consul for some time, Ragnar reflected, perhaps even holding a station of some prominence within the secret organization of the endowed. He may even have known Wigg personally.

Ragnar reached up to feel the never-healing wound in the side of his head. He was to be awarded the honor of punishing the lead wizard—the child had promised him that. He smiled, relishing his eagerness for revenge. And it would be his assassin who would destroy the Chosen One. But he had no idea what Nicholas was doing with all these consuls.

The youth glided closer to the stalker, his head tilted back, his long, dark hair hanging toward the ground below, his upturned eyes mere slits. He seemed to be lost in the rapture of some private thought. Finally he looked into Ragnar’s gray, bloodshot eyes with a newfound intensity.

“I bring you here to show you how many consuls we now have,” he added. “It is my understanding that there are now fewer consuls left in the countryside than there are interred here. I wish them all to be delivered to the catacombs quickly, before any of them can return to the Redoubt. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered obediently.

“And the lone consul?” Nicholas asked. “Has he been delivered to the Redoubt as I ordered?”

“Yes, with a message from Scrounge. I approved it myself. It is sure to acquire the attention of the prince.”

“Good,” Nicholas said. “My father, he of the azure blood, is soon to know the sting of your particular alchemy—that which was inadvertently created by Wigg himself. It has a certain poetic quality, don’t you agree?”

For the first time ever, Ragnar smiled in the presence of the amazing child. “Yes, my lord,” he responded.

“Just so,” Nicholas said. With a gesture beckoning the blood stalker to return to the ground to collect Scrounge, he led his servants toward the large, ornate portal at the far side of the room.

Each chamber seemed to be more immense than the last. This one was not carved of rock, but constructed of light green marble, shot through with streaks and swirls of black. It shone beneath the light of hundreds of enchanted sconces and chandeliers lining the seemingly never-ending walls. But despite the great size of the room, the air was stifling and oppressive. The temperature was warm, bordering on hot, and smelled somehow of both old and new life.

The glowing vein Ragnar had seen in the first room ran completely around the walls, undulating and coursing mightily, as if it were trying to break free of the stone in which it was imprisoned. But even more impressive were the contents of the room: The floor was covered with thousands of azure, glowing, slime-ridden eggs.

Nicholas’ hatchlings, Ragnar realized, awed. But why does he need so many?

“The answer is simple,” Nicholas said, as if reading the stalker’s thoughts. “Despite the fact that he is now hunted by his own countrymen, the allies of the Chosen One will be many in the coming struggle. We shall therefore have need of all you see before you. In addition, there are others maturing outside of the Caves, in the trees of the countryside—something that will make the capturing of the consuls go just that much quicker.”

The glowing, translucent eggs were arranged in rows upon the floor, their lines stretching out of sight to the farthest corners of the chamber. Each of the eggs dripped a thin, runny, azure fluid down the outside of its shell. The stinking fluid from the many eggs eventually joined, pooling upon the floor, adding to the earthy, fetid odor in the room. Inside each of the translucent eggs could be seen a hatchling—grotesque, curled up, growing.

Nicholas must have far more in mind than the mere taking of the consuls, Ragnar mused.

Nicholas turned to Scrounge. “You may leave us now,” he said.

“Yes, my lord,” the assassin answered without hesitation.

When he was gone, Nicholas turned his dark, upturned eyes on the stalker. “You trust him completely?”

“Without reservation,” Ragnar replied. “He has been with me virtually his entire life. I discovered him as a young orphan, long after my partial conversion by the Coven. Although he is not blessed by the time enchantments as you and I are, his talents for killing and gleaning information are unsurpassed.”

“Good,” Nicholas said. “For just as you are my link to the Chosen Ones, Scrounge is our link to the outside world.” He paused for a moment, smiling. “In truth, our relative situations are not that different. The Chosen Ones and the wizards are imprisoned within the Redoubt. And we, for other reasons, are imprisoned here. But they will soon come to us, rest assured.”

Ragnar again touched the unhealed wound in his head, realizing he was in sudden need of ingesting more of the odorous, yellow fluid. It had been Wigg who had chained him to the ecstasy of his own stalker brain fluid—and it was that very liquid by which both Wigg and the Chosen One would suffer. Poetic justice indeed. He smiled.

Nicholas smiled back. “I have plans for the wizards. I also have very specific intentions for the Chosen One—my father of this world. None of them are to be killed, nor is my presence to be revealed to them until I tell you differently.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now leave me,” Nicholas said calmly. “I still have much to do.”

With that the stalker left the boy, making his way back to his personal quarters, where he wasted no time in grabbing up the vial containing the yellow fluid. He drank deeply, feeling its ecstasy ripple through him as it went down.

Revitalized, he replaced the vial and headed out again, this time to one of the several bedrooms he kept occupied. Without announcement he abruptly entered the room.

The woman seated before the mirror was his favorite of those he kept here. She looked up tentatively at him. Seeing in his eyes the power of the fluid, she braced herself for what she knew would follow.

He fell upon her, taking her roughly, as though she were a mere possession.

7

“It cannot be true,” Faegan breathed as he looked at the Paragon. It was lying on Wigg’s palm, and the lead wizard’s hand was shaking.

“Nonetheless, there it is,” Wigg answered softly. A quick glance at Shailiha’s bed reassured him that the princess continued to sleep peacefully. He looked back at the Paragon in his hand.

The square-cut, bloodred stone that sustained the power of the craft of magic would have seemed, to the untrained eye, to be quite normal. But to Faegan and Wigg its subtle, yet discernible alteration was readily apparent. Especially when coupled with the subsequently small, almost minuscule loss of power they had both felt in their blood during their time with the princess. Quite clearly, the Paragon was beginning to die.

The uncalled-for change in the stone was a calamity of unparalleled proportions. Such a circumstance had never occurred since the Paragon’s discovery, over three hundred years ago.

“Why?” Wigg whispered in horror.

“I do not know,” Faegan answered quietly but with equal emotion, moving his chair a little closer to the stone.

They both stayed that way, each of them trying to absorb the disaster that was unfolding before their eyes. What they were now witnessing had always been believed to be a complete impossibility. The continued, unchecked ramifications of this would mean the end of all they loved, had for so long held dear, and had so many times risked their very lives for. Faegan sat back in his chair, his normally crafty, mischievous expression replaced by one of defeat.

“How is such a thing possible?” Wigg asked. “The stone, provided it is being worn by one of the endowed blood, has kept its power for over three centuries. Why would it suddenly begin to dissipate?”

“I can only believe it is being influenced by someone or something beyond these walls,” Faegan answered, already lost within his own thoughts. “That is the only possible explanation, and the philosophy from which we must start. Although we still do not know how such a thing is possible, it must be tied to the appearance of Joshua’s creatures. Someone is once again practicing the Vagaries, and these two occurrences simply cannot be coincidental.”

Wigg wondered if Faegan even knew his hands were balled into fists. The elder wizard’s face was a study in contempt.

“How can you be so sure?” Wigg asked, his constantly skeptical attitude launching one eyebrow up.

Faegan closed his eyes. He searched his mind with the power of Consummate Recollection, attempting to retrieve the obscure passage from the Tome. After several long moments, he began to speak.

“ ‘And the stone shall one day begin to expire. With this shall come those of the scarlet beacons,’ ” he began. “ ‘The guardians of the stone shall therefore struggle to maintain its life in a great conflict, part of which shall be determined in the firmament. For if the stone dies, all those of the Vigors shall die with it, the child forever watching from his place of victory.’ ” He opened his eyes again.

“Yet another reference to ‘those of the scarlet beacons,’ ” Wigg ruminated. He carefully replaced the Paragon beneath his robes.

“Indeed,” Faegan answered, almost to himself. “But what disturbs me most is the repeated reference to ‘the child.’ The only child of importance I am aware of is Morganna, and for the life of me I cannot comprehend what meaning she may have in all of this. For she is truly an innocent.” Taking a deep breath, he shook his head in frustration.

“There is something else that makes no sense, assuming your theories are correct,” Wigg said cautiously.

“And that is?” Faegan asked.

The lead wizard turned back to the wizard in the chair. His right index finger went up into the air, just as it had done so many times before when he had been Tristan’s teacher. “Assuming that someone or something is indeed causing the stone to lose its power, you have postulated that this unknown presence is of the Vagaries. I now agree. And as the stone loses its power, so shall we. But because the stone empowers all of endowed blood, the force behind this shall therefore lose its powers as well. This will eventually render us all equal, and quite powerless in the craft. Why would such an endowed person or thing want to dissipate its own power of magic, despite the fact that we lose our powers as well? Assuming this scenario to be true, we all lose. It makes no sense.”

Faegan furrowed his brow and pursed his lips in thought. “Well done, Wigg,” he said. “A point that up to now had escaped me, much as I hate to admit it. Why would he or she want to do such a thing indeed?” Yet another question was now swirling its way through his mind, just as he suspected it was bothering Wigg. He finally decided to bring it out into the open. “Based upon the rate the stone is decaying,” he asked quietly, “how long do you give us before our powers become of no consequence?” He already had his own estimate, but wished to see what Wigg’s would be.

The lead wizard put a finger to his lips as he contemplated the answer. The loss of power he had felt had been minuscule, but real nonetheless.

“Several months, at most,” he said. “Then the craft as we know it shall cease to exist.”

Faegan’s guess exactly. Neither of them spoke for the moment.

“You realize what it is we must do, despite the danger?” Faegan asked finally.

“Yes.” Wigg had known the answer in his heart the second he had first seen the stone. He was immensely glad that Faegan, the rogue wizard who loved riddles and could prove so prankish, was alive and here by his side.

We shall need all of our combined talents to survive this, he thought. And both of the Chosen Ones must be told. For their help in this will be essential.

Saying nothing more, the two wizards left the room. Closing the door quietly behind them, they entered the endless hallways of the Redoubt in search of the prince.

8

As Tristan guided Pilgrim down the narrow, little-used path back to the palace, the sun was just coming up over the horizon. He knew he had to hurry if he was to return before his disappearance was discovered, but a part of him couldn’t resist flaunting the rules of the wizards. And he wanted to see more of the country he should have been ruling over.

Eutracia was in the waning days of the Season of Harvest. The leaves on the trees had long since turned scarlet and orange, and many of them had already fallen to the earth. The cities would normally have been teeming with trade as farmers brought their crops to market and the citizens bought their provisions for the coming cold period. But this season had been particularly harsh, bad weather destroying many of the crops. Coupled with the damage wrought by the Coven and the Minions there was now little to eat. That much they had learned from Geldon. And as the prince had made his way back to the palace this morning he had seen that many fields were indeed barren. His countrymen were starving before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to help them. The unusually harsh Season of Harvest was a sign that the next period, the Season of Crystal, would be particularly cruel. The thought made him shudder.

Adding to the problem was the fact that Eutracia was geographically isolated on all sides, allowing her no other nation with which to trade easily. Until Tristan and Wigg had learned of the nation named Parthalon that lay across the Sea of Whispers, the entire populace had always thought their nation to be the only civilization in the world. The jagged Tolenka Mountains bordered Eutracia on the northern, western, and southern sides, making a great semicircle of solid granite. A pass through the mountains had never been found.

The Sea of Whispers, the great body of water that lay to the east, had never been successfully crossed by boat until the exile and unexpected return of the Coven. Before this feat, no one had ever sailed farther than a fifteen-day journey and returned home to tell about it. No one in Eutracia even knew why it was named the Sea of Whispers; it just was. The prince had long felt that this great ocean held more than its share of secrets. One day, when his nation was whole again, he would try to discover what they were.

Traax, second in command of the Minions, might know how the warriors had been able to cross the Sea of Whispers, but the Minions of Day and Night were still in Parthalon. The thought of seeing the murderers of his family again, despite the fact that he was now their leader, gave rise to many mixed emotions within his heart. Because of this, his mind usually sheered away from the subject.

Before he entered one of the secret tunnels leading to the Redoubt, he wanted to view the exterior of the palace in the daylight. He wanted to be able to hold the image of his once-happy home in his mind, especially if it became necessary to spend another long period of time in the depths of the Redoubt. But as he finally came to the moat that surrounded the castle, he was dismayed by what he saw.

The very fine, pale gray Ephyran marble of the palace was scorched and destroyed in many places; the once-magnificent stained-glass windows were all smashed. Every sign of the lion and the broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland, had been eradicated. The drawbridge was lowered and partially destroyed, making him wonder about its safety. All of the once-beautiful flags of his family crest were gone. In their places flew the banners of the Coven, the symbol of the five-pointed star. Seeing this token made his blood churn with hate, and he did his best to remind himself that the sorceresses were dead, killed by his own hand.

He lowered his head for a moment, trying to comprehend the meaning of the death and destruction that had occurred here. He knew his life would never be the same. And then what was perhaps the most painful memory of all came to revisit him.

Nicholas, his heart whispered. Your firstborn, your heir, lies in a shallow grave in a foreign land. And it is your fault.

After what seemed a long time he finally opened his eyes and raised his face, as if by doing so he would somehow see the palace reborn in all of its previous glory. But of course it was not.

He turned to go, and then stopped, as his eyes focused upon something he had missed before.

Lying near the drawbridge, curled up in shadow, was a naked body. It appeared to be male.

He jumped down from his horse, drew his dreggan, and walked forward slowly, listening and watching as he went. When he finally reached the corpse, he had to swallow back bile.

The man lying on his side was of middle age, with red hair. Tall and athletic-looking, he was clearly dead and had been for some time. The tattoo of the Paragon could be clearly seen on his upper right arm. The prince slowly lowered his sword.

He rolled the body over carefully. When he saw the man’s face the air went out of his lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.

One of the consul’s eyes had been gouged out. A rolled-up parchment, neatly tied with a red ribbon, had been inserted directly into the gaping socket.

Looking more closely, Tristan could discern a second, less-visible insult to the man’s face. There was a very small but deep hole directly in the center of the consul’s forehead. Dried brain matter and blood spattered its edges. The hole appeared to be a wound from an arrow, but it seemed too small.

Refocusing his attention on the bizarre parchment, Tristan reached out and removed it from the dead consul’s eye. The now-empty socket glared silently back at him, almost as if in anger. Tristan stood there for a moment in silence as he held the scroll, wondering whether to read it here or take it directly to the wizards.

Glancing quickly around, the prince saw that he was still alone. He quietly replaced the dreggan into its scabbard, then untied the red ribbon and unrolled the gory parchment. The note seemed to be written in blood. The hideous nature of its words made his endowed blood cry out for vengeance:

His hands shaking with anger, Tristan rolled the parchment back up and replaced the ribbon around it. This murder had been committed in cold blood by someone truly depraved, one who also challenged the prince to the same fate. And killing a consul of the Redoubt could not have been a simple thing.

As Tristan continued to stare down at the dead consul and the scroll, he searched his mind for anyone with the first initial “S” who might want to kill him. Or, for that matter, who would want to kill one of the consuls of the Redoubt. No answers came.

But I will find you, wherever and whoever you are, Tristan promised himself. And you shall not find me such easy prey.

He hoisted the dead consul on his back and walked the body to Pilgrim, then laid it just before the saddle. As he mounted, he scanned the area around him, but saw nothing else of note. Finally he prodded the stallion toward the closest of the secret tunnels leading into the Redoubt.

The long, lean figure hiding behind the trees just past the prince’s gaze retreated farther into the woods.

Good, he thought gleefully. The Chosen One has found the dead consul and the scroll. This is even more than we could have hoped for. Now he will surely come to us.

He very quietly walked back to his horse and climbed up. Checking the odd, yellow-tipped arrows in the crossbow on his arm, he smiled.

One of these is for you, Prince Tristan, he thought. And your day shall shortly be upon us.

Launching his horse forward, the assassin named Scrounge quickly disappeared into the woods.

9

Tristan was missing. His bed had not been slept in, and his quarters were empty. If for some reason he had actually left the Redoubt and not yet returned, it could only add to their troubles.

The two frantic wizards ordered Shannon to go and awaken Joshua and have him join them in the quarters of the princess. Tristan might have slept the night in her room, watching over her. But Wigg felt in his heart that the prince was not in the Redoubt.

Wigg’s mood darkened even further as he followed Faegan down the hallways. They desperately needed the Chosen Ones now. The wizards knew they must win a battle against time if their world was to remain safe.

Tristan, where are you? Wigg shouted silently as they approached the princess’ door. After a soft knock, they heard Shailiha bid them to enter.

The princess was fully dressed and sitting in a rocking chair, holding Morganna. Her pale blue gown flowed beautifully down around her waist and ankles. The gold medallion that carried the heraldry of her family lay around her neck, twinkling in the soft light of the room. Morganna cooed softly, and the princess smiled and wrinkled her nose at the baby as the wizards walked in.

The Shailiha that Wigg and Faegan saw before them was the woman they had hoped she would be—the woman she had for so long deserved to be again. Her hazel eyes and firm mouth showed both her intelligence and strong sense of purpose, where for so long there had been only lost, sorrowful gazes. A happy, compassionate personality radiated outward from her, just as it always had before the coming of the sorceresses.

Shailiha was indeed an image of her mother, the late queen—except that the princess had more strength, and an even greater sense of purpose. Like her twin brother, she also had a commanding sense of both physical and moral courage. Unlike many other women of her day, she had never been afraid to speak her mind in the company of men.

“You are well, Your Highness?” Faegan asked first. He wheeled his chair closer to the princess, looking deeply into her hazel eyes. “No ill effects from yesterday?”

She smiled at him. “I feel wonderful, thanks to the two of you.”

“And the prince—have you see him today?” Wigg asked quietly. “Did he stay here with you last night?”

Shailiha rose to walk to the crib. She put down the baby and then turned back to the wizards. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.” She pursed her lips into a slight, mischievous smile.

This is the Shailiha I used to know, Wigg thought. “And what confession would that be?” he asked sternly, placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robes.

“I asked him to visit the graves for me,” she answered. “If he is not here in the Redoubt, then that is no doubt where you will find him.”

“The graves?” Faegan asked, looking up at Wigg. His jaw hardened a bit. It was clear by the look on his face that he had just realized that there were yet more secrets he didn’t know—and Faegan was the type who liked to tease others with mysteries, rather than the reverse. So much had happened in Eutracia without him, during his self-imposed exile in Shadowood—so much tragedy that he’d been unable to prevent, or even deal with. Since he had returned to Tammerland, it seemed as if he’d resolved to make up for lost time. “Whose graves?” he demanded sharply.

“Those of the wizards of the Directorate and the royal family,” Wigg answered softly. He rubbed his chin with one hand, remembering the night when the prince had sat on his heels before the fresh graves. Tristan had remained there a long time, motionless in both the darkness and the rain, and had finally used one of his dirks to cut an incision into each of his palms. Squeezing the blood down and out over the fresh, soft mounds of earth, he had sworn an oath to find and return his sister.

“We can only hope that he comes back soon,” Wigg said, worry showing on his craggy face. Looking back into the eyes of the princess, he said, “The truth is that we need you both very badly right now. Every moment he is away worsens the situation.”

Shailiha had always been able to discern when Wigg was worried. A short pang of guilt went through her—a result of having asked Tristan to do something that was apparently dangerous, coupled with the fact that there was obviously something the two wizards had not told her. “What happened?” she asked softly.

Faegan started to speak, but another knock came upon the door. Shannon appeared in the doorway, the consul Joshua standing obediently behind him. “I have brought the consul, as you requested,” the gnome said, blowing a whiff of smoke out the bowl of his corncob pipe.

“Thank you, Shannon,” Faegan answered. “You may go. Joshua, please come and join us.”

As Shannon retreated into the hallway, Joshua walked into the room. Upon seeing the princess, he was clearly taken aback. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed, bowing slightly.

“Princess Shailiha, may I present Joshua, of the House of Linton,” Wigg said. “He was one of the consuls I sent out to destroy the screaming harpies and blood stalkers, just before the attack by the Coven. He has returned to us by the skin of his teeth, and with an amazing tale to tell.”

Shailiha took in the tall, sandy-haired man in the dark blue robe, noticing his strong jaw and hazel eyes. He was a bit on the thin side, and his right arm was wrapped in a sling.

Joshua walked to her and bowed again, took one of her hands and kissed the back of it lightly. “Your Highness,” he repeated softly. “The pleasure is mine.” He straightened up, calmly looking into her eyes.

“And what is this story that so intrigues the wizards?” she asked him with real interest.

At a nod from Faegan, Joshua began to tell the princess of the loss of his squad, and of finding the other group of consuls. He explained being attacked by the giant birds of prey, and how the others had been taken away. Shailiha listened intently, her face darkening as the story progressed.

Despite the incredible tale, though, she surmised that this was not what the wizards had come to discuss with her. Shailiha sensed that whatever they wanted to tell her would be for her ears only. She decided not to be inquisitive in the presence of the consul unless Wigg or Faegan offered to speak of it first.

“I hope I have not frightened you with all of this,” Joshua said earnestly. “But the wizards and I believe the threat from these creatures to be very real, and I only hope that a way can be found to deal with them.”

Indeed, Shailiha thought. She could remember her father, the king, as he sat in his great chair in the Chamber of Supplication, where he met with citizens who had special concerns or favors to ask. Sometimes he had taken her with him to those meetings, allowing her to sit quietly by his side with the wizards as he dealt with the problems that were brought to him.

“Someday this responsibility, along with many others, shall belong to your brother,” he had said. “And there may be times when he will seek out your advice.” But the princess had not understood him then. Now her thoughts went to Tristan, and she bit her lower lip in concern.

“We have assigned Joshua to the Redoubt libraries, to research anything that might be useful in discovering more about these flying creatures,” Wigg told her. “But nothing has turned up yet. These beings remain a mystery, as do so many other things.

“There is much to tell you, Your Highness,” he continued rather sadly. “We not only have a great many challenges to face, but we also find that there is now a distinctly limited amount of time with which to deal with them. But to better explain our concerns to you, we would prefer to retire to another room. Due to your inexperience in the craft, this problem must be actually seen with your own two eyes for you to truly understand it.”

Seeing the concern in both of their faces, she immediately agreed. “Of course,” she said. Reaching to a nearby table, Shailiha picked up the sling that the gnome wives had made for her and donned it. Then she lifted Morganna from her crib, and gently placed her into the sling. The baby cooed softly.

Wigg went to door. Morganna cradled closely before her, the princess followed the two wizards and the consul down the great hallways of the Redoubt.

10

Nicholas hovered several feet above the stone floor of the chamber, surrounded by the powerful glow radiating outward from his body. The simple, white robe he usually wore was gone, his muscular, perfect form naked and glistening in the light. Since he had last come here his smooth, black hair had grown slightly longer, his demeanor more mature. He was now the equivalent of approximately fourteen New Seasons of Life.

It was time for him to glean yet more power from the vein. Rising higher into the air, he closed his eyes fully. Lost in the ecstasy of the craft, he began to revolve slowly in the azure light. He shuddered slightly as he stretched his arms out in supplication, welcoming the dynamism he so badly needed. His parents of the Afterlife had called upon him to perform this act today, and he would not fail them.

His body began to shudder more violently with the power, his mouth turning up into a strange, constricted smile of both pleasure and pain. The vein in the walls pulsated more vigorously now with a deep, undulating presence. Very gradually, the glow reached blinding proportions. As its vibrancy increased, Nicholas turned faster and faster in the air, the light from the vein screaming all about the chamber.

And then the vein running through the walls began to bleed out onto the floor of the cave into pools of azure, glowing liquid.

The shimmering puddles undulated with the immense power of the craft. Then slowly, hauntingly, they slithered toward one another, gathering into a larger pool that seethed and writhed with a life of its own. Finally revolving into a whirlpool, it rose slowly into the air just below the boy.

The whirling maelstrom finally stopped turning. With a great cracking sound, it converted itself into bolts of pure energy, shooting upward toward the boy’s body, striking his naked skin over and over again.

Nicholas twirled frantically in midair, screaming aloud, as his body absorbed the ecstasy of the craft—both the Vigors and the Vagaries alike. On and on the azure bolts came, as if they would never end. And then, almost as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped, and the glow of the craft receded.

Immediately he fell to the floor, crashing hard. He stood slowly upon trembling legs, head lowered like an animal. His breathing was ragged and labored, his body bathed in sweat. Finally lifting his head up, he smiled and raised each of his hands, turning up his palms and curling his fingers. Waves of dynamism began coursing back and forth between his palms, and he laughed aloud, reveling in the increase of the pure, unadulterated power he now possessed and the fact that there was still so much more to come. Eventually he lowered his hands and began to speak aloud, even though there was no one in the chamber to hear him. His naked body continued to glisten in the glow of the light.

“Chosen One,” he whispered softly, “my father of this world, you of the azure blood, it will soon be time. Time for you to learn the true reasons for my coming. That day you shall be at my feet, begging for both your own life and the life of your nation.” He paused for a moment, gliding slowly across the short distance to where the vein, seemingly undiminished, ran through solid rock. Lovingly, he ran his hands across its surface, watching it undulate within the hewn stone that imprisoned it.

“You should not have freed me that day, my father,” he continued softly. “For you allowed me to escape both the womb of my sorceress mother and also eventually be released from the common, inferior trappings of this lower, lesser world. It was you, Chosen One, who allowed me to rise to the heights of the Afterlife, and discover my other parents in their omnipotence. Your tears will be great when you learn that the downfall of all you cherish and protect was your doing, and yours alone. Your nation is about to hear a cry such as it has never known, even with the coming of the sorceresses.”

He lay his feverish brow against the cool, pulsing vein. “Your consuls are quickly becoming mine, as is your craft of magic, Father. Soon they shall both join me in my struggle, as shall my hatchlings and yet others of my invention. Only near the end of your life, Chosen One, shall I grant you the true, undeniable knowledge of my existence—I, who embody the unexpected survival of your seed.”

Nicholas turned away from the pulsing vein and floated out of the chamber. The glow of the craft followed him, eventually vanishing from the room.

11

Tristan approached the hidden entrance to the tunnel slowly and carefully. The dead consul lay across his horse’s back; the bloody parchment and the poem it contained were tucked snugly beneath the prince’s black leather vest.

Finding the special boulder, he reached out and touched the spot on it that the wizards had specially infused with the craft. The giant piece of granite slowly rolled away, revealing the darkness of the tunnel beyond. He walked Pilgrim into the tunnel, then touched yet another spot on the inside wall and watched the massive stone roll back into place before touching one of the pale green stones lining the length of the tunnel roof. A soft, ephemeral sage glow immediately illuminated the entire way back to the Redoubt.

He dismounted and pulled the body off of Pilgrim. He removed the dark blue robe he was wearing, then dressed the dead consul in it to give the deceased man a modicum of decency. Both the neat, small hole and the ghastly, empty eye socket stared abjectly up at him.

With a great heave, he lifted the body back onto Pilgrim.

When he finally reached the tunnel’s end, he pulled the body down and left it by the door into the Redoubt. He wished to place the consul in what had once been his father’s private chamber, the room the king had reserved for meetings requiring the greatest secrecy. The odds of it being used at this hour of the day seemed slim. After taking Pilgrim to the underground stables and securing him there, Tristan went back to the body, hoisted it over his back, and walked to the room he had chosen.

Wigg, Faegan, Joshua, and Shailiha, Morganna in her arms, were sitting at his father’s long meeting table in midconversation when he walked in unannounced, the dead consul over his back. Upon seeing the dead man Shailiha immediately wrapped her arms tighter around her baby. The wizards were obviously surprised, but remained calm. They turned to look at each other’s reaction as the prince laid the body down on the couch along the wall.

Knowing he had a great deal of explaining to do, Tristan then turned back to the wizards. He started to speak, but Wigg quickly raised one of his hands, stopping him before he could start.

“We already know you were gone last night, and we also know the reason why,” he said in that casual, yet somehow all-knowing way of his. Shailiha set her jaw slightly in defiance. “But what we don’t know is why you have an obviously dead man in a consul’s robe with you.” Wigg stood and approached the body.

Faegan wheeled his chair closer, while Shailiha rose to join her brother. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

Tristan’s first reaction was to realize that his sister was finally free of her torment by the Coven. A new strength and sense of personality radiated from her. It was a look he had not seen since that awful day on the dais, when their whole world had collapsed. Tears started to form in his eyes, and he put his arms around her. Between them, Morganna wriggled slightly.

“They’ve finally done it, haven’t they, Shai?” he asked joyfully. Still holding her by the shoulders, he gently pushed her away from him so that he might look into her face. “You’re finally free?”

“Yes.” She smiled back. “The wizards have cured me.”

He kissed her cheek, bent to kiss Morganna’s downy head, and then turned back to where Faegan and Wigg were intently examining the wounds in the dead man’s head.

“Is this the way you found him?” Faegan asked him bluntly.

“Yes,” Tristan answered, walking over to the two wizards. “He was already dead. The wound in his forehead looks like one from an arrow, but it seems too small for that. As for the missing eye, there is a little more to the story.”

“Such as?” Wigg asked.

Tristan beckoned for everyone to sit down at the table. Then he removed the bloody parchment from his vest, unrolled it, and laid it out so that the others could read it at once. After they had finished, Shailiha looked a little green, and the two wizards became lost within their own respective thoughts. Joshua said nothing. For several moments the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fireplace and the purring of Faegan’s ever-present cat. Finally, Wigg broke the silence.

“Joshua,” he asked the consul as he pointed to the body on the other side of the room, “did you know this man?”

“No,” Joshua answered sadly. “But he certainly seems to have come to a terrible end.”

Faegan studied the poem closely. “This is more than mere boasting,” he said softly. “This is also a challenge to Tristan to come and find whoever did this. It is clear that someone wants to confront him, and they have begun that process by killing the consuls. Or at least this particular one. This entire act was designed to taunt the prince.”

Tristan removed his dreggan and its baldric from over his right shoulder and hung them on the back of his chair. “And they succeeded,” he said angrily. His face had gone dark. “I do not plan to let this challenge go unheeded. Whoever has done this must pay.”

Shailiha stared at her brother intently, almost as if she were looking at him for the first time. She had never seen him so clearly determined. She had very little memory of her time with the Coven, and before that the brother she had known had been much more carefree and irresponsible. But the Tristan who sat before her now had become a much more focused, mature warrior, and the difference in him impressed her.

He truly is the Chosen One, she realized. But he is still impulsive. And with that, at least, I can be of help. She gently placed one of her hands upon his and said, “Before you do anything, Brother, you need to hear what it is the wizards have to say. Much has happened of which you are still unaware, and it may change your perception of things.”

Seeing the calming effect she had over Tristan, Wigg smiled to himself. He cleared his throat. “Before that,” he said, “I still have some questions. First of all, on a personal note, were the graves undisturbed?”

“Yes,” Tristan answered. He smiled sadly at Shailiha.

“And do you think,” Wigg asked, “that the death of this consul and the appearance of Joshua’s flying creatures are related?”

Tristan reached out to the large, silver pot of morning tea on the table, poured himself a cup, and took a deep draught. He narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment.

“That is impossible to say at this time,” he said at last. “Clearly neither of these acts was random, and both had to do with the consuls. But that does not necessarily mean that they are related.”

“Where did you find him?” Faegan asked.

“At the entrance to the palace,” Tristan answered. “Just in front of the drawbridge.”

Faegan looked at Wigg, the two of them apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Given the existence of the poem, does that tell you anything?” Faegan asked the prince.

Tristan knew they were testing him. “The answer to that is simple,” he said. “First, whoever wrote the poem knows I am back in Eutracia. That was a secret we tried very hard to keep, but it still seems to have leaked out somehow. And second, it is obvious that they believe we are hiding somewhere in the palace, for that is where they placed the dead consul.”

“Precisely,” said Wigg, his right index finger in the air.

“Is there anything else about your little trip to the outside world we should know?” Faegan asked, spearing the prince with his gray-green gaze.

Looking over to Shailiha, Tristan thought for a moment. He briefly considered telling the wizards of the woman he had rescued from suicide, but for reasons even he did not fully understand, he decided not to speak of it. “No,” he said simply. “Nothing of importance.” Shailiha wrinkled up her nose at him, tacitly telling him that she knew better.

She could always tell, he thought happily. She truly is back.

“Very well,” Wigg said, his eyebrow high in the air. He didn’t completely believe Tristan, but he was willing to let it go for the moment.

“There truly is something important you must know,” Faegan began seriously, “and I’m afraid it—”

Just as the wizard managed to garner the prince’s complete attention, a soft knock came upon the door. Tristan reached over his back to draw one of his dirks, then stood and went to the door. He opened it sharply, his knife at the ready.

A very surprised Geldon stood there. With an apologetic smile, Tristan replaced the knife into its quiver, as Wigg beckoned Geldon into one of the vacant chairs.

“Thank you for not killing me, Your Highness,” Geldon said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Begging your pardon, but you need to hear what it is I have to tell you, and you need to hear it now.”

Tristan’s dark eyes took in the expression on the hunchback’s face, and saw clearly that whatever he was about to hear would not please him.

Without speaking, Geldon removed from his shirt the wanted poster for the prince, then unceremoniously flattened it out on the table. As the others read it, Geldon studied the bizarre poem written in the blood of the consul. The color drained from his face. He then saw the dead consul lying on the couch and noticed the neat hole in the man’s forehead and the gaping, empty eye socket. But it was the forehead wound that most interested him.

Standing from his chair and walking closer, he saw the dried, yellow fluid that lay crazily around the edges of the small, perfect wound. He thought of the mysterious letter “S” at the end of the poem. Scrounge! It has to be! He very quietly walked back to his chair and sat down.

Tristan was speechless. Faegan had warned him of this day back in Shadowood. And Kluge, the winged monster he had killed with his own hands, had boasted the same thing as he died in the dirt at Tristan’s feet. The prince closed his eyes, remembering the words Kluge had uttered with his last breath.

“Our struggle is not over, Chosen One,” Kluge had said. “Even in death it shall go on for me. There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete. Our battle goes on, even from my grave.”

Tristan looked over to his sister. Kluge had been only partially correct. Shailiha was cured, no longer the damaged person Kluge had said she would forever be. But apparently the other side of his prediction had come true: Tristan was now a wanted man in his own nation, being hunted by the same subjects he had risked his life so many times to protect. And someone was willing to pay one hundred thousand kisa to bring him in.

“How is it that you came by this poster?” Wigg asked Geldon softly, obviously taken aback by the news.

“It was being distributed in the Hog’s Hoof Tavern,” Geldon answered, “and it caused quite a stir.” He looked over at the prince with sad eyes. “I’m afraid they all quite believe it.”

“Believe what?” Tristan whispered back, finally finding his voice.

Geldon looked down at his hands. “The fact that you killed your father . . . They believe it was intentional, and that you were in league with the Coven and the Minions.”

Lowering his head with the pain, Tristan closed his eyes. This simply cannot be happening.

“Who was distributing these posters?” Faegan asked, calmly stroking the cat in his lap. “Did you see him?”

“Oh, yes,” Geldon replied, looking again at the dead man on the other side of the room. “I believe him to be the same one who killed this consul.”

Tristan’s head quickly came up. “Why?” he asked sharply.

“He walked into the tavern with a roll of posters under one arm and jumped up on the bar, shouting his invective at the crowd,” Geldon explained. “He condemned you as a traitor, saying that the reward would be paid in gold.” He turned his attention back to the table as a whole.

“He also viciously attacked an ex-member of the Royal Guard,” the dwarf continued. “The man tried to stand up for you, and the assassin hurt him badly. He used a miniature crossbow, strapped over his right forearm. It is very ingenious, and the only other weapon I have ever seen to be as fast as your dirks. I believe it caused the wound on the consul’s forehead. The points of the arrows were coated with some kind of strange yellow stain.”

At the mention of the yellow stains on the assassin’s weapons, the two older wizards looked quickly to one another. Narrowing his eyes, Wigg placed either hand into the opposite sleeves of his robe while Faegan continued to stroke his cat, his gaze turning far away.

“What is his name?” Tristan asked, his knuckles white around the chalice he held.

“Scrounge,” Geldon answered. “This killing of the consul, combined with the fact that the poem is signed ‘S,’ leads me to believe that he is the murderer. The bartender also told me that Scrounge is a professional killer, and one of the most accomplished assassins in all of Eutracia. Yet he is rumored to have only one employer—the same sponsor who is putting up the money for Tristan’s capture.”

“And the name of his employer?” Tristan countered.

“Unknown,” Geldon answered softly. Again the room went uncomfortably, deafeningly quiet.

“After he wounded a soldier with his crossbow, the soldier swore that he would one day kill Scrounge. And then the assassin said something strange.”

“And that was?” Wigg asked calmly from the other side of the table.

“Scrounge told the officer that he doubted it, since the soldier was already dead. But clearly he was not. What did he mean?”

Wigg glanced over to Faegan, and said, “Would you like to tell them, or should I?”

“Be my guest,” the elder wizard answered rather blankly, still off somewhere in his own private world.

“The reason this Scrounge person said the officer was already dead was because he wounded the man with a weapon that was dipped in a very special fluid. A poison, actually.” Wigg paused, wondering how to say the next words. “The yellow stain you saw was the dried fluid from the brain of a blood stalker.”

“But you told me once that the fluid from a stalker’s brain was instantaneously fatal,” Shailiha said from across the table. “If that is the case, then why did Scrounge’s arrow not kill the officer immediately?”

The princess could still remember the day not so long ago when she and Wigg had been in the Hartwick Woods, searching for Tristan. Wigg had killed a stalker that had been secretly tracking them. It was the first and only time she had ever seen one, and the wizard had gone on to explain the stalkers to her. Each stalker, he said, had once been a wizard, but had been captured by the sorceresses and mutated by incantation.

“Well done, Princess,” Wigg said, smiling for the first time.

“So what is the answer?” Tristan asked.

“The fluid kills instantaneously only in its liquid form. Once it dries out, the resultant powder must somehow get into the victim’s bloodstream in order to be deadly. And that effect is not immediate.”

“So that is what Scrounge meant when he said the officer was already dead,” Shailiha whispered, almost to herself. She looked up at Wigg in horror. “How long will it take him to die?”

“That depends upon the type and strength of the person’s blood,” Wigg answered. “If the officer is unendowed, which is most likely the case, then he will die in a matter of only days. But if the victim is one of endowed blood, the torment can last much longer.”

And all because someone stood up for me against Scrounge, Tristan thought. Yet another reason to kill him.

“Why would someone bother to dip the ends of their weapons in this fluid and only wound them, when they could just as easily kill them outright and be done with it?” Shailiha asked.

“Because a person like that doesn’t kill just for the money, Shai,” Tristan said. His expression had turned dark again. “I have seen this before, in Parthalon. Such a person also kills because he enjoys it. He takes pleasure in knowing his victims continue to suffer, even after he has finished with them.”

“That much is true,” Geldon interjected. “And he is very good.”

So am I, Tristan thought viciously.

“In truth, the yellow liquid dried around the forehead wound on the consul had not escaped Faegan and me,” Wigg said thoughtfully. “But I first thought that he had been killed by a stalker. Now that we believe it was Scrounge, this puts an entirely different light on things.”

“Indeed,” Faegan responded simply.

“How so?” Geldon asked.

“Well, for one thing,” Faegan began, “how did Scrounge get the fluid to dip his weapons into, and who taught him about all of this? Such things are not common knowledge. An obvious conclusion is that a blood stalker is actually in league with this man. But such a relationship would be highly unlikely, since stalkers have relatively little ability to communicate, and are almost always completely mad as a result of their transformation. No, this issue is far from resolved.” He paused for a moment, his gray eyes shining with thought. Anger chased sadness across his face, and he looked down at Nicodemus in his lap. If only he had not stayed in Shadowood all those years! He shook his head. There was no time for regrets. There were puzzles to solve and action to plan. He had to concentrate on what he could do now. He looked up again.

“There is an even greater problem we must still discuss,” he continued. “And I now believe that the two are related.”

“And that is. . . ?” the prince asked, unable to fathom what else might possibly be wrong.

Faegan did not immediately answer. Instead, he looked across the table at Wigg, who nodded. Wigg stood to walk to the spot at the left of the fireplace, touching the wall gently with his fingertips. Immediately the fireplace began to pivot, causing Geldon’s and Shailiha’s jaws to drop. “Shall we?” Wigg asked, motioning everyone through.

The Well of the Redoubt was exactly as the prince remembered it from that day when the lead wizard had first brought him here, just after the murder of his family. The black trough of marble was as breathtaking as ever, the dark red waters from the Caves still happily, noisily splashing down and out from the spigot in the wall. He couldn’t imagine what the problem might be.

They stood before the trough. “Do you see anything different about this place?” Wigg asked darkly.

Tristan was perplexed. Absolutely nothing, as far as he could tell, was unusual about the Well of the Redoubt. “No,” he answered. “I do not.” He was also feeling the effects of the waters on his untrained blood. His heart beat faster, and he felt flushed. He knew neither he nor his sister would be able to withstand the proximity of the waters for long.

“And those of you here with endowed blood, have you felt anything unusual in the last several days?”

“What do you mean?” Shailiha asked, now clearly dizzy and holding onto her brother for support.

“I mean, other than just now, have you sensed any unusual weakness in your physicality, or mental abilities?” Wigg answered.

“No,” Tristan said, and Shailiha shook her head in agreement. Joshua, however, nodded.

“Just as we expected,” Wigg said. He carefully removed the Paragon from beneath his robes and held it before them. “Look closely at the stone, and tell me what you see.”

Tristan looked hard at the Paragon, the jewel that controlled the power of the craft. At first it seemed absolutely normal to him. And then he saw the anomaly. His breath caught in his lungs. It can’t be! his mind cried out.

There was clearly something wrong with the stone. Instead of being deep red, the upper right-hand corner of the gem was pink. The Paragon was losing its color—and therefore its power, as well.

Tristan regarded the stone in horror. “Why?” the prince whispered to Wigg. “How can this be?” Now dizzy, he was finding it difficult to get the words out. He knew that Shailiha was faring no better, and Morganna had begun to cry. He hoped the wizards would let them leave the room soon, despite the drastic nature of the circumstances.

“Now that you all understand, we shall leave,” Faegan said simply. He turned his chair toward the door and started to wheel his way out. The prince and Shailiha also made for the door, Geldon, Wigg, and Joshua following them. Wigg closed the secret door, and almost immediately the prince began to feel somewhat better. He could tell that Shailiha did too.

Nonetheless, Tristan felt as if he had just been struck down by some kind of terrible blow. The combination of the effects of the waters and the awful knowledge regarding the stone left him stunned and questioning. For a moment he simply sat there, trying to collect himself, watching his sister do the same. Finally, he spoke.

“But why?” he whispered to the wizards. “What would cause the Pargon to lose its color?”

“We do not know,” Wigg replied. “Faegan and I both felt the decay in the stone before we actually saw it. It happened to each of us at the same time, just after our last session with the princess. Although at this point the loss is minute, we did sense a slip in our powers. At the current rate of decay the stone will soon become clear, and lose its power in no more than several months.”

“It is truly distressing,” Joshua said, concern plainly showing in his face. “I have also felt a decrease in my gift, but I thought it was malnutrition,” he said simply. “Now I know differently.”

“Has this ever occurred before?” Tristan asked, still overwhelmed by the implications of it all.

“The only time the stone ever loses its color is when it has been removed from a human host, or prematurely from the waters of the Caves. Otherwise, there is no reason for this phenomenon,” Faegan interjected, still stroking his cat.

“I don’t understand,” Shailiha said, now almost fully recovered. “If the stone loses its power when removed from a human host, then how is it that it can be moved from one person of endowed blood to another?”

“An excellent question.” Wigg smiled at her. “And one that took us a great deal of time in the early days of the monarchy to unravel. It was Egloff, our resident expert on the Tome, who first came up with the reason. Simply put, the stone needs a host for its continued survival, and there are only two types it will accept. A person of endowed blood, or the waters of the Caves. Nothing else will do.” He paused for a moment, thinking of how best to explain.

“In order to change human hosts, such as at the coronation of a new king, the stone is first removed from around the person’s neck. The Paragon, because it now has no host, will immediately begin to lose its color. If this process were allowed to continue, the stone would eventually die without either the waters or another human host of endowed blood to sustain it. But because the relationship between the wearer and the stone is so strong, it must first be prepared for another wearer, or returned to a ‘virgin’ state, if you will. For this reason it is immersed in a small quantity of the water. The procedure must be performed exactly right, or the stone is in great peril of being extinguished forever. As the Paragon returns to its normal color, the waters become clear. This signals that the waters have performed their task—that is, to reenergize the stone and make it ready to accept another host of endowed blood. The Paragon is then ready to be placed around the neck of its new human host.”

“Then why is the stone losing its color now?” the princess asked.

“Wigg and I think that the stone is actually being drained in some way, by some other power,” Faegan answered. “Perhaps even from a long distance. If that is true, then our chances of stopping its decay are much less.”

“But why would someone wish to do such a thing?” Geldon asked. His understanding of the stone was no doubt less than that of anyone else in the room, but his question was important, nonetheless. “If this decay is being accomplished by someone of endowed blood and the stone loses its power, then will the person causing this to happen not also lose his mastery of the gift? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Indeed,” Faegan replied. “Frustrating, isn’t it?” His mouth quirked up at one side in a half smile, as it always did when he was presented with a seemingly contradictory problem of the craft.

The prince was suddenly concerned with the long-term effects of all of this. “Assuming all that you say is correct,” he began, “and the stone loses all of its color several months from now, what is the ultimate effect on our lives?” He felt sure he already had the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the ones who were the true experts on the Paragon.

Wigg and Faegan looked at each other as if they were about to discuss the end of the world. Perhaps they are, Tristan thought glumly.

“The first and most obvious effect will, of course, be that Wigg, Joshua, and I will begin to lose our powers,” Faegan said quietly. “This will happen slowly, over time. The end result will be that when the stone is completely clear, we will be totally stripped of our use of the craft. It will also of course mean that we are no longer protected by the time enchantments. Therefore, if we don’t find the cause for all of this and correct it quickly, as time goes inevitably forward our abilities to perform the craft and also to remain healthy and alert will be greatly diminished. This will vastly reduce our chances of success. But there remains another, even more dangerous result of all this—one that we have feared for over three centuries.”

“And that is?” Tristan asked quietly.

“A world without magic,” Wigg whispered. “Or, I should say, a world such as the one Faegan and I inhabited three centuries ago, before the Paragon was discovered and we accepted its powers over what were at that time our far less powerful practices of the craft. But given the fact that this calamity has no precedence, we simply can’t be sure. It is possible that with the Paragon drained, there may finally exist no magic at all.”

For a moment the prince was stunned, unable to imagine such a thing. But then he realized that what the wizards were saying was of course quite true. The Paragon empowered the craft. Without the stone, the craft would die. And a great many dreams and hopes carried over from the last three centuries would die with it, never to return.

“Such a situation, namely our world without the craft, would be disastrous. Especially now,” Wigg said. “As time went on and our knowledge of the stone grew, the Directorate, through its compassionate use of the Vigors, was always able to keep control of the nation. We accomplished this via a monarchy that carefully ruled in the interests of the populace as a whole. Chaos is the natural order of the universe, and without the use of the craft to combat it and keep it in check, it will no doubt return. True anarchy will reign, just as it did during the Sorceresses’ War of three hundred years ago. And this time there will be no Paragon to save us.”

Tristan turned to his sister and saw in her eyes the pain that matched his own. She placed a hand over his, telling him that whatever they must endure, this time they would at least go through it together.

“Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this?” he asked the wizards.

“No,” Faegan said. “That is the maddening part. And now that the country is in chaos and there is a price on your head, going out from the Redoubt in search of the answers is doubly dangerous.”

“Nonetheless, that is exactly what you and I must do,” Wigg said, looking at the prince.

Tristan knew that the wizards must already have something in mind, and he was eager to hear whatever it might be.

“It is imperative that you and I leave at once for the Caves,” Wigg said. “Faegan and Shailiha will remain here, with Joshua and the gnomes. Shannon will accompany us there, to watch our horses, while we are inside. While we are gone, Geldon will continue his travels to the outside, providing those living here with provisions and gleaning whatever information he can. Joshua will also remain here as he continues to recuperate.”

The Caves of the Paragon, Tristan thought to himself. I am finally going back to the Caves.

He could still remember that warm, bright afternoon as if it were yesterday. The day he accidentally discovered the Caves—the day so many questions about his life suddenly came brimming to the surface. He had followed Pilgrim there in the horse’s mad chase of the fliers of the fields. He had accidentally fallen into the Caves, only to awaken in an unknown world of magic and secrecy. To him it was a sacred place, and his heart had ached to return ever since he had first found it, but until this moment, the Caves had been forbidden to him. Now, the thrill of going back made his endowed blood rise in his veins.

“Can you imagine why this is our strategy?” Faegan asked him, distracting Tristan from his memories of the Caves.

Tristan was stymied by Faegan’s question. “I understand the Caves is a place of magic, and our many problems clearly have to do with the craft. But other than that I do not see your reasoning,” he replied honestly.

“Understandable.” Faegan smiled impishly. “Tell me, what have you learned about the blood of the endowed?”

Tristan’s mind went back to another unforgettable day not that long ago. He and Wigg had been in this very room, and Wigg had told him—at last—why he was special. Wigg had also explained that the blood of the endowed was actually a living entity of its own. But until a person was trained in the craft the blood remained dormant, sensitive to the waters of the Caves but unaffected by the Paragon.

Again the prince was without a sufficient answer. “Endowed blood must first be trained to become active. But my blood and Shailiha’s is untrained, and therefore technically dormant,” he replied, “despite my blood being azure instead of red, as a result of my experiences in Parthalon.”

“Correct,” Faegan said. “Now follow that concept, and tell me where it takes you.”

Layers of thought and deed, the prince reflected in frustration. He had no immediate answer, but tried to delve deeper into the mystery of the wizard’s question. And then, after some thought, a kernel of realization came to him. “My sister and I are different,” he finally said, almost to himself.

“Ah,” Faegan said, nodding. “And in what way would that be?”

“We will not be affected by the decay of the stone.”

Faegan smiled. “And why will you not be affected by the decay of the Paragon?” he asked.

“Because we have not been trained in the craft, our blood is still dormant. As such, we have little or no powers. Therefore, unlike you, Joshua, and Wigg, as the stone decays further, Shailiha and I will not sense it.” Pleased with himself, Tristan sat back in his chair. But the wizards were not done with him.

“And?” Wigg asked from across the table, the infamous brow arched up over his right eye.

“And what?” Tristan asked, perplexed.

“And what truth logically follows this fact that you have just told us?”

Tristan cast his mind back through all he had learned recently—and then he came right up against something he was sure he did not want to see.

“You and Faegan are the only two here protected by time enchantments,” he began. “The Paragon is decaying. Therefore, so shall the enchantments. This will gradually leave the two of you subject to both aging and the ravages of disease for the first time in over three hundred years.” He paused, closing his eyes briefly in pain. “But as for the rest of us, other than Joshua’s loss of the craft, we shall feel no change in our lives. For us, things will remain the way they have always been.”

“I thought time enchantments were forever,” Shailiha said quickly. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Keep the subject free of sickness and aging for all time?”

“An understandable assumption,” Faegan replied, “but incorrect. Consider the following: The time enchantments, like everything else of the craft, rely on the continuous power of the Paragon. As we said before, ours may soon become a world completely without magic. And such a world certainly would not be able to sustain time enchantments.”

Tristan hated seeing the stunned expression on his twin sister’s face. Neither of them had ever seen one of the wizards of the Directorate growing old or becoming ill. It was awful enough that most of the Directorate was now gone, murdered. The thought of watching Wigg and Faegan age and die was almost more than he could bear.

And then he realized what else Wigg had been saying.

“We’re going to retrieve the Tome,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. The Tome of the Paragon. The giant book that was rumored not only to explain the craft’s many secrets, but to reveal much of Tristan’s future, and the future of his nation. The first volume of the Tome was the Vigors, and was dedicated to explaining the compassionate side of the craft. The second went into the Vagaries, the darker, far more self-serving aspects of magic. The third and last was the Prophecies, or the foretelling—the volume that only he, the Chosen One, was destined to read. “And you are about to begin my training in the craft.” He could feel his blood sing with the prospect.

“Yes,” Wigg said, finally smiling. “It is now time for you. But perhaps beyond time for our nation. Eutracia desperately needs the powers that you will eventually possess. Powers that are fabled to be beyond anything even Faegan or I could ever summon. But time is not on our side. Eutracia needs your training now more than at any other time in her history. Perhaps even more than during the recent return of the Coven. Whatever training we can give you, however slight, may be of great help in augmenting our own power. It is something that we simply cannot afford to delay.” He paused for a moment, the smile on his face disappearing before he continued.

“In our estimation even the Coven, as powerful as they were, could not have accomplished this apparent draining of the stone,” Wigg added. “And if we are truly up against a power of the craft that can perform such a terrible thing, then we are immersed in the depths of something even more deadly than our experiences with the sorceresses.”

“But there is yet another problem,” Faegan added. “And that problem has to do with what may be our most important foe: time. Do you remember what Wigg taught you about needing the stone to decipher the Tome?”

“Yes,” Tristan said, now beginning to understand Faegan’s ominous point. “The Tome is written in a different language. Wigg has sometimes referred to it as Old Eutracian. It is believed to be the language of the Ones Who Came Before—the civilization of ancients who preceded us here in this land. They were the ones who wrote the Tome, leaving it behind for ongoing generations of the endowed to find, and employ. Since I have not studied Old Eutracian, the only way I can comprehend the language of the great book is to wear the stone. It immediately allows a wearer of endowed blood to read the text.”

“Excellent,” Faegan said, giving an approving glance toward Wigg.

“But there is still something I do not understand,” Tristan said. “If Faegan has the power of Consummate Recollection, then why can’t he simply recite the entire Tome to us, here in the Redoubt? Can we not find the answers we need without making this journey?”

“Although I have read the first two sections of the Tome, I have not read the Prophecies,” Faegan said sadly. “To do so is forbidden by anyone but the Chosen One. Wigg and I fear that much of what we may need, not only to help stop whoever is doing this but also to train you, may well reside within that last volume. And if the Tome is not brought back to us soon, it is quite possible that whatever we learn from the Prophecies we might not be able to employ. Because by then our powers may be too weak.”

Tristan looked around the table at all of the people who were now so heavily relying on him. Shailiha, Morganna, Wigg, Faegan, Geldon, and Joshua. And then he turned to look at the dead consul on the other side of the room, knowing that the lives and dreams of whatever consuls were still left in the countryside also rested squarely upon his shoulders.

“As much as I wish to retrieve the Tome,” he said, thinking out loud, “there is great danger, is there not, in simply bringing it back to the Redoubt with us? We will be out in the open. If we are accosted and they manage to take it from us, we might never see it again. This sounds far too risky to me! Is there no other way?”

“I must agree with the prince,” Joshua interjected. “Master Faegan, the lead wizard has told me of the portal that you summoned to transport them to Parthalon and back. Could that not be used for this purpose, making it safer to transport the Tome?”

“There simply is not enough time,” Faegan said. “The portal is summoned to a specific location through a series of complex calculations. And in truth, I have only ever directed its use between Parthalon and Shadowood. It takes weeks to complete the computations for a new destination, and that is a luxury that we just can’t afford.”

Tristan tried to take in the ramifications of everything he had heard that day. So much bad news had arrived in such a short period of time that it was difficult to comprehend it all. The vanishing consuls, the decaying Paragon, and an assassin named Scrounge who killed for pleasure and was bent upon not only distributing wanted posters of him, but sending him taunting notes written in blood. Not to mention Joshua’s strange flying creatures and the fact that there might be at least one blood stalker still on the loose who might somehow be in league with the one named Scrounge. He wondered if all of this was somehow intertwined, or whether these events were random acts, a result of the madness sweeping the land. He thought of the nation of Eutracia, lost in the chaos that had been brought by the Coven.

It pained him to know that his leaving the Redoubt with Wigg would be hard on Shailiha. But he tried to take heart in the fact that here in the Redoubt with Faegan, Geldon, and Joshua was the safest place for her. Even he could not protect her as well as the master wizard in the chair, and he knew it. But there remained yet another concern, one that had been haunting him since his departure from Parthalon. He was still unaware of the status of the Minions of Day and Night.

The Minions—the savage Parthalonian fighting force of over three hundred thousand who were responsible for the sacking of his nation and the deaths of his family. Incredibly, he now found himself to be their undisputed leader. Traax, the Minion second in command the prince had left behind to carry out his orders, had seemed completely committed to doing whatever Tristan ordered. But that did not mean things in Parthalon had changed.

The prince had given several commands to Traax that day. He had demanded the elimination of the brothels and the freeing of the Gallipolai—the enslaved offshoots of the Minions who had white wings, instead of the customary black. He had also ordered the task of reconstructing the terrible place called the Ghetto of the Shunned, the holding area the Coven had employed to contain the “undesirables” of the nation.

I am not only responsible for the welfare of Eutracia, he thought, but now for Parthalon, as well. For the nation across the sea is not advanced, nor does it have any history of the craft other than the Coven. If they chose to, the Minions could cut the Parthalonian citizenry down like locusts through a wheat field.

“If Wigg and I are to go to the Caves, there is something that I insist be accomplished while I am gone,” Tristan said adamantly. “I wish for Geldon to be sent through the portal to Parthalon. I want him to review the actions of the Minions, and to be sure that the nation is still at peace. And I want to know the warriors are continuing to carry out the orders I issued. Far too much time has gone by without such an inspection, and in my temporary absence I wish Geldon to do it. He has the most experience of any of us in this regard. He is, after all, Parthalonian himself.”

Tristan turned to look at the hunchbacked dwarf, the small man of such great stature and heart who had come to their aid time and time again. “Will you do this thing for me?” the prince asked. “Will you go as my emissary and bring me back a report?”

Geldon was stunned, and his face showed it. He owed Tristan his life, and would do anything he asked—but what if the situation in Parthalon was not as it was expected to be? He looked around the table for a solution to his dilemma, and then quickly realized what it was.

“I will gladly do as you ask, Tristan, but I have one request,” Geldon said. “We do not know what this journey might hold. None of us has been back since we left. I would therefore ask that Joshua accompany me on this trip. I may need someone to help protect me. And clearly you, Wigg, and Faegan must stay here. Joshua is trained in the craft. He is not as highly trained as the wizards, I know. Nonetheless, his gifts would be of great help, should we find it necessary to use his skill to either impress the Minions or to actually try to fend them off.”

Well said, Tristan thought.

The prince automatically turned his gaze to Faegan and Wigg. They seemed far from pleased. But Tristan meant to have his way in this. The responsibilities he had left behind in Parthalon had come to weigh heavily upon his mind in recent days, and he needed to know. Without giving either of the wizards a chance to object, he spoke directly to the consul.

“Will you do it?” he asked Joshua bluntly. “Will you accompany Geldon to Parthalon for me?”

“My authority has always come from the lead wizard,” Joshua said without hesitation. “But you do need my services, and you are the Chosen One. Meaning no disrespect to Wigg, I will do as you ask.”

“Thank you,” Tristan said. The wizards remained silent, but Wigg’s arched eyebrow was as high up into the furrows of his forehead as the prince had ever seen it.

“Then all is agreed,” Tristan said with finality. “Wigg and I shall go the Caves to retrieve the Tome, and Geldon and Joshua shall carry out my orders in Parthalon.”

From the other side of the table the prince heard Faegan take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was as if the entire weight of the world had suddenly fallen upon the crippled wizard’s shoulders. The intense, gray eyes looked into the prince’s with a sadness Tristan had seldom seen.

“ ‘And the search for the volumes shall draw them into dark, unknown places. Their minds shall be turned and deceived, their endowed blood strained to the utmost. For it is only in this way that they may truly attain their prize. But the ultimate victory that they seek shall remain elusive and ephemeral, the child forever watching,’ ” Faegan said.

“Another quote from the Tome?” Tristan asked.

“Yes,” Faegan answered softly. “But as usual, its meaning escapes me.” He looked around at Tristan, Wigg, Joshua, and Geldon.

“May the Afterlife see you all safely home,” he whispered.

12

As Tristan made the long walk to his sister’s chambers, he couldn’t help but reflect upon how lonely this place was. Lonely, yet at the same time so incredibly beautiful. The Redoubt was gigantic in size, originally meant for the training of the several thousand consuls who had once inhabited it. The relatively few people who lived here now seemed lost within the expanses yawning before them.

He knew that Shailiha greatly missed both her husband and their parents. Despite the fact that Faegan, Geldon, and the gnomes would still be here with her, it would be even lonelier for her with him gone.

But he had mixed feelings about leaving, he realized, as he listened to the heels of his knee boots ringing out against the marble floor. Although part of him wanted to stay here with his sister and see personally to the safety of both her and her baby, he also longed to be outdoors. He selfishly wanted to feel his stallion beneath him again, and to take in the pine-laden scent of the Hartwick Woods. Tristan was a man of action, and always had been. When there was no task before him his spirit always died a little, these last weeks in the Redoubt having been no exception.

As he finally approached Shailiha’s door he knocked softly once, then twice more. At the sound of her voice, he walked in.

Standing in the doorway and looking into her room, his first reaction was one of shock. But then his mind slowly uncoiled, realizing that what he saw before him was only the re-creation of a pleasant memory, nothing more. Shailiha was sitting with her back to him, before a great loom. As she sat there calmly working the threads, her long, blond hair trailing down over her shoulders, the prince had immediately mistaken her for their late mother. Morganna had sat tirelessly at her looms, eventually passing the art on to her daughter. Just as the queen’s mother had taught her, so long ago.

Shailiha is so much like her, he thought. And I am so fortunate to have her back in my life.

His sister turned to smile at him, but he could tell her expression was a bit forced. Clearly, his impending departure weighed heavily on her mind.

“Where did the loom come from?” Tristan asked her. “I thought everything in the palace was destroyed or looted.”

“Wigg was kind enough to conjure it for me,” she answered. “It helps to pass the time, and somehow seems to help keep me closer to the memory of our mother.” She paused for a moment, then looked up into her brother’s eyes.

“You’re leaving sooner than expected, aren’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Tristan nodded. “Wigg and I thought it best we leave in the dark.”

“I see,” she said softly. “Then I shall have to see to it that Morganna and I give you a proper good-bye.”

Standing, she looked at him and was struck again by how much he had changed. She glanced at the weapons he constantly carried, one of which—the dreggan, the curved sword of the Minions—was still rather unfamiliar to her.

“You look like you’re going into battle,” she said darkly. As she so often did when distressed, she bit her lip.

He grinned. “Don’t worry. Wigg will be with me. Should anyone try to interfere with us, he probably won’t even need his magic. In truth, I doubt there’s anything his sarcasm can’t overcome. He will probably just insult them to death.” He laughed, trying to lighten her mood.

He walked across the room to the crib and looked down into the face of his niece, Morganna. She always seemed to be such a happy baby. What hair she had was wispy, blond fluff; her large, expressive eyes were blue, like his own. He knew it was too soon to determine what her coloring would eventually be, but something told him she would remain blond, like her mother and her grandmother.

Looking down at her, his own sad memories of leaving his son in the little grave in Parthalon came back to revisit him. He no longer struggled to push away the pain of these thoughts, as he had tried to do immediately following the tragedy. There was clearly no longer any use in trying. His memories of burying the child had been returning to him in very graphic dreams lately. Several times he had almost talked to Wigg about it, to see if there was anything in the craft that could be employed to help make the nightmares stop. But in the end he had decided to hang on to his memories, the nightmares included, and let them come whenever they may. For it was all of Nicholas he had left.

Nicholas should be here, in the family cemetery. One day I will bring him back, and bury him where he rightfully belongs. He heard Morganna coo up at him then, and he returned his attention to the living, breathing child who lay before him.

Shailiha walked next to him, linking her arm in his, her smile apparently genuine as she too looked down into the crib. “So tell me something, little brother,” she teased, wrinkling her nose up at him in that special way of hers. “Just what is it that you did not wish to tell the wizards this afternoon in our meeting with them? I got the distinct impression you were hiding something. What exactly happened out there last night that you aren’t telling us?”

Turning back to her, Tristan snorted a short laugh of surrender. He might as well give in. She would be relentless in this, just as she always was whenever his welfare was concerned.

“I met a woman,” he said simply.

“Ah. Well, that’s nothing new, now is it?” she teased. “And just who is this woman?” Her face became humorously conspiratorial. “Is she beautiful?”

“Oh, yes, very,” he answered, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes slightly at the memory. Thinking back, he could almost smell the scent of myrrh that had come from her hair. His face grew a bit more serious. “She is perhaps the loveliest I have ever seen.”

“Really!” Shailiha answered, one of her eyebrows raised. “That’s quite an accomplishment, given some of the ones you have been with. Tell me, what is her name? Perhaps I know her.”

“I seriously doubt that you know this one.” He smiled.

“The name,” Shailiha demanded, lowering her voice in mock ferociousness.

“I don’t know, Shai,” he answered quietly.

“You don’t know?” she exclaimed, far too incredulously. Shailiha shook her head back and forth in comic ridicule, while she waggled an index finger in his face. “You’re slipping, little brother! The Tristan I knew would have gotten her name and much, much more.”

She took in the almost serious look on his face and decided to press a little more. Reaching out to grasp his chin with one hand, she turned his head to level her hazel eyes on his. “Why, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were smitten!” She laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he answered tersely, determined to change the subject and regain control of the conversation. “I don’t even know who she is.”

“No matter. Your secret’s safe with me,” she teased. But just as in the old days she had something to hang over his head, and she loved it. They smiled at other, happy to know that their relationship was back to normal.

Then she remembered that he was about to leave her, and her face darkened. “Tristan,” she said, more softly this time, “what would our world truly be like without the craft of magic?”

He didn’t really know how to answer her. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But what concerns me most is the fact that if the Paragon, is depleted, neither Faegan nor Wigg will be protected by the time enchantments. Their powers will wane, and then they will most assuredly die. And time is short, making things even worse.”

Her expression became more introspective, and she reached to touch the medallion around his neck. “I want to help,” she said, “but there seems so little I can do. Tell me honestly—do you think there ever might come a day when the wizards would let me learn the craft?”

He could see the hunger in her eyes, and understood it well. After all, her blood was nearly the equal of his, so her desire for the learning of the craft must be nearly as strong. But ever since the Sorceresses’ War, the Directorate had banned the teaching of magic to women—a custom that he now found to be cruel.

“I hope you may one day be trained,” he said. “Just as I am to be. But for now, the emphasis must be placed upon retrieving the Tome and stopping the decay of the stone. Until then, all of our other wishes must be put aside.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. “I must go now,” he said softly. “Wigg will be waiting.”

“Before you leave, would you please tell me about the graves?” she asked. It was almost as if she was afraid she would never see him again. “Were they truly undisturbed, as you told the wizards? Did you tell Mother, Father, and Frederick the things I asked you to?”

He closed his eyes, trying to fight back the rising grief. “Of course I did, Shai,” he answered. “I got down on my knees and told them everything. And they heard me, I know.”

Closing her eyes in gratitude, she gave him a long embrace. “Come home safe,” she whispered.

“I promise,” he assured her. With that he turned and walked out the door, purposely not looking back at her. Looking back would have been much too hard—for both of them.

Shailiha reached down into the crib and picked up her baby. She held Morganna tightly in her arms, as if by keeping the child close she could somehow also keep her brother safe. Then she looked over at the door her brother had just gone through.

Suddenly, from deep inside her, a cold, gnawing voice told her something she did not want to hear.

Neither Tristan nor Wigg will come home to you the same men as when they left.