The Gates of Dawn

26

Martha, a rotund, compassionate matron, smiled proudly in the glow of the golden, afternoon sun. The normally harsh Season of Harvest had surrendered an unusually warm day, and she had therefore allowed the children to take their midday recess outdoors, rather than inside. Smiling proudly, she watched them play in the orange and red leaves scattered upon the ground. Their incessant laughter combined happily with the crunching of the dry foliage beneath their feet, the crimson and magenta bits and pieces flying colorfully away in the Harvest wind. The air had a cool, crisp scent, the fallen, tattered leaves adding an aroma of spice to the mix of noise, color, and playfulness.

Martha had been here since she was a young woman, her hair now gray for more days than she could remember, her girlish figure long since gone. She had seen so many of the girls come and go, their faces still locked within her memories as if it had been only yesterday for each of them. Some of those she had raised here had returned to her as women, bringing their daughters to her.

But the recent troubles in Eutracia had created a great many hardships for her, and her tenuous hold upon both this place and the special children who lived here was becoming more fragile by the day. It was now the sixty-seventh day of the Season of Harvest. May the Afterlife help us, she thought.

Duncan, the blue-robed consul who had for so long been in charge here, walked up beside her. He gently placed one arm around her generous waist. He had been sent here by Wigg and the Directorate, as had she. But without having been granted time enchantments he had aged naturally with Martha, and for this she was ever thankful. They had become lovers many years past, and the bond between them in their subsequent marriage was as strong today as it had been when she had first taken him to her bed. The fact that there had never been any offspring from their time together only made them care all the more for the happy brood before them.

Martha looked up into Duncan’s gentle face, watching his long, gray hair move softly in the wind. Seeing the disappointment in his dark brown eyes, she already knew the answer to her coming question. “There is still no one?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” Duncan replied. “I have had no contact with any of my brotherhood for weeks now. It is as if they have all somehow vanished. There should have been many of them who would have wished to come here—needed to come here. And yet not a single consul has visited for weeks. I fear that many of the girls’ growing questions will be even more difficult to put off as the unexplained absences of their fathers become ever more mysterious.” He paused for a moment, then continued as if finally coming to some internal decision.

“I did not wish to disturb you with this, my dear,” he said, “but it may become necessary for me to return to the Redoubt. I simply must try to discover what is going on. These are virtually unprecedented times. I fear that most of the Directorate is dead—slaughtered by the hideous creatures with wings from across the sea. But it is rumored that Wigg still somehow lives. If that is the case, he will know what to do.”

He watched two of the girls as they tossed leaves at each other, laughing in the sun. Several of the older ones stood by, talking in hushed, private tones as they watched their friends engaged in what they perceived to be the very height of childishness. “I simply cannot believe that the lead wizard, provided he lives, has forgotten us,” Duncan added. “Or why this place exists.”

“The food grows short, Duncan,” Martha said back to him softly. “By now the Directorate and the consuls would have normally filled our larder for the coming Season of Crystal. But this year no one has come. Perhaps it would be better if we took all of the children back to Tammerland. We could leave a scroll behind for any of their fathers who might arrive, to inform them of what we have done.” She turned her head to look at the Sippora River, watching it lazily flow by a short distance away. “If the river freezes early this year, as I fear it shall, it will make the use of supply boats impossible. Then any food would have to come to us overland from the Redoubt. Don’t forget the several years when the snow drifts on Farplain have been too deep, for even horses to make it through.”

“I have considered this,” Duncan answered seriously. “But the impracticality of taking the girls away from here is overwhelming. The children would have to march at least as far as the city of Tanglewood before we found any relief—and given the trouble in the realm, we don’t know what we may or may not find there. Besides, with over fifty children here, we could never carry enough food for the journey. If we tried north, Ilendium is no closer, and even farther away from the Redoubt. And the stalkers and harpies are still rumored to exist. Our ultimate charge is the protection of the children, and the risk to them in such an undertaking would simply be too great.”

He turned around to look up at the dark, jagged, impossibly high peaks of the Tolenka Mountains only two leagues away. They had always seemed yet another constant reminder of their seclusion. Our backs literally to the wall, he thought sadly.

“This sanctuary was placed here between the Tolenkas and the Sippora River for a reason, my love,” he said gently. “You know that. What we have accomplished here over the last three decades has helped to secure the survival of the craft. Even more so now, in these times of trouble. We have every right to be proud. But in return for this honor we have paid the price of secrecy. Now that the entire Directorate may be dead and none of the few consuls who know of us have visited for weeks, we may be forced to fend for ourselves. Just as so many of our fellow citizens are now doing.”

Duncan turned to look at the small stone castle in which he, Martha, and so many different children had lived. It stood peacefully just to the north, in the shade of the trees. “The Directorate built this place so that the craft might live,” he said quietly. “But we are only overseers, charged with trying to do our duty. Therefore, I must do what I feel to be in the best interests of the children. If I leave now, by boat, I can be in Tammerland in perhaps five or six days. Far more quickly than if I go by horse. I do not wish to leave you alone, my love, but I now see it to be the only way.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “There is another reason for me not to take the horse,” he said softly.

“And that is?” she asked.

He turned to her with sad eyes. “If you run out of food, you must kill him and eat him. But try to do so without telling the children.”

Still refusing to believe that such a necessity could befall them, Martha turned to look at the rowboat that was always tied to the tree near the banks of the rushing Sippora. Since he loved to fish, Duncan had used the boat often. He had always preferred to do it the normal way, with pole and line, rather than being aided by the craft. She smiled to herself, remembering the day not so long ago when, to amuse her, he had employed his gift to make a dozen or more multicolored Eutracian trout literally jump into the boat. He had then quickly released them, saying that the process had not been fair and that it went against the teachings of the Vigors. Just one more of the many things she so loved about him.

But he had never made so long a trip in his boat as attempting to reach Tammerland, and that worried her. They had always known in their hearts that such a day might come. But as happens with things that threaten to invade one’s life and mind, her consciousness had always sheered away from such a possibility, preferring to dwell upon her love for him and the children they protected.

“There is yet another reason why I must go,” Duncan said concernedly, breaking into her thoughts.

Detecting the worried tone in his voice, she turned to him. “And that is?” she asked.

“I am slowly losing my ability to perform the craft,” he said.

She looked at him aghast. They had endured much together, but an impossibility such as Duncan losing his gifts had never occurred to her.

“How can that be?” she whispered back to him, making sure the children could not hear.

“I have no idea,” he replied. “But if I am losing my gifts, then perhaps so are others of trained, endowed blood. We could be left in a world without magic. The very idea is almost inconceivable. It is therefore not only for you and the children that I must go, but also for the sake of the craft itself. I need to reach the Redoubt before I become useless in my gifts, and they can no longer aid me in my journey.”

“You will go tomorrow, won’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer to her question.

“Yes,” he replied, letting out a long sigh. “But before then I will provide as many fish and as much fresh game for you and the children as I can, and I will enchant it to stay edible for you, for at least as long as my powers hold out.” Despite the situation, he managed a smile for her. “It should be interesting to see how many trout I can make jump into the boat this time, don’t you think?” he asked. “I can tell you remember that day, don’t you, my love?”

“Of course,” she answered.

But suddenly she felt him stiffen next to her, as darkness filled the sky.

Quickly turning, Duncan gazed upward. Then he whirled back around to Martha with terror in his face and a life-or-death urgency in his voice. “Get the girls into the castle! Now!” he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Hurry!”

Gathering up her skirts, she immediately ran to the children. Many of the girls were already huddled together, looking into the sky and starting to scream. Seeing this, she too stopped for the briefest of moments, looking above herself.

There were hundreds of them, and she had never before seen their like. As they came closer and the hideousness of their forms came into sharper view, she immediately scooped up two of the smaller girls, screaming orders to the others to run with her back to the castle. Finally overcoming their initial shock, the children did as they were told, running as fast as they could back to the dark gray building that was their home. But they were too slow.

Martha was knocked to the ground by one of the awful things. As she landed, the air left her lungs in a rush. The two girls she had been carrying went flying, landing some distance away in the grass. Amid the screams and crying of the panic-stricken children, all she could do was look up, trying to breathe again, and watch it all happen.

The great birds with the awful, leathery wings were descending by the hundreds. Duncan was already surrounded.

The aging consul started to raise his arm, but it was already too late. One of the birds cut Duncan’s head away from his shoulders with a single, powerful stroke of a sword. The consul’s body collapsed to the ground as if it had been made of paper, his precious, endowed blood spraying out, landing everywhere.

Martha tried frantically to get up, slipping back down to the bloody grass twice before finally finding her feet. Tears running down her face in torrents, she tried to run to her husband. But then she found herself caught up from behind in the iron grip of yet another of the hideous things with wings. It was then that she saw what the birds were doing to her girls.

As the frantic, screaming children ran in every direction, the great birds were landing upon them, grasping them in their long, black claws. The children struggled mightily, screaming hysterically in what was now a single, uncontrolled chorus of terror. But it was no use. As each of them was gathered up, the bird holding her called immediately out to the others in victory and then flew south, eventually disappearing into the afternoon sky. Oddly, she noticed, the birds seemed to be taking great care not to harm them.

In no time, all of the children had vanished. Perhaps one hundred or so of the awful attackers remained standing in the grassy field before the castle. All around her, the wind buffeted about the remnants of the once-happy, laughing children: Some of their small, orphaned shoes and the occasional torn, lonely article of lost clothing tumbled across the grass or flapped helplessly in the gathering wind.

The girls. Her girls. Carried away.

A strange kind of quiet crouched over the scene, the horrible birds standing very still as if waiting for something else to happen. Their terrible, scarlet eyes stared at her menacingly. And then, through her tears, Martha saw something else that would remain in her memories forever.

Another pinprick in the afternoon sky began to form. Low and near the horizon, it grew larger by the moment. As it came into view, she could see that it was yet another of the strange birds. But this one was carrying a rider.

The bird approached slowly, spreading its wings to land expertly upon its powerful lower legs. Like the others, it had arms, wore black gauntlets upon its wrists, and carried a sword at its hip. But this one also wore a wide, black leather collar around its neck. The back of the collar had loops for its rider to hold onto. Having finally settled, the great bird bent down, the figure atop it rather unceremoniously slinging one leg over the thing’s back and gracefully sliding to the ground.

Through her terror and grief, Martha saw the tall, lean figure approach. She took in the angular face, aquiline nose, and long dark hair that ran down to his jawline. His clothes were of brown leather, and a highly unusual, miniature crossbow adorned the top of his right forearm. As he stepped closer she could hear the jangling, disconcerting sound of spurs. His dark, careful eyes took her in. Finally he stopped before her, examining her in the fading light of the afternoon as though she were some unusual creature he had just paid to see at one of the province fairs.

The man smiled. “Martha, is it not?” he asked almost politely. “Head mistress of this, the place known only to the privileged few as Fledgling House. Wife of the consul Duncan, of the House of Janaar, acting headmaster.” The man looked about, finally focusing on the small castle nearby.

“A novel idea, this place, I must say,” he went on nastily. “But quite obviously its time has come and gone. And the girls, Martha! Those oh-so-bright girls! The charges you and your husband failed so miserably to protect, now proving to be exactly what we needed. We thank you. And you have been here so long, haven’t you, my dear? But all of that is about to change.”

Martha’s lower lip quivered so badly that she could hardly speak. Her legs were weak from fear and exhaustion. She looked to the headless corpse of her husband as it lay in its own blood. The only man in the world she had ever loved—butchered at her feet, gone forever.

“Why?” she finally whispered, her voice cracking with the strain. “Why is my husband dead, and where have you taken the children? When the Directorate hears of this abomination—”

“Oh, but there is no Directorate, my dear,” the man said. “Or haven’t you heard? Wigg is the only survivor of that ill-fated group. He’s in hiding in the belly of the Redoubt with another wizard, named Faegan, who is little more than a helpless cripple. They’re there with the prince, who is a wanted man for the ruthless murder of his father, the late king. They are a very unsavory group, to be sure. But you will be seeing them all soon enough, I promise you.”

The man then removed a parchment from his vest and unrolled it. Producing a quill, he walked to Duncan’s body. Reaching down, he filled the quill with blood and began to write. Martha thought she would vomit.

Noticing her weakness, the man said, “Oh, please forgive me, my dear, but I find that endowed blood makes for the finest of writing fluids. It flows so evenly, you see. But first one must wait a bit for the blood to die. Otherwise it keeps trying to form its own patterns.” And with that he finished his ghastly handiwork.

He rolled the parchment into a scroll, tied it with a red ribbon, and handed it to her. She wanted to refuse, but the look in his eyes finally made her take it into her trembling hands.

“You are to be taken to the Redoubt,” he said, “where the wizards and the traitorous prince hide. One of my hatchlings will fly you there. Upon arriving you will be deposited at a great boulder, near the royal palace. Simply touch the stone at its top and it will roll away, allowing you entrance to the tunnels. You are to give this scroll to the prince, with my compliments.” The man in leather smiled once more, wickedly. “He and I are old friends.”

Martha simply stared at both the man and the creatures he controlled as if they had all just arrived from another world. The man then turned to another of his birds. This one had a broad leather saddle strapped to its back.

“Do you understand your orders?” the man asked the hatchling sternly. “If she falls off and dies, or if the scroll is lost, you pay for your mistake with your life.”

“I understand, my lord,” it answered obediently.

Martha was then roughly picked up by several of the winged things and deposited on the hatchling’s back. Not knowing what else to do, she gripped the scroll and the saddle pommel for all she was worth as her tears streamed down her face. After climbing on the back of his own hatchling, the man with the spurs and the crossbow wheeled his bird around to look at her for the final time.

“Follow my instructions to the letter, Martha,” he said quietly, his dark eyes boring directly into hers. “Or the girls shall be forfeit for your failings.” With that he spurred his great bird into the sky. The many others followed him, their wings again blotting out the sun.

The hatchling Martha was astride then gently lifted itself up and away. Desperately trying to hang on, she felt the bird beneath her turn south, to Tammerland.

27

As Wigg, Tristan, and Celeste neared the Redoubt, Shailiha ran to Faegan, joyously telling him that Caprice and her squadron had found them. But after another message from the flier, the princess’ joy quickly faded. Apparently things were not as secure as they had at first seemed.

Wigg was injured, and there were now three people returning, not just two. The third person was female, but unknown to Caprice.

Faegan made sure the fliers would return well ahead of Tristan, Wigg, and the stranger they were apparently traveling with. The unknown woman had him worried. He considered barring all three from entrance into the Redoubt until he knew more. But if Wigg had been injured, he might well need immediate help.

Finally Faegan decided he had no choice but to allow all three of them entrance. When he and Shailiha first saw Wigg’s eyes and then the beautiful stranger known as Celeste, they were horrified and surprised at the same time.

After examining Wigg, Faegan took him away to a separate room. After an agonizingly long period the wizards emerged, stating that the five of them, including Celeste, were going to another location in the Redoubt. They gave no explanation why, but quickly led everyone away. Tristan and Wigg then spent the next several hours discussing their experiences with Faegan and Shailiha.

So much had happened in so short a time span that Tristan, his sister, and even the wizards seemed at a loss. They did not know how to control, even in the most minute sense, the horrific events they had all been caught up in.

Tristan looked around, taking in the grandeur of the magnificent chamber in which they now sat. The room was huge—perhaps larger than any of the others he had seen in the Redoubt. The floor and ceiling were of black Ephyran marble. Completely encompassing each of the four walls were row after row of very wide mahogany pull drawers, each with its own elaborate, solid-gold handle. The drawers were labeled with gold plaques, but the prince was too far away to read what was engraved on them.

The table at which the five of them sat on elegantly upholstered, high-backed chairs was huge, of highly polished, inlaid mahogany—one of many such tables here. Soft light was supplied by large, solid-gold oil lamps. A certain indefinable mustiness hung in the air. It was as if the ancient odor somehow knew that there were people in the room, and was trying to share its secrets with them.

Sitting in this chamber made Tristan feel the need to speak in hushed, respectful tones—as if the heart of the world had somehow been secreted here.

“Wigg,” Faegan said at last, “please hand me the Tome.”

Removing the book from his robes, Wigg placed it on the table. “You will restore it now?” he asked.

“Yes,” Faegan said.

Tristan and Shailiha watched Faegan close his eyes. An azure haze began to surround the small, leather-bound book, and the Tome began to grow until it was once again full-size. The process was spellbinding.

Faegan then narrowed his eyes, and the great treatise rose, floated over to another of the nearby tables, and landed gently. “It is a great thing you have done—bringing the Tome back to the Redoubt,” he said solemnly to Tristan and Wigg. “And you have, each in your own individual way, paid a terrible price to do so. The craft of magic is seriously in your debt.” He sighed, carefully taking the measure of his next words. “The most important issues to discuss, of course, are the blinding of Wigg and the wounding of Tristan,” he continued. “But Wigg has made a personal request of me to resolve certain other concerns first, and I have agreed.”

Wigg took up the conversation. “This magnificent room is called the Hall of Blood Records,” he said. “It is the resting place of one of the most fascinating of all the aspects of the craft. Here within these many drawers can be found the identification of almost all persons of endowed blood who have lived within the time since the discovery of the Tome and the Paragon. It is one of the most sacred and revered of all of the chambers in the Redoubt.”

Faegan nodded. “Wigg has explained to both of you how trained endowed blood is alive and can move on its own, has he not?” he asked Tristan and Shailiha.

They nodded.

“What you do not yet know, though,” Faegan went on to say, “is that when the blood of a trained endowed is exposed, it always moves about in its own particular way. The same way every time, forming a pattern. When the pattern is completed it begins again, retracing its journey over its original track, until the blood finally dries up and dies. Every such pattern is completely unique. There are no two alike, except in the case of twins—and even that is not a hard and fast rule. These patterns are called blood signatures. Please allow me to demonstrate.”

The wizard caused one of the many mysterious drawers to open, and a large sheet of blank parchment rose from it, coming to land gently in the center of the table. “Wigg, if you will allow me,” Faegan said.

Using the craft, Faegan created a tiny incision in Wigg’s index finger. A single drop of blood came from it, landing with a soft plop on the parchment.

Almost immediately Wigg’s blood began to move, creating a distinct, red pattern. Fascinated, Tristan watched as the blood drop completed its gyrating pattern, then began anew over the exact same track it had just laid. Gradually drying, it finally stopped.

Tristan was amazed. “Do you mean to say that it is exactly the same every time?” he whispered incredulously.

Faegan smiled. “Indeed. Observe.” With that the chair-bound wizard turned his attention to the many drawers and ordered, “Wigg, lead wizard of the Directorate.”

Almost immediately one of the highest of the drawers began to slowly open, another sheet of parchment fluttering down to land on the table. But this parchment was not bare. Looking down, Tristan and Shailiha read:

The blood signature just below the words, although faded with age, was identical to the one just created from the fresh drop of Wigg’s blood. Tristan turned to Shailiha and Celeste to see that they were as mesmerized as he.

“What does the ‘002 S.T.’ mean?” Celeste asked. “I have never seen such a phrase used.”

Faegan stroked his ever-present cat. “This is the manner in which all documents kept here in the Redoubt are dated,” he responded. “All dates are located on the same timeline, with the discovery of the Tome and the Paragon being the focal point from which all things are measured—either before or after that event. That precise day in time therefore happened in the year zero. ‘S.T.’ means Subsequent to the Tome. Any years previous to the zero demarcation point are labeled ‘P.T.’, or Prior to the Tome. My birthday, for example, would be written as the Seventy-third Day of the Season of Crystal, 032 P.T., or thirty-two years prior to the discoveries.”

Shailiha spoke up. “Tristan and I, because we are untrained, do not yet possess blood signatures,” she reasoned. “They will only appear after we become educated in the use of the craft.”

“A logical assumption, but quite untrue,” Faegan responded, eyes twinkling at her obvious confusion. He leaned closer to the princess and bounced his eyebrows up and down slightly.

“Training in the craft does not produce the signatures; it only activates them, allowing them to be seen and thereby recorded,” he went on. “Every endowed we know of, trained or not, has his or her blood signature on record in this hall. Finding newborn endowed and recording their blood signatures was one of the main tasks of the consuls.” Faegan smiled. Follow your thoughts, Chosen One, and see where they take you.

“But if my blood does not move, how then can my signature be recorded?” she asked. “Or for that matter, anyone else’s who has not yet been trained? And do you mean to say that mine has already been done somehow?”

“Especially yours,” Faegan answered. “Yours and Tristan’s. Which, by the way, are very similar to each other, since you are twins.”

“But how?” she asked.

“Why don’t you tell us yourself?” Faegan answered. Wigg smiled in agreement.

“I still don’t understand,” Shailiha answered in frustration.

“Then I shall give you a clue.” Faegan winked. “Think of how it was that Wigg and I finally cured you of the last remnants of the Coven’s spell.”

Shailiha smiled. “The water from the Caves.”

“Now tell me how this applies to our current problem,” Faegan continued. Shailiha gazed down at Morganna, asleep in her sling, and pursed her lips in thought. At last she looked back up at the wizards. “We know that the waters agitate untrained, endowed blood within a person’s system. It might therefore also stand to reason that the water, when placed near the blood when outside of the body, would have the same effect.” She paused to collect her thoughts.

“But in the second case,” she finally continued, “because the blood is away from the body and therefore has much more freedom of movement, the waters may have an even greater effect upon it, convulsing it into revealing its signature prematurely.” She raised her eyebrows tentatively, wondering whether she had gotten it right. “Or something like that . . .”

“Exactly,” Faegan said softly. “I am impressed.” And he meant it. He looked to Wigg to see him smiling as well.

“Can Tristan and I be permitted to see our signatures?” she asked hesitantly.

Faegan smiled. “Of course. I thought you would never ask. Your hand, please.”

Shailiha tentatively held out one hand, and Faegan created a small incision in her first finger. A single drop of her blood fell gently onto the parchment alongside Wigg’s signature.

“And now, Wigg, a drop of the water if you please.” Faegan smiled.

Wigg reached beneath his robe and produced a small pewter vial. He held it out, waiting for Faegan to take it.

Faegan very carefully poured a single drop of the precious fluid directly onto the waiting blood of the princess.

The joined liquids began to writhe, and the same process commenced as had occurred with Wigg’s blood: The fluid moved hauntingly across the parchment until Shailiha’s blood signature was complete.

Faegan stared down at it. He could have come here to the Hall of Blood Records and pulled a copy of it beforehand, but that would have done nothing to prove his theory. He knew that only seeing the princess’ fresh signature created before his eyes would produce the answer. He continued to examine the trail left by her endowed blood, finally seeing the anomaly he was looking for—the anomaly that Egloff’s scroll said would prove his theory.

It’s true! he thought exultantly. The Forestallments exist! This will change so much!

Faegan turned his eyes toward Wigg. “Old friend,” he said compassionately, “I know there is something very personal that you long for me to do, but I must ask your indulgence one more time. Please wait just a bit longer, for there is something that we must first discuss.”

Wigg’s face fell a little, but he nodded back with curiosity. “If you insist,” he replied. “But what is this about?”

“It is both my great pleasure and my great worry to inform you that I have just categorically proven the existence of Incantations of Forestallment,” Faegan whispered.

Tristan immediately looked to Wigg to see that the lead wizard’s mouth was open in astonishment, his white, milky eyes wide. Incantations of Forestallment? Tristan wondered.

“Impossible!” Wigg exclaimed. “Forestallments are only myth! Everyone of the craft knows that the calculations required for such a thing are far beyond us, and always have been! This time your imagination has gone too far!”

“What are you two talking about?” Tristan asked warily. “I’ve never heard of a Forestallment.”

“Simply put, the principle behind a Forestallment is the relativity of time,” Faegan responded. He gave Nicodemus another affectionate stroke. “I believe there are a great many such ties binding the craft to the fabric of time—ties that we have yet to explore. The Forestallments are merely one such example. But to answer your question, a Forestallment is a gift, placed within the blood of one endowed person by another. This can presumably be accomplished either with or without the subject’s knowledge. But this incantation is different, in that the spell does not take immediate effect. In fact, it may not become evident for years, decades, or even centuries. It lies in wait, as it were, in the recipient’s blood until activated. It is thus forestalled, or delayed, until the preselected time of its activation.”

“Or so goes the theory,” Wigg said skeptically from the other side of the table. “But what is your proof?”

Faegan smiled. “I will tell you shortly. But first I will finish the prince’s question. Incantations of Forestallment may be either time-activated or event-activated. In other words, the Forestallment within the blood may become active only after a prescribed amount of time has passed, or it may become active only after the occurrence of a specific event. In addition, it can either be open ended, or can be set to terminate after the passage of a prescribed period of time or after the occurrence of yet another specific action. You can well imagine how useful or destructive such a spell could be.”

Tristan’s head was spinning. “But what does all of this have to do with us?” he asked.

“Indeed!” Wigg said. “What you have just described has long been the theory. But it is now time for you to tell me something I don’t know.”

“Very well, then,” Faegan said. He took a deep breath. “What you don’t know is that Princess Shailiha, without a scintilla of training in the craft, can mentally communicate with the fliers of the fields. She has been accomplishing this for days, and each time she does so her ability increases. It is clearly an innate, rather than a trained talent. And it is a feat that even I, after three centuries in the craft, have been unable to perform. The most likely explanation for this is that she has been unknowingly placed under a Forestallment. An event-activated Forestallment, initiated when she first came into contact with the butterflies.”

Tristan looked at Shailiha as if she had somehow just descended from the heavens. “Is this true?” he whispered incredulously.

Shailiha raised her eyes to his, a slight blush of embarrassment on her face. She began to rock Morganna gently. “Yes,” she said. “It is. The fliers reveal themselves to my mind, and I can answer them back without speaking. I have absolutely no idea how I do it. It was Faegan and I who sent the fliers to find you and Wigg. Caprice called back to me, saying that Wigg was injured, and that there was an unknown female traveling with you. We therefore knew these facts even before you arrived at the Redoubt.”

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “Caprice?” he asked.

Only slightly less chagrined, Shailiha smiled. “Caprice is the name I have given to the violet-and-yellow flier who usually speaks to me for the rest of them,” she said, raising her eyebrows as if expecting neither the prince nor the wizard to believe her. “It is she who led the group to find you.” Her smile turned mischievous. “She is the one who flew so close to your head, trying to get your attention. I must admit that she did so under my orders.”

Tristan turned his awestruck face to Faegan. “This is all true?” he asked, still not entirely willing to believe.

“Oh, yes.” Faegan chuckled. “True as the day is long. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“But the proof!” Wigg countered. “Where is your proof?”

Smiling, Faegan withdrew a scroll from his robes. “I hold in my hand a copy of a scroll I found by Egloff,” he said quietly. “Its existence was apparently unknown to the rest of the Directorate. It seems that just before his death he was deep into research regarding the possible existence of Forestallments. It was the sudden reappearance of the stalkers and harpies that finally placed him on the right path.”

Wigg’s face began to register a hint of understanding. “Do you mean . . .”

“Yes, Wigg,” Faegan answered rather sadly. “It is now my belief that the blood stalkers and screaming harpies, the tools of the Coven that we had all prayed were dead, were actually infected with Forestallments, waiting to be activated. After you sent the consuls into the field to try to wipe them out, Egloff finally had the one thing he had lacked to prove his hypothesis. Their blood. The three-hundred-year-old, endowed blood of the beasts that before then had not been available for examination. It is all here, written in his scroll.” He paused for a moment, letting the import of his words sink in. He gently placed his copy of the scroll onto the table.

“I still don’t understand,” Tristan said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “What does the endowed blood of the stalkers and harpies have to do with Shailiha’s bond with the fliers?”

“It seems that when a Forestallment is inserted into the blood of an endowed, be it human or creature, the blood signature is altered,” Faegan replied. “But only slightly. Look down at Wigg’s blood signature, and then at the princess’. Tell Wigg the difference you see between the two.”

The prince and his sister looked down intently at the two signatures lying side by side on the parchment. Shailiha spoke first. “The shapes are very different.”

“True,” Faegan responded. “But I have already told you that they always are. To understand the Forestallments you must do better than that. Look again.”

After a brief time, Tristan thought he saw what the wizard was referring to. “Shailiha’s signature has branches leading off from it,” he said softly, half to himself. It was a series of branches—like tributaries of a river—that led off from the main body of the signature. There seemed to be dozens of them.

“Exactly!” Faegan exclaimed.

Looking over to Wigg, Tristan could see that the expression on the lead wizard’s face had become one of great surprise. “What do you mean, her blood signature has branches?” Wigg asked. “There was no such an anomaly in her signature at her birth. Why should there be one now?”

Placing each hand into the opposite sleeve of his robe, Faegan leaned forward in his chair, his expression quite serious. It was as if he knew that his next words would hurt Wigg, and he didn’t know how to say them. “Because she has been with the Coven,” he answered quietly. “I believe Failee perfected the Forestallments, and placed a number of them into the princess’ bloodstream. I also believe this act was an enhancement to their plan of making Shailiha their fifth sorceress.”

“But why would Failee bother to do such a thing?” Wigg countered, obviously still unconvinced.

“Because the more Failee could immediately influence the princess’ blood, the easier her overall task would be. I ask you to consider the following possibility: Once Shailiha had truly become their fifth, it was likely that Failee would turn control of the Coven over to her, because of the vastly higher quality of Shailiha’s blood. And if the princess’ blood contained Forestallments, it would empower a gift immediately, without the tedious, time-consuming teachings of the craft. I believe Shailiha’s sudden, unexplained bond with the butterflies to be just such a Forestallment, accidentally activated when I took her to the atrium.”

“But why would she want to give Shailiha dominion over the fliers?” Wigg interjected. “There are no known fliers in Parthalon. It seems a particularly wasteful use of a Forestallment.”

“I agree with you,” Faegan answered. “I therefore do not believe that this particular Forestallment was originally meant for the fliers. I feel that is simply a by-product, so to speak, of the original incantation.”

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

Faegan looked soberly to the group as a whole before answering. “She was to be their fifth sorceress and eventual leader. I believe this Forestallment was meant to give her a bond to the Minions of Day and Night.”

For a very long moment the room went silent, each person trying to grasp the stunning importance of the wizard’s statement.

“Then why does it succeed with the fliers also?” Shailiha finally asked.

“We may never be sure, but perhaps it is because both the Minions and the fliers are winged creatures of the craft. In fact, you may eventually be able to perform this gift with any winged creature that has been either created or otherwise affected by magic. And only time can tell us that,” Faegan answered. He gave Nicodemus a short stroke under the cat’s neck.

“Your argument is very enticing,” Wigg said skeptically from the other side of the table. “But again I must ask you, where is your proof?”

“In Egloff’s scroll,” Faegan answered. “You see, unknown to the rest of the Directorate, he was already deep into studying the blood of the screaming harpies and the blood stalkers. It was the sudden reemergence of these creatures after three hundred years that initially piqued his interest. He knew there had to be a logical reason. He used the waters of the Caves just as we have done here today, and his field experiments revealed the undeniable existence of an anomaly in their blood signatures, compared to the samples you and I took from stalkers and harpies during an earlier part of the Sorceresses’ War. Do you remember now? The early signatures had no Forestallments. But the later ones, the ones that surfaced just before Tristan’s coronation, did. It is my belief that near the end of the war even Failee could see that her cause was hopeless, and she planted the Forestallments within the remaining of her creatures, causing them to lie dormant until her eventual return. We never knew how it was that the stalkers and harpies suddenly seemed to vanish at the end of the war, then returned just when the Coven needed them. Now we do. This also proves the approximate time of her mastery of these incantations—very near the end of the war, yet after you and I took the initial blood samples from her creatures.” Lost in his thoughts, he closed his eyes for a moment.

“When coupled with the unexplained, similar anomaly in Shailiha’s blood, and her sudden ability with the fliers, it is the only answer that fits,” he added finally.

“But what activated the Forestallments within the stalkers and harpies, and at just the proper time?” Wigg asked, apparently becoming more convinced. “The Coven had been exiled from Eutracia for over three hundred years, and could not possibly know when or even if they would ever return. How did they know when the creatures would be needed, if ever?”

Faegan’s eyes became shiny with the unmistakable advent of tears. Using the sleeve of his robe, he wiped them away. “Telling you this is perhaps the most difficult of my duties this day,” he said sadly. “You are forgetting Emily, my only child, the first reader of the Tome. Also known as Natasha, the duchess of Ephyra. The unknown sorceress Failee so cleverly left behind. I believe it was she who activated the Forestallments in the stalkers and the harpies. This was designed to scare both the citizens and the wizards, just before the invasion of the Coven and the Minions.”

“I’m sorry, Faegan,” Wigg said compassionately. “I know how much all of this must hurt. But there is still one thing that doesn’t make sense. If Egloff knew all of this, why didn’t he tell us?”

Finally regaining his composure, Faegan looked at the prince. “Tristan,” he said softly, “would you please read aloud the date at the bottom of the scroll?”

The prince obediently unrolled Egloff’s scroll. “Seventy-third day of the Season of New Life, 327 S.T.,” he read aloud. The import of the date did not register with him.

Clearly, however, it was not lost on Wigg, whose mouth opened slightly in sudden realization. “So now we know why. . . ,” he said gently.

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

“The Seventy-third day of the Season of New Life, 327 S.T.,” Wigg answered, “was the day of your ill-fated coronation.”

Tristan closed his eyes for a moment.

“This is why Egloff didn’t tell us of his findings, isn’t it?” Wigg asked Faegan. “He probably planned to do so right after the coronation. But as it turned out he never had the chance.”

“Correct,” Faegan answered. “The scroll confirms the fact that he had not formulated his final theories until late that day.”

Shailiha had suddenly had enough of talking about magic. She was deeply concerned for the well-being of both her brother and Wigg, and was determined to broach the difficult subject. “I wish to speak of what Tristan and Wigg suffered at the hands of Ragnar and Scrounge,” she said emphatically. The look in her eyes said that she would not be dissuaded. “There must be something we can do for them.”

Faegan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I truly hope you are right, my dear,” he said wearily. “But only a detailed study of the Tome will tell us whether we can help either of them. The problem, of course, is that such a thing takes time. And time is the one commodity that we are in short supply of . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment as he retreated into his thoughts. “Adding to the confusion is the fact that there are now other complications making the researching of the Tome particularly difficult.”

“Such as?” Shailiha pressed.

“First and foremost is the decay of the Paragon,” Wigg said. “Soon it may not be powerful enough to allow Tristan to decipher the Tome.”

Smiling bravely, Shailiha reached her free hand out and placed it atop one of her brother’s. If there was any way to cure him, she would find it or die trying. He had risked his life time after time to bring her back from Parthalon, and she would do no less for him. Realizing she was hugging the baby too tightly, she relaxed her arm and looked over at Faegan. “Please tell me what Tristan can expect, given his condition.”

Faegan lowered his eyes slightly. “Given the fact that he is the Chosen One and his blood is the most pure in the world, it is difficult to say,” he began. “I can only describe to you what has always happened to others of endowed blood. It will consist of a series of convulsions that are sometimes preceded by fever and sweating. The area of the original wound will grow weak and painful. In between these attacks the victim often feels fine, as though there is nothing wrong with him. But as the infestation progresses, taking over more and more of the victim’s blood, the attacks begin to come closer together. In the end one dies either during a convulsion, or due to his or her weakened state.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at the prince. “No cure has ever been found. In every single case, the victim died.”

Tristan looked into his sister’s face, seeing the hint of tears that crowded out from the corners of her lovely, hazel eyes. If I must die, at least I kept my oath to my family and brought her back from Parthalon, he thought staunchly. Not even Ragnar can take that from me.

After a long period of silence, Shailiha spoke again. “And what of Wigg?” she asked, her voice cracking a bit.

“Wigg was more lucky, should one choose to characterize it as luck,” Faegan answered. “I don’t believe that the powder used on him can kill him, though I don’t know if we can restore his sight.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “There is one ray of hope in all of this, however.”

“What is that?” Shailiha asked eagerly.

“The fact that both Wigg and Tristan were infected with the same thing—the brain fluid of a stalker, and the same stalker. Had their afflictions been due to separate causes, our task would be twice as onerous. And given the limited amount of time before us, the future would be much more bleak.”

Wigg cleared his throat. “We also now believe we know the reason for the bounty on the prince,” he said.

Tristan snapped his head around, staring intently at the wizard. “What is it?”

“Faegan and I discussed it at length,” Wigg answered. “The most obvious conclusion is that they want to keep you from doing what you are supposed to do—commune with your citizens in their time of need. Branding you a criminal will turn many against you, and the price on your head will embolden some to try to capture you. In this way you are also kept from garnering support and raising a civilian army to fight off their hatchlings, assuming such a thing is even possible. All in return for one hundred thousand kisa in gold that Ragnar can very easily conjure up, ultimately costing him nothing. Clever, when you think about it.”

“The hatchlings must be stopped,” Tristan said adamantly. “With the Royal Guard gone the nation has virtually no means of protection against whatever it is they plan to do.”

“True,” Faegan said, “but that would be difficult, indeed.”

“You forget that I am still lord of a different army,” Tristan answered, his face darkening. “An army of the fiercest fighters I have ever seen. We must make use of the Minions. It is the only way.”

Again the table went silent. Tristan recalled the death and destruction caused by the winged warriors during their relentless onslaught against his homeland.

“Wigg and I have considered that, but it presents a great many problems,” Faegan responded.

“How so?” Shailiha asked.

“For one thing, how would we accomplish it?” Wigg asked. “Even Faegan can only hold his portal open for one hour each day—hardly enough time to bring a sizable force through very quickly. The first time the Minions arrived here they came by armada. We still don’t know how they managed to cross the Sea of Whispers, or how long it took them. We cannot even be sure whether the Minions continue to accept Tristan’s rule over them, for we have yet to hear from Geldon and Joshua. In fact, we have no way of even knowing whether our emissaries are still alive. Until we do, we can assume nothing. If the Minions of Day and Night do not recognize Tristan as their true lord, once they are here they might decide to take the nation for themselves, or even join in with the hatchlings. For all we know right now, this could be yet another of the things that Ragnar wants us to do. We must consider all the possibilities before acting.” The lead wizard’s eyebrow arched characteristically over his right eye.

“Additionally,” he continued, “there is also the prospect of Tristan’s personal involvement. Even if the Minions accept his leadership, it is only he they will follow. And if he does lead the Minions in a war against the hatchlings, he will only solidify in the minds of the populace exactly what Ragnar and Scrounge have been saying all along: that the prince is not only in league with but also commands the ones who butchered their nation.” He left out a great sigh. “Ragnar and Scrounge have planned exceedingly well,” he added softly.

Closing his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Tristan turned away. He felt very frustrated—an emotion he didn’t always deal with well. And it seemed that no matter what was proposed the wizards always had a thousand good reasons why it couldn’t be done. He understood Wigg’s points about the Minions, but he still felt in his heart that it was the only way. If only Geldon and Joshua would return, he thought.

“And in addition to everything else, we still do not know why Ragnar abducted the consuls,” Tristan muttered discouragingly. “Or what caused the incredible azure glow that Wigg and I saw in his chambers.”

“That’s true,” Faegan said. “Or why Ragnar needs some of your blood.” Then a hint of a smile appeared on his face. “But I believe that there is now another within these walls who might be able to help us.” He looked over to Wigg. “Old friend,” he said compassionately, “it is now time to learn the truth.”

Wigg took a breath, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” he replied softly.

“Can you discern whether she is truly Wigg’s daughter?” Tristan asked.

There was an audible gasp, and he turned in dismay to see the shock on Celeste’s face. Her full lips worked silently for several seconds before she uttered a word. “D-daughter?” she stammered at last.

Wigg turned in the direction of her voice. “It is possible, my dear, though I would have preferred to bring up the subject more gently.”

Tristan tightened his lips and shook his head in annoyance at himself. He had to learn not to be so precipitious, he told himself harshly.

“But before we discuss it, we should ascertain whether it is true, I think,” the lead wizard continued kindly.

“You will activate her untrained blood with the waters of the Caves?” Tristan asked.

“Correct,” Faegan replied.

“But what will that tell us?” Tristan countered, a puzzled look on his face. “Her blood signature, like everyone else’s, will be unique, will it not? How does that in any way indicate who her parents were?”

Smiling into the prince’s face, Faegan said, “Failee, onetime wife to Wigg, lead wizard of the Directorate. Blood signature, please.”

With that, yet another of the many drawers obediently opened, and a single sheet of parchment floated into place atop the table next to the others. The prince looked down at the blood signature.

“I still don’t understand,” Tristan said. “How does this help?”

“Look at each of the blood signatures in turn,” Faegan replied. “First Wigg’s, then Shailiha’s, and finally Failee’s. What is it they all have in common?” He smiled craftily. “I will even give you a hint. In a way, it is actually their differences that make them the same.”

Truly puzzled, Tristan looked down at the signatures for some time. To his eye, each of them seemed unique. “I still do not see it,” he answered.

“That is because you are looking past it, not at it,” Faegan said.

“I see it!” Shailiha suddenly said from the other side of the table.

“And that is?” Faegan asked.

“The tops are all made the same way, as are the bottoms,” she answered.

Faegan smiled. “Please explain.”

“In each of the signatures, there is a basically horizontal dividing line. All this time I had been regarding the signatures as a single design. I can now see a duality present in them that I had missed before.”

“Please go on.”

She furrowed her brow for a moment. “The lower portions are made up of straight lines, connected by sharp angles. But the top halves are softer, more fluid, and more roundly shaped.”

“And this helps us with our problem because . . .” Faegan said.

“I still do not know,” she answered.

“Go back to the word you yourself used to describe them,” the crippled wizard said gently. “That word was ‘duality.’ ”

She tilted her head for a moment. “Duality,” she said softly. “That means two sides. We are looking for two things, the mother and the father.” Her face lit up. “One of the halves represents the signature of the father, the other that of the mother!” she exclaimed.

“Excellent!” Faegan said. He looked over to see that Wigg was also smiling. “Now tell me, which is which?”

“The lower halves, the ones of the sharper angles and straight lines, are probably of the fathers,” she said. “And the top halves, the more fluid and softer of the two, would be from the mothers.”

Faegan sat back in his chair to give Nicodemus another scratch. “Well done, Your Highness,” he said softly.

“Indeed,” Wigg replied.

“I then take it that Celeste’s signature, if she is truly the product of Wigg and Failee, will be made up of Wigg’s male signature, and Failee’s female signature,” Tristan interjected. “This is why each signature of the endowed is the same in some ways, yet completely different in others.”

“Exactly,” Faegan answered. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Narrowing his eyes, he enchanted two incisions into the parchment containing Wigg’s signature, neatly separating the upper from the lower. The bottom part then floated over the table to neatly cover the lower half of Failee’s signature, creating a new one.

Faegan sat back again in his chair, obviously pleased with the results of his labors. “If Celeste is truly the daughter of Wigg and Failee, then this is what her signature shall look like,” he said simply. “The top half indicating the father, the bottom half the mother. The result will be inviolate. She either will be their child, or she won’t.”

Tristan looked over to Wigg. He could tell that the old one’s anticipation was mounting by the second.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Tristan said.

“How so?” Faegan answered.

“You said that only twins, such as Shailiha and myself, have identical signatures. But if the blood signature of a child is always constructed in this way, then how is it that all of the children born of the same set of parents do not have identical signatures?”

“It’s really quite simple,” Faegan answered. “You see, each blood signature is really made up of three parts—not just two, as one might first suspect. One distinct pattern comes from the father, one from the mother, and a third part forms during conception that is a unique combination of them both. This third part varies from sibling to sibling. When that child has a child of his or her own, a third, newly unique part is of course again created, in combination with the spouse. The differences between the blood signatures of siblings are difficult to discern—even more difficult in the case of twins. Only an endowed person, trained in the art of reading them, can tell the signatures of two siblings apart. This became one of the tasks of the consuls, and was the secret method by which paternity disputes were settled in the kingdom. Provided, of course, the issue was brought before your father for an official ruling by the crown.”

Tristan snorted in disbelief. He remembered the day not so long ago when Wigg told him how the study of the craft was infinite. Little did I know, he thought.

Wigg turned his white eyes to Celeste. “My dear,” he said softly, “give me your hand.”

She slowly placed her hand into his.

Wigg felt along the length of it, stopping at the tips of her fingers. “Do you remember what I did to you in the forest?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“And did it hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“I am going to do the same thing to you now, nothing more.”

Almost immediately, a small incision began to appear. “Faegan, if you please,” Wigg said.

Reaching out, Faegan turned her hand over, and the single drop of bright red blood landed softly on the parchment that held the combined blood signatures of Failee and Wigg. He then poured a single drop of water from the Caves onto it.

Tristan watched, transfixed, as the fluid moved and the design began to take shape. After a few moments he could clearly see the result.

The two blood signatures looked identical.

Faegan reached past Celeste and gripped his old friend’s shoulder.

“Wigg,” he said gently, “it’s true. The two signatures are a perfect match.” Then, after a silent moment he added, “There are also Forestallments in her blood, much like those of the princess.”

Faegan tried to smile, but his eyes filled with moisture. Memories of his own daughter flooded him—the girl who had been taken by the Coven, turned into one of them, and later used to destroy Eutracia. And all the while he had thought she was dead. He would never forgive himself for not somehow knowing, and for not being able to prevent all the evil that was done to and by his daughter. Blinking back tears, he looked down at his useless legs and turned his chair away from the table.

Wigg was already crying. No one else knew what to say as he pulled himself together and wiped his blind eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

He finally shook his head sadly, and helding his palms out toward Celeste. She placed her hands in his.

“What we have just proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Wigg said to her, “is that you are a product of my time with Failee. She became enamored with the darker aspects of the craft, leaving me to study them on her own. She never told me she was with child. You, Celeste, are the daughter I never knew I had. And I will protect you with my life.”

“Welcome, Celeste,” Shailiha said softly. “Welcome to our home, the Redoubt of the Directorate. The time of your coming is long overdue.”

“Indeed,” Faegan said, and Tristan nodded his approval at the same time.

Celeste’s beautiful face darkened. “If you and Failee are truly my parents, then why would you abandon me, leaving me with someone like Ragnar?”

“I have had three hundred years to consider the tangled history of those days,” Wigg said. “And now that I have discovered your existence, I believe I can answer much of what you ask. I will make it as simple as I know how. It is a story that I have only recently pieced together from both fact and long since dusty memories, so please bear with me as an old man tells his tale.” Every pair of eyes and ears in the room was intently focused on what Wigg had to say.

“It is now clear that Failee left me immediately after discovering she was pregnant, gave birth to you during the war,” he began. “As the war worsened for them, it became obvious to her that she would need a place to hide you—to both remove you from harm’s way and to keep your existence a deep secret. Failee was fully aware that if I ever learned I had a daughter, I would move earth and sky to find her. This she could not afford, for it would have ruined her plans for the future.” He paused for a moment, hoping he was not being too blunt for her, but then continued.

“She no doubt hoped to either return and retrieve you should they be victorious, or find an equally safe, permanent place of safety for you should they not,” Wigg continued. “After they lost the war, the sorceresses were banished to Parthalon, the nation across the sea. She could not take you with her for fear of revealing your existence. She also knew that I would surely intervene, demanding that you stay here with me. Despite the fact that she was your mother, she was nothing if not pragmatic, her cause more important to her than anything else. I do not wish to hurt you when I tell you this, but bringing you into this world had more to do with her plans of conquest than it ever had to do with any maternal instincts she might have possessed. It was only after three centuries had passed that one of her mistresses and her army finally returned.”

“But why give Celeste to someone as hideous as Ragnar?” Tristan asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“In retrospect, Ragnar was the perfect choice,” Wigg answered. “Consider the following facts. First of all he was a powerful wizard, and could use the craft to protect her, if need be. Second, as a blood stalker, he would devoutly obey Failee. This would also have been the time when Failee laid the Incantation of Forestallments in Celeste’s blood. Tell me, Celeste, do you have any special powers? Powers that you have not been trained to use, but that have instead simply occurred naturally?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I have no such gifts. At least none that I am aware of.”

Wigg rubbed his brow, thinking. “It is apparent to me now that Failee first intended you, her own daughter, to become her fifth sorceress. Then, much later, she chose Shailiha instead.”

Faegan then looked up from his cat. “And Failee gave Ragnar orders that once Celeste reached a certain age, he was to endow her with time enchantments—thereby further protecting her from disease and old age,” he mused aloud, still stroking Nicodemus.

“But why didn’t she do that herself and make sure of it?” Shailiha asked. “Why would she entrust that task to Ragnar?”

“She had to, because Celeste was still far too young,” Wigg replied. “The time enchantments work amazingly well. They literally ‘freeze’ the subject at the chronological age during which they are applied. Faegan and I, for example, received the time enchantments during our later years. Failee obviously wished Celeste to come to adulthood and be in full command of her faculties when this was performed, so that she could be more useful to her purpose.”

There was still something about all of this that Tristan did not understand. At first he was hesitant to bring it up, knowing that it would cause both Celeste and Wigg a great deal of pain. Taking a deep breath, he finally decided.

“Wigg, there is something that makes no sense,” he said. “Assuming Ragnar was obliged to obey Failee, then why would he have ever abused Celeste?” He regretted having to conjure up hateful memories for her, but it had to be. “Didn’t he know that once Failee discovered it, he would have incurred her wrath forever?”

“There are several possible reasons,” Wigg said, his right eyebrow arching up over the white eye beneath it. “First and foremost, never forget that he is at least partially mad. Clearly not as insane as a full stalker, but mad nonetheless. Second, he would have known that the Coven had been banished from Eutracia, to the Sea of Whispers. He, like the Directorate, never imagined their possible return. No doubt he believed he was safe to do with Celeste as he pleased.” Pausing, he took a deep breath, as if his next words were to be the most difficult.

“And then there is the final, and perhaps most convincing reason of all,” he said. “I am positive he was aware that Celeste was my daughter. What better way to simultaneously take pleasure for himself and revenge against me?”

For the first time Celeste lowered her head in shame. She wished all this talk of her time with Ragnar would end. But she was slowly coming to learn that the people here were vastly different than the few she was used to. I am in a new world, she thought. And it seems I have a new father. She turned her eyes to Wigg with what seemed to be a newfound respect. Then her expression hardened again, as yet another thought came to her.

“I will kill him one day,” she said softly, almost inaudibly, her sapphire eyes shining with hate.

“What?” Wigg asked her.

“I will kill him one day, for the things he has done to so many of us in this room.”

“No,” Wigg said forcefully. He turned his white eyes in the general direction of the prince. “Nor will you, Tristan. When the time comes, Ragnar is to be mine. Mine alone. I shall be the one to destroy the monster I helped create.”

Tristan had never heard Wigg speak this way. Frankly, it surprised him. The usually calm, discerning wizard had always been slow to anger, always presenting a demeanor of contemplated reason. But the Wigg who now sat before them was different somehow, the hate clearly radiating from his face despite the lifeless nature of his eyes. This time it was personal, and it showed. Still, there was something tugging at the back of the prince’s mind.

“But there remains yet another puzzle,” he said thoughtfully. “We know that Failee purposely left Emily, Faegan’s daughter, behind. At that point Emily was an adult, and a sorceress in her own right. Why then didn’t Failee leave Celeste in her keeping? To me it would seem a much safer thing to do than leaving her with a partially mutated blood stalker.”

“I can certainly understand your thinking,” Wigg responded. “But the fact of the matter is that you never knew Failee as I did. As I have said, she was pragmatic. Her cause was everything to her, and her personal needs meant nothing. Taking care of Celeste was never to be Emily’s task. Failee needed Emily to be free to roam the nation in search of both information and the company of powerful men, in order to eventually be received at your father’s court, so she could keep Failee abreast of any news regarding you and your sister.”

He squeezed Celeste’s hands. “What we now know is that Failee did not leave just one person behind, as we first thought. She left two.”

“You also said that it was Failee’s original intent to make Celeste her fifth sorceress,” Shailiha said, thinking out loud. “Then why didn’t she do it? Why didn’t she have Succiu search for her daughter when the second mistress was here, with the entire army of the Minions to help? And then, above all, why would she choose me over her own daughter? It all seems pretty coldhearted.”

“Coldhearted,” Wigg murmured softly. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, Celeste, but that is a very good description of the woman who was your mother. The truth is that Shailiha had by now been born, her supremely endowed blood making the princess a better candidate for Failee’s plans. And do not forget that Failee could not send the Minions to Eutracia until they had evolved to her liking, and were present in sufficient numbers to overwhelm us. I do think it was originally Failee’s desire to make Celeste her fifth sorceress. But when she learned that the Chosen Ones had been born and that one of them was female, her blood of a purity never before seen, Failee’s path was clear. If she could turn Shailiha, one of the Chosen Ones, to their side, Shailiha would eventually make an even better leader than either she or her daughter. She would therefore take Shailiha first, and after her success had been assured she would return for Celeste.”

Celeste’s face fell slightly. “Where is she now?” Celeste asked.

“She is dead,” Wigg answered sadly. “Never to return. Tristan killed her, and the others of the Coven. Except for Succiu, the second mistress, who committed suicide, taking Tristan’s unborn child with her.”

Tristan looked down at his hands. Nicholas, his mind said.

From the other end of the table Faegan’s voice came strong and clear. “There are two very important things you have overlooked, Wigg,” he said, “and they should both be dealt with as soon as possible.”

“And they are?” Wigg asked.

“Of the greatest urgency is the matter of Celeste’s time enchantments. If the blood stalker comes to the conclusion that she is now in hiding with us rather than having simply gone missing again, he may, in a fit of rage, issue an Incantation of Discontinuance. Upon discovering your daughter after all of these years, I’m sure you do not wish to lose her again.” Raising his eyebrows, he scratched his cat once more. “Especially because of him.”

Wigg let a sudden rush of air out of his lungs. “Of course,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you, Faegan.”

“What we must do, therefore, is to issue her another enchantment, one that envelops the first,” Faegan added. “Then if Ragnar’s is suddenly taken away, ours will instantaneously take effect. After we do she will feel a slight shudder if she loses the blood stalker’s protection, but she will suffer no ill effects.” He looked to the beautiful woman in the green dress. “If you feel anything abnormal after we enchant you, my child, you must tell us at once.” Celeste nodded her agreement.

“You said there were two things that must be done,” Tristan said to Faegan. “What is the other one?”

“Two additional things, actually, now that I think about it,” Faegan answered, smiling. “And they are related. Can you guess either of them?”

Tristan was suddenly out of patience with talk of magic. “I do not wish to guess,” he said bluntly. “I am tired, and would like to have a simple answer for once.”

Wigg’s infamous eyebrow rose up in surprise, and Faegan sighed, pursing his lips in contemplation.

It will begin soon, Faegan thought sadly. I must find a cure for him as quickly as possible, if indeed one exists at all.

“First of all, Egloff’s scroll makes reference to the fact that he believed Forestallments could be passed from one generation to another, provided the Forestallment had not already manifested itself in the parent,” Faegan said. “If such is the case, then we must immediately check Morganna’s blood signature. Her mother gave birth after her time with Failee and before the manifestation of her bond with the fliers, fitting exactly within Egloff’s requirements. A positive reading would prove Egloff’s theory of inheritance, since Morganna has been only in our care since her birth, and none of us have tampered with her blood.”; He paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes in thought. Then he took a deep breath. “The proven inheritance of Forestallments could bring forth convolutions in the craft the likes of which we have never dared dream,” he said quietly. After a time, his thoughts returned to his next concern.

“In addition,” he continued, “the prince’s blood must also be checked. There is no telling what the ramifications of a Forestallment in the male of the Chosen Ones could bring.”

Faegan wheeled his chair a little closer to the table, placing both palms down on it. His face was grave, making it abundantly clear that he had something else very important to say.

“I now believe that Failee was far more brilliant than any of us first thought,” he said slowly. “Her calculations resulting in the art of Forestallments bring with them an entirely unknown world of possibilities, both good and bad. In many ways I hope that her knowledge of these things died with her. And yet, in other ways there is a part of me, the ever-curious wizard, that desperately wishes to learn how she accomplished it. I fear that the appearance of the Forestallments may have much more to do with our current difficulties than we first thought.”

He was interrupted by a sudden, urgent pounding on the massive door. Without waiting for permission, Shannon entered, his ever-present ale jug in one hand. He wobbled drunkenly back and forth, using either side of the door frame to keep from falling down. Tristan often found the gnome’s inebriation comic, but this time things were different. This time Shannon was scared to death.

“What is it?” Faegan asked urgently.

“Forgive me, Master, but someone not of our group has somehow entered the Redoubt!” Shannon slurred through his drunkenness, the seriousness of his words nonetheless coming through. “And she demands to see Master Wigg. There is news. And none of it is good.”

28

Ragnar was full of fury and concern as he stomped his way through the labyrinthine passageways to his young master. When Nicholas summoned him, the stalker had no choice but to stop what he was doing and obey. But the anger that flowed through his veins at having been interrupted in his quest was now far more consuming than whatever the boy could conceivably want of him. It had been only hours since he first sensed Celeste had left the Caves. She had left before. But this time it was different. This time he feared it was forever. He had even wasted precious moments before setting out to find her, luxuriating in the thoughts of the slow, delicious retribution he would administer to her body after he recaptured her.

But upon exiting the Caves and using the craft to search for her highly endowed blood, he had been stunned. Because of its great purity, he had always been able to detect it, no matter how far she had gone. But this time he had been able to sense absolutely no trace of her. Someone of the craft was cloaking her blood, and he had his suspicions about who it was. Her father. The man he hated most in the world.

As always, the glow of the craft seeped out beneath Nicholas’ door. Trying to remain calm, the stalker took a controlled breath, squaring his shoulders. As he opened the door he saw that Nicholas had not only enlarged the size of this particular chamber, but had also changed its appearance. The young master sat cross-legged in his simple white robe, elevated at least a meter above the highly polished floor. His body revolved slowly in midair, and his eyes were closed in meditation.

The stalker could see that the undulating ribbon of energy now encircled this room, as well. Deeply embedded within the marble walls, it seemed to be a living, breathing entity. Wherever one found Nicholas, one also found the vein.

There were hundreds of endowed children here, happily at play in the great chamber. Nicholas had transformed the walls of this chamber into oddly playful checkerboard squares of the faintest blue and pink, creating a calming, cheerful environment for them.

Throughout the room, boys and girls of different ages practiced simple aspects of the craft. They played and talked among each other, their laughter bouncing happily off the walls, contrasting starkly with the controlled serenity of the master.

Ragnar was stymied. He knew that Nicholas had sent Scrounge and the hatchlings off on a mission, but he had never expected this.

“Sit down,” the young adept said in his soft, commanding voice. He had stopped revolving but continued to hover in midair. A short throne of marble appeared behind Ragnar, and the stalker obediently took a seat. Nicholas opened his dark, almond-shaped eyes, leveling them upon the stalker with a seriousness Ragnar had seldom seen.

“Your mind tells me you are disturbed,” the young man said quietly. “Do not be. Celeste is of no consequence. True, after only myself and the Chosen Ones, her blood is of the highest quality ever seen. But that fact has no bearing on my plans.” His eyebrows rose slightly in mock appreciation of what he sensed to be Ragnar’s concern. “But it was not the quality of her blood that attracted you to her, was it? It was her great beauty, your twisted, centuries-old subjugation of her, and the fact that she is the daughter of Wigg that enticed you so. Do not be concerned for her absence. Soon you shall be able to take all of the women of Eutracia, should you wish to.”

“Do you know where she is, my lord?” Ragnar asked anxiously.

“She is surely in the Redoubt of the Directorate, with her father and the others,” Nicholas answered. “In truth, you brought this upon yourself. Your insistence upon displaying your trophy to Wigg and the Chosen One only resulted in her final, desperate departure. Indeed, even I did not know this would happen. However, I could sense that she was somehow familiar with the prince. I do not believe she knew who he was or was aware of his importance, but for some reason she felt she could trust him. I sensed she was leaving the Caves, and that she had found the prince and the wizard on the trail where we left them. In the end I let her go to them.”

Ragnar was stunned. “You let her go, my lord?” he asked incredulously. Had Nicholas been anyone else, Ragnar would have killed him on the spot. “But why?” he asked breathlessly. “Why would you let her go?”

“She meant nothing to me.” Nicholas smiled. “She was your toy, never mine. And should I ever require her, she is easily found. In fact, she is in far safer hands with the wizards then she ever was with you,” he said, enjoying the insulting reference to the stalker’s perverse inclinations. “And the fact that she is no longer here to distract you only means you shall be more attentive to your duties, does it not?”

“Be that as it may,” he continued, “Wigg and Faegan will not immediately try to remedy the fact that she is untrained. For we have seen to it that they have far too many other pressing concerns to deal with.” Nicholas was no longer smiling. Seeing this, Ragnar forced down an anxious swallow.

“I’m sure it was a very tearful reunion,” the young man went on. Glancing down at some scampering children, he smiled briefly. “Celeste has finally reunited with her long-lost father. The synergy of it is fascinating. And Wigg is of course shielding her blood. But even he cannot cloak it from me.”

“That traitorous bitch,” Ragnar fumed. “With your permission, I would like to issue a discontinuance of her time enchantments. Let Wigg watch his beautiful daughter, the child he never knew he had, turn to a pile of dust before he even comes to know her.” He relished the thought, even if it meant Celeste’s death. If Nicholas would no longer let him possess her, then he would keep Wigg from having her also.

Nicholas shook his head as if he were addressing an uneducated child. “At this point it would assuredly accomplish nothing,” he replied.

“Again, my lord, I do not understand,” Ragnar said shortly.

“Wigg and Faegan’s first reaction to Celeste’s presence will be to suspect that she is in league with us, even though she is not,” Nicholas replied. “They will also examine her blood to see whether it is dormant or trained. In fact, I have no doubt that this has already occurred. Then they will examine her blood signature, revealing that she is truly the product of Wigg and Failee. Once so assured, they will cast an overlapping time enchantment upon her—and have almost certainly already done so. Your discontinuance would be for naught.”

As he looked at the young man, Ragnar took in the fact that Nicholas’ appearance had again changed. He now appeared to be approximately twenty Seasons of New Life. His face and body had reached full maturity, coming to more closely resemble his father. Never again would the blood stalker be able to think of Nicholas as the “child.” He wondered how long it would be before Nicholas commanded all of the power of the Paragon. But his thoughts were interrupted by the young adept’s voice rising above the happy din of the children.

“You are fortunate that Failee does not still live,” Nicholas said almost coyly. “Not only would she be merciless because of your abuse of her daughter, but you also failed to fulfill the one responsibility she charged you with,” Nicholas went on. “Namely, keeping Celeste from her father. As it now stands, you have only the wrath of a blind wizard and a crippled one to concern you.” Nicholas smiled, as if the combined powers of Wigg and Faegan were a fly that he could simply brush away with one hand. “But do not bother yourself unnecessarily. When all is said and done, Celeste will again be yours.”

Ragnar looked to the hundreds of laughing children. “If I may be so bold, my lord, how is it that all of these children are here?” he asked. “And am I correct in assuming that they are all of endowed blood?”

“Oh, yes,” Nicholas answered. “They are indeed of endowed blood. They have been brought here only recently by my hatchlings. Some are the children captured with the consuls, and others of them are the girls from Fledgling House.”

Ragnar narrowed his gray, bloodshot eyes in curiosity. “Fledgling House?” he asked quizzically. “I have never heard of such a place.”

“It remains one of the greatest secrets of the dearly departed Directorate of Wizards,” Nicholas replied. “I doubt Wigg has told even Faegan of its existence. That means only you, myself, Scrounge, Wigg, and a particularly frightened woman named Martha know of its existence.” He paused to look at the youngsters. “Aside from the girls who were taken from there, and their parents, of course,” he added casually. “All of these children before you are the especially gifted sons and daughters of the consuls. Those very same men of trained, endowed blood now ensconced in the catacombs. But at this time it does not serve my purposes to speak further of Fledgling House,” he added.

“And may I also ask, why are the children here?”

“The answer to that is simple.” Nicholas smiled. For a moment he paused as if deciding whether to answer the question, his deafening silence settling over the blood stalker’s mind like a shroud. Finally, the young adept spoke. “I will have need of their blood,” he whispered.

Ragnar went suddenly cold inside. Even to his mad, seasoned mind, the prospect of such a thing was hideous. First he collected the blood of the Chosen One, the stalker thought. And now he has need of the blood of these relatively untrained children, as well. Whatever for?

“My reasons will be revealed soon enough,” Nicholas said, answering the stalker’s silent, unasked question.

Ragnar felt the unmistakable need to return to his chambers. He desperately wanted to ingest more of the odorous yellow fluid waiting for him there. But his mind was a swirl of curiosity, sparked by Nicholas’ statements. “And how is it that the children are so happy?” he asked. “Have they not all been suddenly ripped from their homes?”

“Oh, indeed,” Nicholas answered. “But they now believe this place is where they belong.” Again he paused, clearly relishing his next words. “They now all believe me to be their father. It has to do with something called Forestallments.”

Despite what he already knew Nicholas to be capable of, Ragnar was stunned. He had seen many ministrations of the craft over the last three centuries, but none so powerful as this. To enter the consciousness of another was truly an immense power. But to enter the minds of so many, at the same time controlling their thoughts while also erasing memories of the past, would require an ascendancy that was truly inconceivable. The stalker sat unmoving, in complete awe of the young man floating before him.

Ragnar was burning with the one inquiry he had for so long wished to put to Nicholas, but had been afraid to broach. Now he found his lips forming the words. “My lord,” he whispered, lowering his grotesque head in supplication, “forgive me, but I have never seen such power. From where is it you have come?”

Enjoying the children as they began to congregate at his feet, Nicholas smiled. Some turned their faces up to look at the one they believed to be their father, each of them now also certain in the false knowledge that they were all brother and sister to one another.

“I come from a place of light and darkness,” Nicholas answered softy. “A place of pure, unadulterated power and knowledge. It is a concept your feeble mind could only begin to dream of. I come from the same place that my mother, the departed second mistress of the Coven, now exists. The same place I intend to send any of those not worthy of the new order.”

Nicholas reached down to the face of a particularly pretty young girl, raising her bright, shining eyes up to his own.

“I come from death itself,” he whispered.

29

As the very drunken Shannon stood in the doorway, it was immediately clear that something had affected him deeply. His knees were trembling, making it even more difficult for him to remain upright.

Wigg turned his sightless eyes in the direction of Shannon’s voice. Tristan leapt from his chair, drew his dreggan, and came to stand before Shailiha and Celeste. He realized he had never seen Shannon so upset.

Wigg and Faegan, however, remained calm. “What’s wrong?” the lead wizard demanded of the terrified gnome. “Who is it that has asked to see me?”

A heavyset woman of some years burst past Shannon to fall at Wigg’s feet. Wrapping her arms around his legs and burying her head in his lap, she sobbed, her entire body trembling with fear. Tristan looked to Faegan for an answer, but a quick shake of the elder wizard’s head told the prince that even he did not know.

“Who are you?” Wigg demanded. Her tears were beginning to create dark blotches on his robe.

She finally lifted her face, and her gaze went wide at the sight of his eyes. She searched his ancient face for the meaning behind his obvious impairment. “It is I, Martha,” she said tremulously. “But tell me, old friend, what has happened to you?”

At the mention of her name Wigg immediately placed his hands upon her face. “Martha,” he finally whispered, “is it really you?” Then his face darkened. “Why have you come here? You know it is forbidden, so I’m sure your reason must be grave.”

She lowered her head in pain, the tears coming anew. “They are all gone, Wigg,” she whispered. “All of the girls—every one. Taken by a man in brown leather, who rode through the sky on a hideous bird such as I have never seen. Hundreds of the awful things came, and there was nothing we could do . . .”

Scrounge! Tristan snarled silently. And he now apparently rides the hatchlings!

Fearing the worst, Tristan turned to Shannon. “Is this woman the only being to have breached the entrance to the Redoubt?” he demanded.

“Yes, Tristan,” Shannon answered thickly. “She apparently came alone. The various safeguards protecting the tunnels are all still in place. After telling me her story I brought her here.”

“You may put your sword away,” Wigg said to the prince. “This woman is known to me, and we have nothing to fear from her. Shannon, please come in, and shut the door behind you.” As Tristan replaced the dreggan in its scabbard and took his chair, Shannon joined the others at the great table.

Wigg asked Martha to sit and turned his face to hers. It was clear to everyone that he had been greatly struck by what Martha had said, for tears were gathering in his eyes. As best he could, he quickly made Martha aware of the identities of the others in the room.

“As for my sight,” Wigg said to her, “I have been afflicted by the same ones who came to you. Now then, tell me everything,” he prodded gently. “Leave nothing out. But first, what of Duncan?”

A look of intense grief passed over her face as she closed her eyes. “Duncan is dead,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “My husband of fifty years, gone in a matter of moments. One of the great birds beheaded him when he tried to resist them. As we speak, his endowed blood lies spilled on the grassy fields of Fledgling House.”

At the mention of Fledgling House, Tristan turned to Faegan. It was clear the elder wizard was fascinated by this sudden turn of events. His eyes twinkling, he leaned forward eagerly. His jaw stuck out like the prow of a ship. But it was also clear that he had absolutely no knowledge of what was being discussed.

Lowering his head, Wigg winced at the pain of hearing Martha’s words. “I am so sorry,” he whispered to her. “Duncan was one of my dearest friends and closest allies.” The lead wizard paused for a moment, taking the measure of his next words. “He was one of the best of them. That was why I picked him for the very special task that the two of you performed so well. I shall miss him with all my heart.”

“As shall I, Lead Wizard,” Martha whispered back. “As shall I.”

Tristan could contain his curiosity no longer. “Forgive me, Wigg, but what are you talking about?” he asked. “Who is this woman? And what is Fledgling House?”

Despite Wigg’s blank eyes, his expression made it clear that there was yet another secret hidden within him—and that the telling of it would be difficult. With a great sigh, he began his explanation.

“Fledgling House was one of the greatest secrets of the Directorate,” he began. “The late king and queen also knew of it.”

Tristan cast a surprised look to his sister. “Our mother and father knew of this place?” Shailiha asked softly.

“Indeed,” Wigg answered. “It was, in fact, Queen Morganna’s idea. She felt it necessary that we dispense with some of the old ways, putting the two genders of the endowed back on equal terms. In the end the Directorate finally agreed.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes in thought. “I still do not understand,” he said to the wizard. “What ‘old ways’ are you referring to?”

Wigg took a deep breath, gathering himself up. Finally he said, “The ‘old ways’ to which I refer is the ban on the teaching of the craft to females.”

The prince sat back in his chair, stunned. Looking to Faegan and Shailiha, he could see that they were equally surprised. Faegan leaned forward, his gray-green eyes flashing with curiosity.

“Wigg,” the elder wizard began in a whisper, “do you mean to say that—”

“Yes,” Wigg said, cutting him off. “It was the desire of the king, queen, and Directorate to resume allowing females to practice the craft.” For several long moments the room was silent.

“And it was Mother’s idea to do this thing?” Tristan asked.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “She labored long and hard, endlessly petitioning both the king and the Directorate for the right of endowed women to be trained in the craft. She wished for them to one day take their place alongside the men who commanded such power. She even foresaw the day when women would serve in the Directorate. Morganna was a wonderful woman, and far ahead of her time. In many ways she was much stronger than the king. But there eventually came another reason for her feelings on this matter. One that finally tipped the Directorate in her favor. It was a very compelling reason that no one could ignore.”

“And that was?” Tristan asked.

“The twin births of you and Shailiha, and the azure light that accompanied the event as prophesized in the Tome,” Wigg answered. “The event for which we had waited for over three centuries. As the male of the Chosen Ones and the somewhat stronger of the two, Tristan was to rule Eutracia first. And then Shailiha, if need be.”

Intensely interested, Tristan leaned forward in his chair and looked directly into Wigg’s lifeless eyes. “That’s why we were born as twins, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “So that if I should fail or die in the attempt to eventually join the two opposite sides of the craft, Shailiha would be trained and then succeed me in my efforts. That’s what you mean by ‘if need be.’ ”

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But there is far more to it than that.” Indeed, he thought. There are so many things that you still do not know. Nor will you ever know, if we cannot cure you of the wound given to you by Scrounge. “But more of this topic another day,” the wizard ordered. He turned back to Martha. “Please tell me what happened.”

“Hundreds of the awful things flew to the ground, just as the children were at their noon recess,” Martha began, the pain of her words showing clearly on her face. “Duncan tried to fight them, but he was killed immediately.” Remembering what had happened next, with a trembling hand she removed the scroll Scrounge had given her, placing it before Wigg.

“The one in brown leather wrote this in Duncan’s blood, telling me to deliver it to the prince,” she continued. “The other birds took the children in their claws, and flew away. Then they forced me atop one of the birds, and it carried me here. But there is something else of importance, Lead Wizard. They obviously know where you are hiding. And worse, they know how to breach the tunnels of the Redoubt. It was the one in the brown leather who told me how to cause the boulder to roll away. After I entered, the gnome found me. I told him my story, and he led me here.”

Tristan looked to Shannon. The gnome had regained some of his composure, but not much. “Is this what unnerved you so?” the prince asked. “Martha’s story?”

“Yes,” Shannon admitted. “In my three hundred some years I have been witness to some of the most horrible things imaginable. But to take children . . .” As if unable to continue, his voice faded away.

Tristan nodded gently in Shannon’s direction, then he picked up the scroll, unrolled it, and read it aloud. The muscles in his hands tightened even harder with each new word.

His endowed, poisoned blood rising hotly in his veins, Tristan slammed the scroll down on the top of the table and shot to his feet. He violently pushed his heavy chair back a good meter and began pacing back and forth in an attempt to release his surging, pent-up anger. The heels of his black knee boots rang out loudly on the marble floor as his lips curled into a sneer of hatred for the ones called Scrounge and Ragnar, and for the vile acts they were committing.

Holding Morganna closer, Shailiha looked aghast at her brother. This was not the mature, controlled warrior she had been so impressed with just after she had been cured. This was a different Tristan. He was clearly in the grip of something, uncontrollably raging against all of the injustices being inflicted on his beloved Eutracia. Hoping for reassurance, she turned to Faegan. Giving the princess a quick shake of the head, the chair-bound wizard indicated that Tristan should be left alone.

Faegan knew what was happening to him. The poison was already causing the occasional agitation of Tristan’s blood, and therefore of his mind. He also knew that the first of Tristan’s convulsions could not be far behind. If the prince was not quickly cured of the poison, the unbelievably high quality of his blood might soon make him uncontrollable, even for the two wizards.

No one in the room moved; no one spoke as they waited for the prince to calm himself. Finally, the attack passed. The tension in his face subsided, and he again took his place at the table. Shailiha placed an affectionate hand over his, giving him a small smile.

Uncharacteristically, Tristan did not smile back. Instead, he focused his dark blue eyes on Wigg. “I believe you have some explaining to do,” he said bluntly. “What is Fledgling House, and who are the children Martha refers to?”

“Indeed,” Faegan added from the other side of the table.

Wigg took a deep sigh. “Tristan,” he began, “do you remember the first day I brought you to the Redoubt and you saw the nursery—the place where the sons of the consuls were being looked after?”

“Of course,” Tristan answered angrily. That day, among many others, was one the prince would never forget. He had been overwhelmed at the amazing acts of the craft the many young boys were performing. The wizard had sworn him to secrecy on the spot.

“Well,” Wigg said, “those boys were only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristan asked.

“I’m talking about Fledgling House,” Wigg answered simply. “When your mother convinced us of the need to begin training the girls in the craft, we decided to do so in secret, somewhere away from the boys and the majority of the consuls. You see, despite how long ago the Sorceresses’ War ended, there is even today great sentiment against the teaching of the craft to women. It was our hope that we could eventually introduce the trained females into the population gradually, thereby reducing confrontation, bigotry, and misunderstanding.” He sighed.

“The neophytes of Fledgling House are neither sorceresses of the Coven, nor practitioners of the Vagaries,” he added. “They are only young girls, trying to do their best.”

Tristan, his mind finally cleared of his rage, was stunned at Wigg’s words. How many more secrets have the wizards and our parents kept from Shailiha and me?

“In any event,” Wigg continued, “the boys of the Consuls’ Nursery and the girls at Fledgling House were very special. Only those of the most highly endowed blood were allowed to enter these schools, and neither group of students knew of the other. Duncan, the headmaster of Fledgling House, was one of the very best of our teachers. I named him to the post myself. Martha, who is not of endowed blood, oversaw the other needs of the girls. Having one’s child accepted for training at Fledgling House or the Nursery of the Redoubt was truly deemed an honor.” Suddenly Wigg’s face became grave. “But now those very same children have been taken by Ragnar and Scrounge. And we still do not know why.”

After many long moments, it was Faegan who spoke. “There is still something I do not understand,” he said. “You mentioned to Martha that it was forbidden for her to come here. Why would that be?”

Wigg managed a half smile. “For the simple reason that she is female, of course. This secret place of learning is still available only to men, and Martha would be known only to those consuls whose daughters attended Fledgling House.”

“Yet another safeguard?” Faegan asked.

“Yes.”

“And Fledgling House itself,” Faegan asked. “Where is it located?”

“A small castle was especially constructed for our needs, in the highlands between Ilendium and Tanglewood,” Wigg answered. “It lies just west of the Sippora, close to the base of the Tolenka Mountains.”

“It sounds like a special place, Father,” Celeste interjected, calling Wigg by that name for the first time.

“Oh, it is,” Wigg answered his daughter. “It is a very special place indeed.”

“And how long has Fledgling House been in existence?” Faegan asked.

Already knowing where this inquisition was heading, Wigg smiled. “The training began five years after the birth of the Chosen Ones. It took us that long to see the reason in Morganna’s plans, determine the site, build the castle and the nursery, and select the first groups of students.”

Tristan looked quickly to Shailiha. The equally shocked expression on her face told him that she had also figured it out. “That was twenty-five years ago!” the prince exclaimed. “That means—”

“Yes,” Wigg said, purposely interrupting him. “There is already one mature generation of females, at least partially trained in the craft, living in Eutracia. Presuming, of course, that they still live.”

“But there is more to this, isn’t there?” Faegan asked. His eyes shone with certainty that he had unraveled a riddle. “These women, the first of their kind in centuries, were to eventually form their own group, weren’t they? Queen Morganna was apparently both wise and persistent.”

“What do you mean?” Shailiha asked.

“Unless I’m wrong”—Faegan smiled—“there was to have been an adjunct to the Brotherhood of Consuls. A secret sisterhood, if you will, made up of these women who had studied the craft. In this way two things could be accomplished.”

Again Wigg smiled. “Go on,” he said.

“First of all, if and when Shailiha was to be trained, the citizens would accept the princess more readily, if there were already other endowed women of training acknowledged in the kingdom.” Faegan smiled. “Cleverly done, Wigg.”

“Thank you,” Wigg answered. “But you mentioned two reasons. What do you believe the other to be?”

“The formation of this other secret society,” he mused, “would have finally given the queen something she wanted so much for Eutracia. Namely, equality for females of endowed blood.” Looking first at Tristan, then Shailiha, Faegan cackled in glee and slapped one knee. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I never had the privilege of knowing your parents, but all that I have heard about them leads me to only one conclusion—they were two of the finest persons in the realm.” He rubbed his chin with one hand. “And do these women now practice the craft?” he asked.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But only in secret, doing anonymous good deeds about the countryside, like the consuls of the Redoubt. And just like the consuls, should any of these women attempt to practice the Vagaries, death enchantments would immediately be enacted.”

“What are they called?” Shailiha asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Such men are called consuls,” Shailiha said. “What name was given to the women?”

“We call them the acolytes of Fledgling House,” Wigg answered. “Just as the consuls all wear dark blue robes, the acolytes wear capes of the deepest red. And they bear a tattoo of the Paragon on one shoulder, as do the consuls.”

“I see,” Faegan mused. “Considering everything that transpired, you took a great risk in doing this.”

“The Coven had been gone for over three hundred years,” Wigg countered. “And the queen was adamant.” Smiling he turned his face in the direction of Tristan and Shailiha. “She could be quite persuasive, as well.”

“All things change, don’t they?” Faegan asked. Then his face became more serious, his voice lowering. “And where are these women now?”

Sighing, obviously not wanting to answer, Wigg placed his tongue against the inside of one of his hollow cheeks. “I don’t know,” he replied softly.

Faegan leaned forward on his arms, more than a hint of disapproval showing on his face. “You don’t know?” he asked incredulously.

“After they leave Fledgling House, they, like the consuls, are free to scatter throughout the realm,” the lead wizard answered. “They are waiting for the official announcement of the existence of their society by the Directorate—the Directorate that no longer exists. But as for keeping track of the specific location of each of these women, well, that was the task of Tretiak. But of course, Tretiak is now dead.”

“And did Tretiak keep any written records of these women?” Faegan asked.

“Yes,” Wigg answered rather sadly, “but I do not know where. They could be anywhere in the vastness of the Redoubt.”

“Do the consuls know of the acolytes?” Tristan asked.

“Only those who are their fathers,” Wigg answered. “And they were of course sworn to secrecy. Just after what was to have been your coronation, the Directorate was planning to bring them all together at once—the consuls and the acolytes—and reveal the existence of one to another. It was to have been a wonderful day—one your mother was especially looking forward to. But then the stalkers and the harpies began to reappear, followed by the invasion of the Coven. Your mother’s dream of a sisterhood of the craft still survives, but she never lived to see it come to complete fruition.”

“And how do we know that whoever is doing this has not gone after the acolytes the same way they have the consuls?” Faegan asked.

“We don’t know,” Wigg said. “But I don’t believe they have.”

“Why not?”

“The training of the consuls has been going on far, far longer than that of the acolytes,” Wigg explained. “The oldest of the acolytes would be only about thirty New Seasons of Life, making them far less experienced—and thus less powerful—than most of the consuls. Also, there are far fewer of them. However, we cannot assume that the acolytes are safe. Our enemy may well be going after them—or have plans for them later. Only time will tell.”

Scowling, Wigg laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table. Recognizing Wigg’s mood, Faegan finally became silent.

Tristan sat back in his chair, stunned at the revelations that had just been unearthed.

“But still more important questions remain, old friend,” Faegan said darkly.

“Such as, why did Ragnar and Scrounge abduct the children,” Wigg replied, “not to mention the source of the power behind the strange, immense glow Tristan and I saw in the Caves.”

The situation descended on the people seated at the table like it was the weight of the world. But to the minds of the wizards, things other than worry over Fledgling House had to take priority.

“The rape of Fledgling House was indeed a travesty, as was the death of my friend Duncan,” Wigg said quietly. “Nonetheless, these recent events must not dissuade us from the most important of our goals. We must concentrate our efforts on the cure for the prince, and on solving the riddle of the draining of the Paragon. For if these two things are not correctly and quickly addressed, all is lost.”

Wigg turned to his left, searching for Martha’s hands. Finding them, he took them into his own. “My dear friend,” he whispered, “despite your recent loss, there are still things of importance I would ask you to do for both the realm, and for myself. That is, if you will consent to remain in my service.”

Her tears came again, and the kindly matron bowed her head slightly. “Anything, Lead Wizard,” she whispered back.

“First, I would like you to help my daughter,” Wigg said. “As I will explain to you later, she is not really of our world, and knows nothing of either the history or customs of Eutracia. I would like you to teach her these things for me. Please instruct her as quickly as you can, so that she may become an equal, participating member of our group. Other than the prince and princess, her blood is of a quality never before seen. And I can think of no one more ideally suited to help her than you.”

Martha looked over at the tall, red-haired beauty. “It would be my honor,” she said. “And the other request?” she asked.

“That you would also care for yet another young lady, if need be.” Wigg smiled. “Unknown to you, there is a new royal in the world. Shailiha has given birth to her first child. A daughter, named after the queen. We have just learned secrets regarding new, unexpected talents that Shailiha now possesses, related to a spell lying within her blood. If these things are indeed true, her services may prove invaluable. Therefore, please care for the daughter of the princess if Shailiha is required elsewhere.”

“Of course,” Martha answered.

Although pleased to hear these requests, Tristan’s mind had already been taken to a different place. Parthalon. Ragnar’s hatchlings, thousands of them, are camped in Farplain. I must deal with them. And the only way to accomplish that is to bring back the Minions.

He closed his eyes against the pain of his memories, wondering if he could summon up the courage to again confront the brutal, winged killers of his family. I shall do this, regardless of what the wizards say. And I must accomplish it before I die.

“Wigg,” Faegan said from the other side of the table, “we have talked long enough. Now is the time for action. One of us should immediately recite the incantation for Celeste’s time enchantments, before any discontinuance is used by Ragnar.” He smiled again. “But I think, given the circumstances, the honor should be yours.”

“Thank you,” Wigg said.

“Shannon,” Faegan said, turning to the gnome, “would you please familiarize Martha with the Redoubt?”

“Yes, Master,” Shannon answered. He and Martha started toward the door. The little man raised the ale jug to his lips again on the way out.

“Now then,” Faegan said, looking to Wigg.

“Celeste, please kneel before me,” Wigg said.

Celeste obediently rose from her chair, going down on her knees before her father. Wigg reached out his hands, turning up his palms.

“Place your hands in mine, close your eyes, and bow your head,” he said quietly. She did so. Then Wigg began the incantation:

The people at the table remained still as death as the familiar azure glow of the craft appeared all around Celeste. It filled the Hall of Blood Records with its majesty, increasing in intensity until Tristan thought he might have to cover his eyes. Then it finally faded away, leaving the room as quietly and quickly as it had come.

“Arise my daughter,” Wigg said, quietly brushing away a tear that had formed in one of his milky eyes. “You are henceforth protected by my time enchantments. Now, even if Ragnar decides to discontinue his enchantments, mine shall protect you. But please always bear in mind that should you feel any unexpected shudder in your blood, you must tell us immediately. For that will mean he has discontinued his ministrations, and that is something we should know.”

“Yes, Father,” she answered, her voice cracking slightly. “Thank you.” Celeste returned to her seat.

“Princess,” Faegan said, “if you would, please place your child down on the table.” Shailiha did so, the baby remaining still and content.

Faegan silently commanded one of the many drawers in the walls to open. Another blank sheet of parchment arose from it, coming to rest on the table next to the child. Then Morganna gently rose into the air, landing quietly back down on the paper. A tiny incision painlessly appeared in the first finger of Morganna’s hand, and a single, perfect drop of her blood fell to the paper. Morganna immediately began to cry, so Shailiha reached out and took the baby back into her arms, kissing the cut finger. Slowly, the baby calmed.

Faegan poured a single drop of water from the Caves onto the child’s blood. The fluids then began to wend their way hauntingly across the thirsty paper, revealing the infant’s signature.

At seeing Morganna’s blood signature, Shailiha’s first reaction was to take a sudden breath and cover her mouth with one hand, fearing that there was something wrong with her baby. Tristan was also perplexed. The signature looked somewhat like the others he had seen this day, but was also radically different. Looking at it more closely, he finally realized why. The father’s portion of the signature was missing.

“Is something wrong with my baby?” Shailiha asked urgently, pulling Morganna close to her breast. “Why does her blood signature look like that?”

“There is nothing wrong with Morganna, Princess,” Faegan answered reassuringly. “In fact, had her signature been any different, you would have had some rather difficult explaining to do.” In that way in which only Faegan could, he smiled cattily at the inference. “Your husband, the father of this child, was of common blood, was he not?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes still glued to the parchment.

“As such, Frederick had no blood signature. Nor would he ever have. Therefore nothing of his blood can be shown in this way. Only your portion and the child’s own form Morganna’s signature. A ‘partial’ endowment, if you will, and entirely normal when one of endowed blood reproduces with one of common blood.”

“Of course,” Shailiha answered softly. “Now I understand.”

“But look more closely,” Faegan said. “For the reason I wished to reveal your daughter’s blood was not to teach you this, but to look for something else.” The princess looked down at the child’s blood signature again, and this time she saw it. There were branches leading off from it; they looked identical to the ones in her signature.

She drew a quick breath, immediately understanding. “Morganna has my Forestallments,” she whispered. “It’s true. Forestallments can be passed from the parent to the child.”

Faegan smiled. “Well done. This is exactly what I thought we would see. But we needed to confirm it with our own eyes.”

“Is it really true?” Wigg asked from the other side of the great table. “Forestallments can be handed down?”

“Apparently so,” Faegan said absently, thinking to himself. “But now the question becomes, will Morganna’s talents be the same as her mother’s or something quite different? Only time will tell.”

“And now there remains but one more thing to do, before you and I turn our attention toward other, more pressing matters,” Wigg said to Faegan. “We must examine the blood of the Chosen One himself.”

Faegan nodded. “Tristan, if you please,” he said.

Tristan obligingly held one hand out. An incision appeared, and a single, azure blood drop fell with a soft plop onto the parchment next to the signature of the child. Faegan carefully placed a single drop of water from the Caves onto it. This time, however, due to the very high quality of Tristan’s blood, the signature was revealed far more quickly than any of the others. None of the people at the table, though, not even the master wizard Faegan, were prepared for what they saw in it.

Tristan’s signature was identical to Shailiha’s in form. That was to be expected. But branching off from his signature were far more Forestallments. Some were long, some short, and some thicker than others, crazily leading away from the body of the signature itself. More than half of them showed their own additional offshoots, like branches from a tree limb.

After a period of silence, it was again Faegan who spoke first. He described the unusual configuration to Wigg and then asked, “Tristan, do you have any idea why this would be so?”

“No,” the prince said solemnly. “Unless it has to do with the poisoning of my blood.”

“That is not the reason,” Wigg interjected. “Faegan and I have seen stalker blood poisoning before, and it has never manifested itself this way in a signature. Unless I miss my guess, these are truly Forestallments, though of a complex nature we had yet to see. But as to how or why there are so many of them, I am at a complete loss to say.”

“Then we shall start with what we do know,” Faegan said. “We originally postulated that the Forestallments placed in Shailiha’s blood were a ministration of Failee. Of that I feel we can be relatively certain. While the princess was with the Coven, there was ample time for the first mistress to accomplish such a thing. But, as the prince and Wigg have previously told me, their time with the Coven was much shorter. Nonetheless, the presence of so many Forestallments in Tristan’s blood must still be a result of his time with them.” He paused for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.

“Tell me, Tristan,” he began, “exactly in what ways any of the mistresses physically touched you while you were with them.”

Faegan’s blunt request brought back Tristan’s dark memories of his time with the four mistresses in the belly of the Recluse. Wigg and Geldon had been with him and were tortured, as he had been. But his abuse had come in a very different fashion. As he searched his mind, he could only remember one single time that any of them had actually touched him.

When Failee had sent Succiu, the second mistress, to rape him. He swallowed hard.

“The only time I was ever touched was during Succiu’s forced union upon me,” he said slowly. “She gloated about it, telling me that it would be the most intense physical pleasure I would ever receive. But instead there was great, unexpected pain. It shot through my entire system, and I almost blacked out. Afterward the glow of the craft formed around her. She said that she had already conceived, and would give birth in only three days. But because of the quality of my blood, she actually went into labor much sooner.”

“Did you tell me once that Failee said it was her intention to continually use your seed to breed what she called a race of superbeings, all female, who would use the Vagaries to rule forever?”

“Yes. But what are you getting at?”

Faegan sat back in his chair, stroking his cat. “I believe that is when so many unique, branched Forestallments were placed into your blood,” he ruminated, half to himself. “During Succiu’s rape of you. Ever since I read Egloff’s scroll, something has been troubling me. Namely, how is it that a Forestallment could be implanted within the blood of another without his or her knowledge? Such a strong, ongoing spell would surely have some form of immediate, physical reaction. In your case, I think it was the pain you described, though that may not be the case for everyone so affected. This also confirms another theory of mine: that the installation of the Forestallments within the blood of another can only be accomplished when actually touching the receiving party.” He paused for a moment, looking around the table. “It appears there was much more going on during your time in the Recluse than we first thought.”

Stunned, Tristan looked to Shailiha. She tried bravely to smile. Shailiha was there, watching the entire thing, he thought, horrified. Succiu made her watch. He turned his face away. Thank the Afterlife my sister remembers nothing of what happened there that day. Then, almost involuntarily, his eyes went to Celeste. And now we learn that Wigg has a daughter, a product of his time with Failee. When one door closes, another opens.

Lowering his head and closing his eyes, he let out a sad, lonely sigh. He remembered, too, some of Succiu’s last words to him, just before she committed suicide. “There is still so much you and the wizards do not know,” she had said.

“But why?” he asked, his eyes still closed. “They already had me to do with as they chose. Why this, as well?”

“You were given Forestallments for the very reason your sister and Celeste have them,” Faegan answered gently. “But your case was different. The greater the number of Forestallments in your blood, the less Failee would eventually have to teach her superbeings when they matured. And because of the nature of your blood, your Forestallments would be even stronger than those inherited from Celeste or Shailiha. For this reason also, you apparently received many more than they did. But do not be alarmed. Because you escaped, in many ways this may truly be a blessing.”

Angry and restless again, Tristan raised his head and opened his eyes. He looked at Faegan as if the wizard had suddenly gone mad. “How could such an abomination be a blessing?” he hissed.

“Because you now have talents, dormant in your blood, that do not require training to come alive,” the wizard answered. “Just like Shailiha’s amazing bond with the fliers. And if your Forestallments are event-activated, as hers were, you may discover them at any time. They may be truly wondrous.”

“Or something horrible,” Tristan said through gritted teeth.

“That possibility also exists,” Faegan answered softly. “Only time will tell.”

Tristan was suddenly very anxious. Though the room was huge, he felt like the walls were closing in on him.

He began to shake. At first slightly, but then with greater intensity until his entire body was firmly in the grip of uncontrollable spasms. His eyes rolled back into his head, and drool formed in the corners of his mouth.

Shailiha’s scream sounded far away to his ears.

The last thing he remembered before the awful blackness closed in was the horrific, painful convulsions throwing him from his chair onto the hard, cool, marble floor of the room.

30

The wind in his hair and his weapons at the ready, Scrounge gripped the specially made leather band strapped around the body of his personal hatchling as the awful bird carried him higher into the golden glow of the evening sky. He had been longing for this night ever since Ragnar had outlined this newest plan to him.

You will attack at night, the stalker had told him. It will add to the drama, confusion, and terror of what the master has planned. It had been almost two days since Scrounge and his birds had raided Fledgling House, taking the girls. But the dramatic, difficult task that now lay before him thrilled him even more.

The bird that carried him was also heavily armed. A long sword dangled from the baldric around the creature’s strong shoulders. At the hatchling’s hip lay a dagger, and the black leather gauntlets it wore were studded with long silver points for ripping and tearing into its victims at close quarters.

Scrounge looked down at the land of Eutracia as it passed dizzyingly below. He was still amazed at how fast the master’s new generation of creatures could travel through the air without ever seeming to tire. And then he looked behind him, and smiled. Traveling with him were thousands more of the great birds.

They flew due west in a giant formation shaped like a highly compacted arrowhead, with Scrounge and his bird at the forefront. None of the other creatures carried a rider, but each of them was armed in the same fashion as his mount. Ragnar’s assassin narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the unfortunate city that would soon bear the horror of their orders. Ilendium—one of the true jewels of Eutracia.

He didn’t yet see their target, so Scrounge allowed his mind the luxury of traveling back in time a few hours, to his visit to the amazing camp the hatchlings had established at Farplain, in the Triangle of the Grasses.

At Nicholas’ orders, thousands of black tents had been erected everywhere, the campfires before them sending smoke high into the sky. Hordes of hatchlings milled about on their strong rear legs, many of them talking to one another, those in positions of command shouting orders. Some were performing tasks such as sharpening weapons. Others were flying patrols, guarding the perimeter.

The largest and most ornate of the tents, set on a small rise overlooking the entire scene, held Ragnar. After completing his mission at Fledgling House, Scrounge had reported there for further orders.

The tent was furnished with items that had been brought here from the stalker’s underground chambers. Included among them was the ever-present vial of yellow fluid. Most of the furniture was upholstered in deep red. Decorative tapestries hung on the insides of the tent walls, and highly patterned rugs covered the grassy floor. Oil sconces adorned the tent poles. A golden table sat in the center of the room, a silver platter atop it containing fruit, olives of several colors, cheese, and wine—all of which looked untouched.

Long and languorous, a brunette woman with deep blue eyes lay propped up on one arm along the length of a curved, bloodred sofa. She smiled when Scrounge came in. Only a single, diaphanous piece of fine Eutracian silk covered her; it left little to the imagination. Her face was badly bruised, no doubt from some form of punishment administered by the stalker. But by her coy look the assassin decided she hadn’t minded, and had perhaps even enjoyed it.

Ragnar was seated in a high-backed, red velvet chair at the end of the room, a vial of brain fluid in his hand. His robe was of the deepest purple, and Wigg’s three-hundred-year-old golden dagger was at his hip. He placed two fingers into the vial and then into his mouth before beckoning the assassin forward. Scrounge took several steps into the room, the silver spurs of his knee boots jangling lightly.

“The raid at Fledgling House went well?” the stalker asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered.

“And are you ready for the next of your assignments?”

“Indeed,” Scrounge answered, his eyes flashing. “This latest mission promises to be the most satisfying yet.”

“Good,” Ragnar answered. “You fully understand Nicholas’ instructions? That nothing is to be taken except life. Also destroy as much of the city as possible. Make the evidence of your actions lasting, and particularly explicit. How you accomplish this part of it I leave to your rather considerable talents. But remember, Nicholas wishes to make a clear example of this first attack. It is not the city itself he wants; it is the people living in it. And after you have made the necessary preparations for the master’s other servants, be sure to avoid their impending arrival.”

Ragnar stood from his chair, going to the table. Selecting a grape, he walked to the brunette on the couch. He held it for her as she opened her mouth, seductively taking it in. Ragnar smiled.

“While it is true she is not Celeste, she is nonetheless very talented,” he said. “Would you like to partake of her charms before you leave?”

Scrounge looked down to the beauty before him, and then back up to his master. “Not now, my lord. Frankly, the prospect of the mission lying before me is far more exciting. But perhaps, when I return . . .”

“Of course,” Ragnar answered. “Go and carry out your orders. And do not disappoint us.”

With that, Scrounge had turned on his heel and walked out.

Straining his eyes against the wind, the assassin could now make out the lights of the city of Ilendium, about one league away. Ilendium, he thought. One of the most cultured and artistic of all the Eutracian cities, and also one of the wealthiest. What an excellent place for the master to begin.

He looked behind him to make sure that the birds he had selected were still grasping torches.

“You know your orders! Fly in low and drop the torches first. Then proceed as planned. Be sure to leave several hundred survivors, and herd them into the square in the center of the city.” With quick nods of their grotesque heads, the hatchlings began a long, descending glide toward the unsuspecting city, and the thousands of other birds of prey immediately followed suit.

Descending low over Ilendium, they dropped the billowing flares onto the quiet, sleeping city.

The straw roofs went ablaze first. They caught quickly, the sudden, intense flames snapping and popping as they went roaring up into the darkness of the night. The buildings with stone or marble roofs, those housing the wealthier citizens, were treated differently. In those cases the hatchlings landed in the streets, smashing out windows with the hilts of their swords and tossing the torches inside. On and on it went, building after building, street after street. The entire city was soon a raging inferno.

The assassin flew over the expanses of the desperate city, intently watching the master’s hatchlings go about their work. He smiled viciously, enjoying the moment, and then spurred his bird lower, and soared recklessly through the city streets. His sword at the ready, he watched for survivors as the flame-ridden buildings flashed by on either side. His first victim was a little boy, lost and alone in the mayhem, screaming wildly as he tried to find his parents.

Many more such defenseless victims followed. So many, in fact, that near the end he was barely able to raise his sword.

As they ran madly from the burning buildings, the citizens were cut down by the sword-wielding hatchlings. Sometimes a particular group of hatchlings chose to use their long, black talons to trap their living victims on the ground, and would then use their daggers or the points of their gauntlets to tear through the clothing and abdomens of those beneath them. Then, they employed their long beaks and sharp teeth to peck and pull the organs from their victims. Often, at the end of such brutality, the birds would lift their faces to the flame-ridden skies, calling out shrieks of victory to the others, their mouths and teeth dripping with blood. The streets and gutters eventually ran red, and the screaming of the citizens evolved into a softer, agonizingly helpless crying and moaning.

Some of the fires had begun to subside, while others still raged furiously. The orange-and-red flames threw their light up into the night and across what was left of the falling, burning buildings, spotlighting the grisly specters of the hatchlings going about their work. Acrid, soot-laden smoke billowed everywhere as Scrounge finally sheathed his bloody sword. He then turned his bird toward the center of the city, toward the gathering place known as Ilendium Square.

His hatchling landed softly and bent down, and Scrounge swung one leg over to slide to the ground. The cobblestone square was already full of the living. Some were wounded; some were not. The birds kept prodding and poking their captives, forcing them to remain in the center of the square. Other hatchlings flew the corpses of the disemboweled to the square, dropping them on their backs. At last, Scrounge issued his orders.

“Begin the search for stragglers!” he called out. “Leave no stone unturned. And place all the disemboweled here, in the center. The master’s other servants shall arrive at any time. We must be in the air by then, or suffer the same fate as your conquests.”

Scrounge watched as some of the hatchlings before him rotated their endowed, scarlet eyes partially out of the sockets in preparation for the search. Beacons soon shot from their orbs into the blackness of the night, criss-crossing crazily through the sky and across the ground. Then the birds flew off, searching for survivors. As they went, the red shafts coming from them shot down the streets and through the flickering orange of the flames, adding to the macabre nature of the scene. Amid the blood, the carnage, the corpses, and the wailing, Scrounge waited.

The hatchlings eventually returned with hundreds more survivors, and unceremoniously dropped their captives to the stones of the square amid the dead and the living alike. Scrounge smiled. He walked back to his personal hatchling, and remounted, then wheeled the bird around to face the thousands of other hatchlings on the ground and in the air.

“Those of mine still standing in the square,” he shouted, “come join your brothers in the sky!” With a great flapping of wings, scores of hatchlings took to the air, joining the others. “Hover above the square and wait. Eventually you will see what it is that your master has created,” he shouted, his face twisting into a grin. “And be glad you are not one of those below!”

Patiently hovering over the barbaric scene, the hatchlings bided their time. Occasionally a survivor would try to run, only to have one of the great birds swoop low to snatch him up in its talons and return him or her to the center of the carnage. An incongruous silence gradually crept over the scene—almost a peacefulness of sorts—as the thousands of birds kept watch over the captives below.

At first, all that could be heard was a soft scrabbling sound. Faint and distant, it grew nearer by the moment. It was almost like thousands of bits of metal scratching against themselves to create a sinister, uniform din. On and on it came, growing louder until it was a roaring, living wall of noise descending on the square from every direction. It was then that Scrounge, safe atop his hatchling, saw the first of this new breed of Nicholas’ servants: carrion scarabs.

Scrounge watched, transfixed, as hundreds of thousands of black beetles deluged the square. Each one was about the size of the palm of his hand, with an indentation down the center of its hard, shiny shell. A pair of black fangs, curved and sharp, protruded noticeably from the front of each of the heads. Their many legs scrambling, their antennae stretched forward and hungrily scenting the carrion before them, they filled every entryway leading into Ilendium Square. They came relentlessly, so many that they finally poured out of the shattered doorways and windows of the weakened buildings, knocking down the charred window frames and doors that had been loosened by the fires. It was a virtual sea of blackness, undulating and flowing as if a single entity—a seemingly never-ending torrent of fluid motion.

They tore into the people in the square, both the living and the dead, like a rolling sea of death.

Scrounge smiled at the incredible scene below him. Some of the carrion scarabs scrambled quickly over the dead, and then seemed to slow down, busying themselves atop the eviscerated bodies. The others clambered up the feet and legs of the living, their victims’ bodies and faces quickly becoming black with their numbers. The curved, black fangs tore relentlessly into the screaming victims, who fell to the bloody square, dying slowly and horribly as the scarabs consumed their living flesh.

When all of the humans were dead, many of the beetles began congregating around the bodies that had been disemboweled. And then it became almost quiet, and the carrion scarabs started going about the second of their tasks.

As Scrounge watched in fascination, the female scarabs began to lay thousands of white, slippery, glistening eggs directly into the warm body cavities of the dead.

Each of the eggs, about the size of a child’s marble, came slowly from the females’ bodies, falling gently into the soft, warm abdomens of the dead men, women, and children. When a cavity became completely filled, the females would go on to the next, and then the next. When the grisly task had finally been completed, about half of the carrion scarabs marched away. The other half formed a protective ring around the dead, presumably waiting for their eggs to hatch.

Satisfied, Scrounge looked down at the ruined city a final time, then wheeled his bird around to face the others hovering nearby. Once they gathered into proper formation, he gave them a nod of his head, and the entire flight of hatchlings soared away, melting into the blackness of the sky.

A shadow moved within the recesses of the top of the bell tower, one of the few buildings not completely consumed by flame. And then the shadow moved again.

Caprice, Shailiha’s graceful violet-and-yellow flier of the fields, her wings folded, finally revealed herself, walking tentatively along the ledge that lay just below the great bell. She looked down upon the carnage of the square, and then to the still-blazing remnants of the once-great city of Ilendium.

For a moment she bowed her head, as if an overpowering sadness had come to her. And then, sensing that the danger for her had passed, she launched herself into the air. Her diaphanous wings began carrying her to the west, carefully following the hatchlings.

31

Nicholas, his eyes closed and his body naked, hovered high above the floor in the darkness of the antechamber. The azure glow of the vein surrounded him, running brightly through the walls. He extended his arms at his sides, and the light from the ribbon of energy glistened brightly against the pale, white skin of his perfect, muscled body. His mind turned commandingly, proudly to the awesome power and knowledge that he had already attained. Of the Vigors and the Vagaries alike.

He tilted his head back, and his long, dark hair fell toward the floor as he revolved in the brilliant atmosphere of the subterranean room. He had come here after having been instructed to do so earlier this day. After his parents above had again revealed themselves to his mind.

This time their voices had been much stronger, much clearer than the time before. So too was his grasp of the craft. And this day he would come another step closer to that which would eventually become their means to conquer. He would continue to absorb the power of the Paragon, and imbue it into a single being. Himself.

Before commencing he smiled, allowing himself the luxury of returning to the earlier moment this day, when the ones from above had again called out to his mind.

Nicholas, he had heard. Nicholas, it is we. We who exist on the other side. Those who remain in perpetual struggle with the Ones Who Came Before. Your parents above, the true masters of the Vagaries. Hear us now when we tell you that you have done well, but that there is still much more to be accomplished before we may return to the land of the living. And it is only you, our messenger on earth, who can make this possible.

Continuing to revolve in the light, he thought back to the time when his consciousness had first materialized. The moment when he had found himself unearthed from a shallow grave, reborn in azure hands that had arrived so mysteriously from above. And then had come the flight skyward, ever skyward, cradled in those same delicate hands. He had emerged from the fog and gloom of his quasi-life to arrive before the serene masters—the ones who were the ultimate bringers of light and knowledge. Trapped in the firmament and in constant struggle with those who cherished only the Vigors, his parents could not accomplish all they desired by themselves. And so they had sent him.

And as his time with them passed, they imbued his exquisite blood with the necessary Forestallments. But in order to employ their magnificent gifts, he would first have to harness the dynamism of the stone, for they required unheard-of power.

The vein in the walls began to undulate more strongly, pulsing with energy. As its glow increased, Nicholas revolved faster, his body turning gracefully in the light. And then, his eyes still closed, he commanded gashes to open along the inside of each of his wrists. As he turned, small amounts of his blood began to run from the incisions, soaring outward and casting strangely concentric patterns on the walls and floor of the room. Finally opening his eyes, he looked down to regard the blood that was so prized: the glowing, unequalled, azure blood he had inherited from the male of the Chosen Ones.

From this time forward you shall absorb the power differently, the voices from above had said. This time you will take the power directly into your blood. You are strong enough now. But you must take the vitality little by little as it leaves the stone, giving your blood time to adjust. For to do so all at once, even for you, would mean certain death. And even though you absorb both sides of the craft, it is forbidden for you to try to use them in concert with one another. Only we hold that key.

As he called upon the energy of the vein, its magnificence slowly poured out onto the floor of the antechamber in its other form—the liquid, unadulterated power of the Paragon. Small pools of it developed as it slithered forth. Twisting and turning with a life of its own, it seemed to desperately want to join with his exposed blood. It writhed into a whirlpool, rising slowly into the air beneath the young adept. Nicholas held his wrists out to it, begging it to come closer.

A great cracking noise occurred, the vein converting itself to bolts of azure energy. The bolts struck the incisions in his wrist with blinding speed, and the young man screamed and screamed again.

And then the glow softened, the bolts dying away as Nicholas revolved more slowly in the silence of the room. Unconscious, he crashed the distance to the floor of the chamber.

As he slowly regained his senses, he came to all fours. He was unhurt, but his chest was heaving, his blood more alive than ever with the power of the craft. He knew he had been successful. Although aware that he had as yet absorbed only a portion of the dynamic of the stone, he felt more arrant than ever. He raised his hands, and laughed aloud as he caused the incisions to vanish, the azure waves of strength cascading to and from between his palms in an awesome display of his newfound power.

You are to become the vessel into which both sides shall be poured, his parents above had told him. Hold them for us until our return. For just as the Chosen One was to have been the emissary of the Ones Who Came Before, you are to be ours. It was the Chosen One himself who gave you to us, when he took you from the dead womb of the sorceress. And soon enough he will see the gravity of his error.

The young man smiled again, thinking how true all of their revelations had been, and how anxious he was for them to display their remaining magnificence to him.

But you are not to venture forth into the light until you are the same age as the other of azure blood, they had said. To walk among your enemies now would provide too great a temptation, even for you. You would be drawn to attempt joining the two sides of the craft, without doubt destroying all that we have sought to attain. Even you would not be able to resist this call, just as the first mistress of the Coven, in all her experience, could not. But it shall soon be time for you to take your place in the world above. And own it all.

Smiling, Nicholas turned, and glided from the room.

32

Holding her baby close, Shailiha stood with Faegan and Wigg on the balcony of Queen Morganna’s once-sumptuous bedroom above the Redoubt, waiting for the coming dawn. The queen’s familiar but now-ransacked chambers in the royal palace had at first conjured up a great many memories for the princess. Especially of the time that she, Tristan, and her mother had been here, not so long ago, taking tea—the day Morganna had given the prince the gold medallion he still wore around his neck, an exact copy of the one Shailiha wore.

At first, the memories had made Shailiha cry. But she had forced the tears away, determined to do all she could to help her brother.

She was terribly worried about Tristan. His violent convulsion in the Hall of Blood Records had been a revelation, showing her for the first time how ill he really was. Once the attack had subsided, Wigg and Faegan had taken the prince, still unconscious, to his quarters, and put him to bed. Martha and Celeste were keeping watch over him, for the wizards had said that once the episode was finished, there was little more they could do. They believed that he would eventually awaken on his own, and they had instructed Martha to immediately alert them when that happened.

Shailiha had remained by his bed the entire night, crying, afraid the twin brother she loved so much would never come back to her. Finally, with the advent of dawn, she had decided to accompany the wizards in their task.

She turned her attention from the horizon, looking back to the smashed, violated room. One of the great looms that her mother had loved to sit before was still there, but the half-finished tapestry that was to have been her gift to the king had long since been stolen, as had virtually everything else of value. Dust and debris lay everywhere. As if they somehow knew themselves to be the new masters of the castle, an occasional rat or spider could be seen brazenly going about the business of hunting food. She shuddered. Tristan, please come back to us.

She was standing between Wigg on her left, and Faegan on her right. The sun was just starting to come up over the hills beyond, bringing the promise of a cold but beautiful day. The birds had begun to sing, and the ground shimmered with frost, foreshadowing the coming of snow. Indeed everything from the balcony outward, in direct contrast to the room behind her, looked almost idyllic.

Just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, casting its sharp, golden spears toward the balcony, Faegan spoke. “It is now the beginning of high noon in Parthalon,” he said, “and it is time for me to begin.”

Closing his eyes, he commenced the spell that would produce the portal. Slowly Shailiha could begin to see the swirling glow appear, heralding the portal’s coming. On and on it came, until the entire balcony was covered by a brilliantly glowing vortex. The strain of holding it open showed on Faegan’s face.

“Will he be all right?” the concerned princess whispered to Wigg. “It looks to be a terrible strain.”

“It is,” Wigg answered softly. “Do not attempt to speak to him or otherwise distract him during this use of the craft.” Understanding, Shailiha nodded back.

The moments passed slowly, the sun continuing its climb in the east.

At last, Shailiha thought she saw a flutter in the vortex. Geldon slowly appeared from the mist, and immediately fell to his knees. Following behind him came Joshua, also obviously dizzy and disoriented. Shailiha placed her hand over her mouth in horror, not wanting to believe what she saw. The consul was holding a glowing, severed foot.

Lastly from the azure whirlpool came something that Shailiha had seen but did not remember—something Faegan had never seen. A huge, armed, bizarre-looking man with wings fell to his knees upon the floor of the balcony. His wings flapped weakly as if trying to help him regain his balance. He was holding a crutch, which he placed beneath his armpit to assist him in standing on his good foot. Shailiha could only stare, frozen in the moment.

As Faegan opened his eyes, he sent a bolt of the craft toward the new arrival, surrounding him within a brilliant wizard’s cage.

“That will not be necessary,” Joshua said quickly, taking his first real step forward. “This warrior is an ally.”

“He is right,” Geldon finally said. He walked around everyone and into the room. “He is a friend.”

“What is going on?” Wigg shouted out in frustration. “Who is there?”

“Geldon, Joshua, and of all things what I assume to be a Minion warrior,” the wizard in the chair answered drily. “Assuming, of course, that your previous descriptions of them have been accurate.” It was clear he had no intention of eliminating his wizard’s cage any time soon.

Shailiha took in the huge size of the warrior, and his long, dark hair and unkempt beard. Her eyes then went to the dreggan lying peacefully at the warrior’s hip. A shiny wheel—a weapon, from what she could tell—hung at his other side. His right foot had been severed cleanly at the ankle. Despite his fearsome appearance, she could not help but feel a small measure of pity for his plight. Accepting his fate, he stared silently out between the shiny bars of his cage.

“Are you sure?” Faegan asked condescendingly of the consul. He knew that he had little to fear from the single warrior contained within the cube, but wanted answers first. “A one-footed Minion warrior is not something that we are accustomed to seeing. It appears that you and Geldon have some explaining to do.”

Joshua was about to speak, but then he saw the lead wizard’s eyes. “What happened?” he asked urgently, walking closer to Wigg. He looked carefully into the wizard’s face, then frantically back to Faegan. “Is he—”

“Yes,” Faegan interrupted angrily. “He is blind. It is a long story, and one that we shall eventually share with you. But first, what is the meaning of bringing this warrior back to Eutracia? Have you gone mad?” Faegan’s gray-green eyes burned with an angry intensity that Shailiha had not yet seen.

“He was injured beyond their abilities to heal him,” Joshua began apologetically. “And the courageous service he provided in the slaying of the swamp shrew was highly commendable. It seemed only fitting that we try to—”

“A swamp shrew?” Faegan shouted, his eyes wide. “Do you mean to tell me that there are shrews in Parthalon?”

“Uh, er, yes,” Geldon answered, both surprised at the wizard’s words and hoping to deflect some of his wrath away from the hapless consul. “They appeared in conjunction with a number of lakes and ponds. The Minions are trying their best to hunt the shrews down and kill them, but it is exceedingly difficult.”

Shailiha looked at Wigg. His lips were pursed in contemplation, rather than surprise. Then she turned back to Faegan.

“What is a ‘swamp shrew,’ ” she asked, “and how is it that you are familiar with them? You have never been to Parthalon.”

“The shrews once roamed Eutracia,” he told her. “Yet another of the Coven’s tools. Obviously the sorceresses employed them in Parthalon, as well. Possibly they prepared an incantation to make the swamp shrews reappear in the event of their own absence.”

“So the incantation would have been activated by the sorceresses’ deaths,” Shailiha guessed.

“Exactly,” Faegan said, smiling at her quick grasp of the situation, as well as her growing ability to accept the seemingly impossible.

Shailiha glanced at the Minion warrior just in time to see him look over her shoulder and suddenly go down on one knee, bowing his head. And then, from somewhere behind her, she heard the unforgiving, dangerous ring of sharpened steel.

“I live to serve,” the Minion said reverently, his head still bowed in supplication. Whirling around, the princess gasped as she saw who was there. It was Tristan.

Standing in the doorway of the room, his dreggan drawn, Tristan glowered dangerously at the warrior in the cage. His chest rose and fell quickly beneath his worn, black leather vest. No one spoke; no one moved.

Shailiha’s eyes became shiny with sadness as she looked closer. This was not quite the Tristan she knew. He was a bit paler, the look in his dark blue eyes more intense and angry. And then her eyes went wide, and she involuntarily placed one hand over her mouth.

A bizarre pattern of what looked like dark, spiderweblike veins covered the upper part of his arm.

Tristan took several quick, measured steps toward the wizard’s cage, pointing his dreggan at the warrior who was still on one knee, trapped inside. “What is he doing here?” he demanded angrily.

“As I was telling the wizards, his foot is severed,” Joshua said carefully. “It was beyond my powers to help him, other than preserving both the foot and the leg in their current state. We brought him here for healing. Under the circumstances, we thought it fitting.”

Tristan continued to stare at the winged one in the cage. He thought of the Minions’ violation of his country, the butchering of the Directorate, and the rape and murder of his mother. Of how they had forced him to take his father’s life on the altar of the Paragon with the very sword he now held. Of the Vale of Torment, where they had slowly tortured the gentle Gallipolai upon the monstrous, turning wheels of death. And lastly to the battle he had fought with Kluge, finally acquiring his long-sought-after revenge.

He took another quiet, smooth step toward the cage, then turned to Faegan.

“Drop your warp,” he ordered. He stood defiantly, expecting to be obeyed.

From his chair, Faegan looked up into the eyes of the Chosen One. He too had noticed the black veins on Tristan’s shoulder, and knew what they meant. For one of only a handful of times in his entire life, the master wizard was uncertain.

“What is it you are planning to do?” he asked Tristan calmly. In truth, Faegan’s mind was racing. He certainly had no love of the Minions. But a highly respected consul, who had not yet been fully given the chance to explain his reasons, had purposely brought this one back. And he also expected that there was much more that the warrior might tell them, things that might be immensely invaluable, that even Joshua and Geldon might not know. With so much at stake, allowing the prince to kill the Minion was not an option.

But even I may not be able to stop him, Faegan thought. Despite his illness, I may have to trust him. If for no other reason than to determine his state of mind.

“Drop your warp,” the prince ordered for the second time. “I may have never officially taken the office of king, but nonetheless I am the only sovereign head of state that Eutracia has. And as a wizard it is your duty to obey.” He continued to look at Faegan with fierce determination. “Drop your warp. Now.”

Faegan closed his eyes, and the warp began to disappear. The warrior remained on one knee, unmoving, his head bowed. Slowly and carefully, Tristan crossed the remaining distance to where the winged one knelt. He pointed the shiny, razor-sharp dreggan directly at the top of the warrior’s head, his thumb feeling for the button in the sword’s hilt that would release its blade the extra foot.

“Look at me,” Tristan said quietly.

The Minion warrior obediently raised his face. The point of the dreggan was now directly between his eyes.

“To whom do you owe your allegiance?” Tristan asked.

“To the Chosen One, of azure blood, lord of all Minions,” the warrior answered crudely.

“And to whom else, after me?”

“Traax. Second in command.”

“And do you swear, upon your honor as a Minion warrior, that you will do no harm to the peoples of Eutracia or Parthalon, unless so ordered by me?”

The warrior bowed his head. “Yes, my lord,” he answered.

Tristan paused, inching the dreggan closer yet, until it actually touched the warrior. Its point punctured the skin of the warrior’s forehead, and blood began to run down its blade.

“And lastly,” Tristan snarled, “were you one of those who had a personal hand in the killing of the Directorate or the husband of the princess, or the murder and rape of my mother?” Silence again fell over the room, every person suddenly anxious to know the answer to the prince’s unexpected question. And what he would do if it was affirmative.

“No, my lord,” the warrior answered. “I elite assassin. I outside palace only.”

Tristan, his breathing slowing, apparently made up his mind. Moving his thumb away from the button on the hilt, he slowly replaced the dreggan into its scabbard across his back. “You may rise,” he ordered.

The Minion warrior stood, and for the first time their eyes truly met. Despite his reliance on the crutch, the warrior towered over the prince by nearly a foot.

Now we shall see, Faegan thought.

“What is your name?” Tristan asked.

“I be Ox,” the warrior said. “I brought here by consul and dwarf.”

Tristan finally turned back to Faegan, the agitation in his face somewhat lessened. “I’m sorry,” he said, uncoiling his muscles. “When I saw the warrior my instinct just took hold. He was the last thing in the world I expected to see. I also had to know if he remembered me, and to whom his allegiance is sworn. It will be imperative to know this when I return to Parthalon.”

Holding Morganna, the princess walked to Tristan, looking at his arm where the deadly appearing veins lay. “Are you all right?” she asked urgently.

“I’m fine, Shai.” He smiled to her. “But I do not know what these marks are, or why they are here.” He turned to Faegan. “I’m sure the wizards will tell us.”

“Indeed,” Faegan answered. “There is a great deal to discuss. But not in this open place. We are too exposed here. Follow me back to the Redoubt, all of you.” At that Joshua took Wigg’s hand, and everyone in the room, including the Minion, began to follow Faegan toward the door. Except for Shailiha.

She stood, wide-eyed, staring out at nothing, tears starting to cascade freely down her cheeks. Tristan was at her side in an instant.

“What is it?” he asked anxiously.

“Caprice,” the princess said in a soft, faraway voice. “My flier. She calls to me. She is coming home. Ilendium . . . there has been a great tragedy.”

33

Ragnar smiled as he watched the thousands of consuls employing the craft for the benefit of the young adept. He had demanded his red upholstered chair be brought from his tent so that he could be comfortable as he watched the amazing process unfold. At his feet sat the woman he had brought from the Caves, as well as a large assortment of food and wine.

He had been here since dawn, knowing that the work would continue night and day until they had secured all of the raw material they needed. It was the day following the destruction of Ilendium, and dawn had burst forth into beauty, providing an unusually warm day for this time of the year. But he knew snow would soon follow with the rapidly advancing Season of Crystal. Especially here, this far north.

He dusted off his robe, just as he had been forced to do so frequently this afternoon. He didn’t mind. The black grime came off easily, some of it falling to the ground, the rest catching on the wind, flying away into nothingness. Pausing for a moment he reverently, luxuriously, rubbed what remained of it between the first few fingers of his right hand. He could almost feel its power.

The forbidden material of the ancients, he thought. Finally to be unleashed after centuries of waiting. Only two others in the entire world besides the adept could ever accomplish such a feat. The Chosen Ones. But they remain untrained, and impotent. And very soon now, they will be dead.

He reached out and grasped the vial containing the yellow fluid. As he took a taste, he felt familiar heat rush through his system. Then he cast his eyes back to the vast marble quarries just outside the city of Ilendium, in the province of Ephyra.

At least half a league wide in any given direction and several hundred meters deep, the quarry pits had for over three centuries produced the most prized marble the nation of Eutracia had ever seen. The stone had made the province of Ephyra, despite her relatively small geographical size, one of the richest in the nation. That had been the way of things until the coming of the Coven and the subsequent collapse of both the government and the economy. Since then, the quarries had remained still. Until today.

I now fully understand what Nicholas hopes to accomplish. It will be like no other event in the history of our world. He rose from his chair to walk toward the edge of the pit, taking stock of the seemingly ceaseless activity.

Over three thousand consuls of the Redoubt struggled tirelessly, mining the marble. It was a strange scene, especially considering the fact that for three centuries this particular section of the quarry had been forbidden from harvest by unanimous vote of the wizards of the Directorate. The consuls’ dark blue robes were already filthy and torn with the effort of their labors. Their dirty faces emotionless masks of servitude and their movements autonomic, they toiled unceasingly at the harvesting of the beautiful stone.

Ragnar’s elongated ears perked up when he heard yet another series of blasts come from the bolts of energy that were being so unceasingly summoned by the consuls. The craft was being used to harvest the marble in a manner that had not been seen for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. As the select group of the Brotherhood sent yet more bolts to split free the marble encased in the giant limestone walls of the pit, others of them walked through the dust and debris to gather the great, jagged stones.

On and on it went, the dark, rather ominous-looking soot continually rising into the air, the consuls going about their labors automatically, unflinchingly, without words or emotion. Ragnar smiled. The marble they were harvesting was very special indeed. Of the deepest black, with brilliant azure veins running throughout, it had not been seen in Eutracia for centuries. And it was this mystical, banned substance that the young master needed most to accomplish his goals.

Turning his eyes to the sky, the stalker saw thousands of hatchlings wheeling overhead as they monitored the endeavors taking place below in the pits. Scrounge could occasionally be seen on his personal bird, calling out orders to the others.

Deep within the quarries, Nicholas watched every move the consuls made. Suddenly he turned, rising quickly through the air to the top of the pit. His white robes billowing around him, he landed effortlessly next to the blood stalker.

Ragnar turned to look into the dark eyes of the being before him. “The mining progresses well, Master?” he asked carefully.

“It does,” Nicholas answered. “The attack upon Ilendium went satisfactorily, also. You and Scrounge are to be congratulated.” He paused, looking down at the gathering of the dusty, black, history-laden stone.

Ragnar considered for a moment both the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs, suddenly realizing how the two horrific types of creatures actually complemented one another. One for swarming across the sky, he thought. And the other for marching across the ground.

“The citizens of Ilendium would have been in the way,” Nicholas said casually, as if he were speaking of brushing away a fly rather than annihilating an entire city. His dark eyes remained locked on the activity below. “Now we can work in peace. Besides, it would have been time-consuming to transport the marble any great distance, and I wish to employ it near a city. Ilendium was, of course, the logical choice. Summon Scrounge.”

Raising his arm, Ragnar sent a bolt skyward. It traced high through an open space between the swarming squadrons of hatchlings. Seeing the signal, a lone bird carrying a rider immediately began to descend, and landed softly before Nicholas and the stalker.

Ragnar’s assassin deftly threw one leg over the bird’s back and slid to the ground. “You require me, my lord?” he asked Nicholas.

“Bring me one of the consuls,” Nicholas said. “Any of them will do.”

“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered. In a flash he was back atop his bird, soaring into the sky to single out another of the hatchlings. The chosen bird swooped down to pick up a consul and carried him to the edge of the pit, where it unceremoniously dropped him at Nicholas’ feet. Scrounge’s bird landed softly, and the assassin quickly dismounted. The consul slowly rose to his feet, his expressionless eyes looking at nothing.

Nicholas cast his eyes to Ragnar’s assassin. “Kill him,” he said simply.

“Yes, my lord.” Scrounged smiled, then walked around to face the defenseless consul. In a flash his arm with the crossbow was raised, his fist snapping once toward the ground. The miniature, yellow-tipped arrow tore across the expanse between the two men and with a sickening thud buried itself into the forehead of the consul. The man fell onto his back and shuddered as he died. Scrounge walked over to remove the arrow.

“No,” Nicholas ordered. Scrounge stopped in his tracks. “Leave the arrow. It will prove useful.”

“Very well,” Scrounge said obediently.

Nicholas turned his palms upward, and a long, very narrow parchment appeared, hovering before him. He turned back to Scrounge. “Behead the consul,” he ordered.

Scrounge drew his sword and with a single, clean strike, removed the consul’s head from his body. Grasping the hair, he held the bloody, dripping thing before Nicholas. Death had come so quickly from the assassin’s arrow that the consul’s eyes were still open. The breeze tried to move the head back and forth hauntingly in the assassin’s grip as if it still somehow possessed sentience.

Narrowing his eyes, Nicholas called the dripping blood of the consul to him. The drops hovered just above the parchment, then began to rain down lightly on the page. They arranged themselves into letters, then the letters into words, and finally the words into sentences.

At last the narrow parchment rolled itself up, moved toward the arrow, and slid its open center down the length of the shaft. Ribbon then knotted itself around the parchment, securing the message to the shaft.

“This is to be delivered to one of the secret entrances of the Redoubt,” Nicholas ordered. “Make sure it is placed where it will not be missed.”

“I understand,” Scrounge said. He tied the consul’s head to the leather band around his hatchling’s neck and mounted the bird, wheeling it around to face Nicholas and Ragnar. “It shall be as you order,” he said. With that he prodded the hatchling into the air, turning southeast to Tammerland. Ragnar continued to watch until Scrounge and his mount became a mere pinprick in the late-afternoon sky.

“Another message to the Chosen One?” the stalker asked.

“Indeed,” Nicholas replied, turning his attention back to the mining of the marble. “And my father of this world cannot afford to ignore me. There is now a choice he must make.” Then he looked at Ragnar, and the stalker felt as if the dark gaze were burrowing directly into his brain. “It has to do with his blood.”

34

Ox stood gingerly upon both feet, testing his weight. He was stunned at what the wizards had been able to accomplish in so short a time. Faegan and Wigg had worked diligently for hours to reattach the severed foot, and had at last been successful. But it would take several weeks, they told the warrior, before he was himself again. The glow that had once surrounded both the lower leg and the newly reattached ankle had faded, and would soon disappear altogether.

“Ox still no believe,” the dumbfounded warrior stammered. “Ox give gratitude.”

“You’re welcome,” Wigg said, echoing Faegan’s thoughts.

Upon hearing of the attack on Ilendium from the princess, the wizards had become quiet, and quite visibly disturbed. They had also listened intently to Geldon and Joshua’s report. Then they had immediately excused themselves, going off to be alone. They had come out to reattach the Minion’s foot, and then had beckoned everyone to join them in the Archives.

Despite the victory regarding the warrior’s foot, the mood was both tense and morose. Tristan, Shailiha and her baby, Celeste, Joshua, Ox, Geldon, and the two wizards were present. The prince could see that Faegan wished to move on to more important, more private matters, as did he.

Wigg turned his white eyes in the general direction of Joshua. “The Minion is your charge,” he said flatly. “Despite the fact that it is Tristan who is his true lord, you are the one who brought him here. And neither Faegan nor I have the time or the inclination to monitor him. You are of the craft, and should it become necessary to use it regarding the Minion, we expect you to do so. If such becomes the case, you are to report your actions to us at once.”

He then turned toward Ox. “Please understand we mean you no ill will, provided nothing untoward happens as a result of your presence. Given the circumstances in Eutracia we must be careful at all times, and your appearance here was quite unexpected.”

“Ox understand,” the warrior said simply. He turned to Tristan. “I live to serve,” he said, bowing his head.

Tristan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. This will take some getting used to, he thought.

At Faegan’s nod, Joshua escorted Ox from the room.

Anxious for answers, it was Tristan who changed the subject. “I want to know why the veins in my arm are turning black,” he said bluntly. “I’ve had no pain anywhere, except during the convulsion. Then it was all-encompassing. What is happening to me?”

“As time progresses, the convulsions will grow in both intensity and frequency,” Faegan said. “As to the veins, there is only one answer.” The wizard in the chair looked glumly to Tristan’s shoulder. “Put simply, your blood is dying.”

An uncomfortable silence engulfed the room for several moments. “Is there nothing that can be done?” Shailiha asked in a small, tentative voice.

“Faegan and I have done little else, night or day, other than search for a cure,” Wigg answered. “We have uncovered several references in the scrolls of the Archives as to the possibility of an antidote.”

At the sudden glimmer of hope in Tristan’s and Shailiha’s eyes, Faegan quickly held up a hand.

“But the formula remains elusive,” Wigg continued. “Even if we were to deduce the calculations to produce the antidote, there might not be enough time or power to do so, given the decay of the Paragon and the resultant lessening of our gifts.”

“And what of the stone?” Shailiha asked suddenly. “Does its condition continue to worsen?”

“Not only is the stone’s condition worsening,” Faegan replied, “but it is doing so at a progressively faster rate. We calculate that it will now be approximately one month before the Paragon is completely void of color, and the world is without the craft of magic. Save for that one, still-unknown being whom we believe is garnering it for himself. You should also know that both Wigg and I have experienced a further, dramatic loss of our powers,” he said sadly, “reducing our effectiveness at finding a way out of all of this. As our powers lessen, we also surmise that the strength of the being responsible for this grows in direct proportion.” He paused. “And whoever that being is, he or she will be very difficult to stop,” he said softly.

“But what of the Tome in all of this?” Tristan asked urgently. He glanced over to see that the white, leather-bound book was still resting securely on the table nearby. “Wigg and I risked our lives so that it might be brought here, and so I could read the Prophecies of the Tome for you. Is that not still the best course of action?”

Silence reclaimed the room as the prince and princess waited for one of the wizards to speak. It was finally Wigg who broached the reply. “No, Tristan,” he said, knowing how difficult this would be for the prince to hear. “We cannot let you. At least not now.”

“But why not?” the prince exclaimed, a clear mix of frustration and anger showing on his face. “Is it not true that the Tome may hold the key to our problems?”

“Yes,” Faegan said. “But it is now also quite true that your blood is, to a large extent, the cause of all of our problems, as well. As I said, your blood is dying. Given the current condition of your blood we cannot know what putting the stone around your neck might do to you. It is for this same reason that your training cannot now begin. And all of this has become yet more complicated, given the attack on Ilendium.”

Tristan looked to Shailiha to see that she was as confused by Faegan’s words as he was.

“Why do you think they destroyed Ilendium?” he asked the wizards. “It has no real strategic value.”

For the first time that day, a small smile began to creep along Faegan’s lips. He gave the twins a playful wink. “Tell me,” he asked, “what comes to mind when you think of Ilendium?”

“Marble,” Shailiha said decisively. “That’s where the best marble comes from.”

Wigg leaned forward, placing his arms carefully down on the highly polished mahogany tabletop. “Yes,” he said. “And we now believe that may be the reason behind all of our troubles.”

Tristan was still stymied. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Tell me,” Faegan asked him, “have you ever, in your entire life, seen black marble with variegated veins of azure running through it?”

Tristan tried to think. “No,” he finally said. “As a matter of fact, I have not.”

“Nor will you ever,” Wigg countered. “Unless you go to the quarries at Ilendium, the only place it can be found. The use of that particular marble was outlawed by the Directorate over three centuries ago. Any buildings containing it were ordered knocked down, and the marble was returned to the quarries to be buried. It has never been used since. Just like the wizard’s warp that guards the entrance to the Caves of the Paragon, another guards that particular section of the quarry in which this marble can be found.”

“But why?” Shailiha asked from the other side of the table. “What is so special about it?”

“It is dangerous,” Faegan said softly, “and said to be of the craft. It has to do with the Ones Who Came Before.”

Wigg had said that the Ones Who Came Before were the first true rulers of Eutracia, and had been responsible for first harnessing the craft and employing the orbs of the Vigors and the Vagaries.

They had written the Tome as a guide to the practice of magic. They had also left behind the Paragon, the jeweled conduit of magic, without which the practice of the craft would be impossible. It had been their hope that mankind would learn from their teachings, following only the Vigors and using the craft strictly for the practice of good.

Wigg had also made reference to a great struggle of centuries ago, in which the Ones Who Came Before had become embroiled with some dangerous adversaries. They had hidden the Tome and the Paragon to be found, hopefully, by the next generation of the endowed.

“I still do not understand,” Tristan protested. “What does all of this have to do with us?”

“Tristan,” Wigg said rather apologetically, “I’m afraid we have not been entirely forthcoming with you all of these years. In truth, we know more of the Ones Who Came Before than we ever let on. Your parents knew also, as did each king and queen before them. This secret, this history of the Ones, if you will, has been closely guarded ever since the discovery of the Tome, the Paragon, and the subsequent knowledge that one day you and your twin sister would walk among us.”

“Why weren’t Shailiha and I informed?” the prince responded angrily. “After all, as you have told us, we are the Chosen Ones. Is it not both our duty and our responsibility to know?”

“It is for that very reason you were not told,” Faegan said coyly. “As the Chosen Ones, you were to be protected at all costs. This meant keeping a great deal of knowledge from you for your own good, training you in these things little by little when the time was right. Your parents agreed.”

“How is it that you know all of this?” Shailiha asked. “And just when were we eventually to be told?”

“Tristan was to be told first,” Wigg said, his white eyes gazing unseeing out across the table. “It was to have been an essential part of his training—the training that we now cannot risk giving to him. And then, should he die or otherwise fail in his attempts to join the two sides of the craft, the duty was to fall to his twin, who would then be trained, taking up the challenge. As for how we know these things, well, in truth they came to us from the Tome.” Wigg pursed his lips, thinking of how to formulate his next words. “There is a small section of the great work that you still know nothing about,” he said softly. His words landed on the ears of the Chosen Ones like a thunderclap.

“Do you mean to say that there is a fourth volume of the Tome?” Tristan asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Not exactly,” Wigg answered. “It is in the form of a preface to the Tome—a history of the Ones, also written by themselves. However, it is incomplete. We believe they died before being able to finish it. The Directorate presumed this was because the great cataclysm the Ones predicted finally overtook them. The Ones wrote that should this feared disaster occur, it could wipe out the vast majority of human life. We believe that this is exactly what happened, leaving only a few humans, both endowed and unendowed alike, left to roam the wreckage of the land. We also contend that it is these survivors who eventually gave rebirth to the population that now inhabits Eutracia.”

“What was the nature of this supposed struggle?” Tristan asked.

“A great war ensued,” Wigg said. “They were near the end of it while writing the Tome and the Preface. Apparently a group of malcontents, bent on using the craft for their own purposes, had splintered off from these original, compassionate practitioners of the craft. They were vying for power in much the same way the sorceresses did against the wizards three centuries ago. A great, final battle ensued, and their combined use of the craft amounted to almost the total destruction of the land and the people inhabiting it. A doomsday, if you will. Their cities apparently decimated, the surviving people must have been scattered, becoming nomadic tribes or cave dwellers. We think that all forms of education and culture were virtually extinguished, including the ability to command the craft. What truly saved magic was, of course, the natural passing of endowed blood through the coming generations. But there was little possibility of practicing it or passing the knowledge down, since virtually all of the adepts had perished in the war. It was only after thousands of years had passed that nature replenished the earth and the sky. The remaining humans finally emerged from their ignorance to start again. We are the eventual result. Although over the passing centuries various of the endowed began to understand and use certain simplistic examples of their gifts, it was only upon finding the Tome and the stone that the craft was truly reborn.”

“But how could the craft result in the nearly complete annihilation of everyone and everything around them?” Shailiha asked.

“We feel that both the Ones and their enemies were immensely more powerful than we are,” Faegan answered. “Remember, unlike the wizards and the Coven, these mystics of old were exquisitely trained, in ways we may only be able to dream of. For all we know, they may have been studying and employing the craft for thousands of years.”

Tristan felt something tugging at the back of his mind. “If the history of the Ones is incomplete because of their demise in the cataclysm, then what about the Tome?” he asked, at first even he not completely understanding the importance of his words.

He has grasped it, Wigg thought to himself. One of the greatest of the riddles. The topic that perhaps more than any other prompted so much heated debate among the wizards of the Directorate. But he reined in his excitement. “What do you mean?” he asked politely.

“You say that this preface, this so-called history of the Ones, was not completed because of their demise. If that is true, then how do we know the Tome itself is not incomplete for the very same reasons?”

Faegan crackled. “Well done!” A grin and a wink followed.

Tristan’s eyes went wide at the overwhelming implications of such a premise. “Do you mean to say—”

“Yes,” Faegan interrupted. “Even the Tome itself may be incomplete. What we know to be the art of magic may only be a sliver of what can actually be attained.”

“What were they called?” Shailiha suddenly asked.

“Who?” Wigg asked back.

“The enemies of the Ones. What did they call themselves?”

“They were called the Guild of the Heretics,” he answered softly.

“But what does the black-and-azure marble of Ilendium have to do with this?” Shailiha asked. “I don’t see how any of it pieces together.”

At the princess’ question, Wigg’s face became very dark.

Faegan slumped down a bit into his chair. “ ‘And just as the Ones left behind certain instruments of the craft, the Heretics shall also leave behind marks of their mastery. One of these shall flow as azure through the darkness, and lay in wait for the coming of he who can release its power upon the land,’ ” he quoted.

“From the Tome, I assume,” Tristan mused, turning to look at his sister.

“Yes,” Faegan answered. “But this time it comes from the Preface, not one of the three volumes proper.”

“What does it mean?” Shailiha asked.

Faegan looked into the eyes of the Chosen Ones with an intensity he rarely showed. Drawing a long breath, he answered, “Someone is attempting to construct the Gates of Dawn.”

“The Gates of Dawn,” Tristan said. “And these gates have something to do with the black marble from Ilendium?”

“They have everything to do with it,” Faegan answered. “The potential construction of the Gates is the reason that the mining and use of this particular marble was banned so many years ago. The black-and-azure marble is the material from which the Gates will be constructed. No other will do.”

“Why?” Shailiha asked.

“Because the azure that runs through the marble is not stone,” Wigg answered solemnly. “It is the preserved, endowed blood of the Guild of the Heretics.”

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “How can that be?” he asked. “Stone is not blood, nor blood stone.”

“ ‘And before they perish, the Heretics will perfect the Art of Transposition, thereby converting their life force to stone . . . The resultant perfection shall be embedded into the living rock, and used to facilitate their return,’ ” Faegan said. “From the Vigors. A warning from the Ones to whomever would eventually find the Tome and the stone. And, as you know, that person was Wigg.” He looked carefully into Tristan’s eyes, waiting for the prince’s understandable, inevitable disbelief. It didn’t take long.

“Their return?” Tristan whispered incredulously. “You must be joking! Do you mean to say that—”

“Yes,” Wigg interrupted. “It has long been our belief that both the Ones and the Heretics were eventually able to use their powers of the craft to delve into the study of what we now call the Afterlife. The ultimate pursuit of learning, wouldn’t you agree? They may have turned to this because they felt they had pushed the boundaries of magic to its limits. We feel they are still alive. In spirit only, but that these spirits reside in the heavens. Because of having lost their material presences, they are unable to take true action here on earth, despite their great power.” He paused for a moment. “Unless, of course, they are able to somehow return,” he added drily.

Faegan took up the explanation. “The Tome makes several references to ‘those who shall reside in the sky,’ ” he said slowly. “As a part of their seemingly never-ending struggle, we think the Heretics now plan to unleash the power of the Gates. We also believe they could not do so until they had the use of one or more beings of immense, heretofore-unseen power residing here, with us. Otherwise they would have attempted to construct and employ the Gates centuries ago. These powerful beings now somehow here with us, these Heretics’ servants, if you will, would presumably be dynamic enough to ensure the building and the subsequent empowerment of the Gates. And because of this, something formidable has happened to magic. That much is abundantly clear. It could only be something of a great, craft-altering magnitude for this opportunity to have finally presented itself after all these centuries. We must find out what it is. And we must stop the construction of the Gates.”

“And just what would happen if they in fact did return?” Tristan asked.

“Due to the fact that the Heretics worship and practice only the Vagaries, they would probably see us as inconsequential, killing us all,” Wigg answered. “And there would be absolutely nothing we could do to stop them. The craft would no longer exist as we know it, for they would never employ the Vigors. In fact, they would probably do all they could to stamp out forever the compassionate side of the craft. As for the unendowed population as a whole, I can only assume the Heretics would consider them to be the lowest forms of life. As such, they might do away with them altogether.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, stunned. He looked to Shailiha to see that she was equally astonished. “And you actually mean to say that the Heretics may be able to return from the Afterlife?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “And that the construction and empowerment of the Gates will allow this to happen.”

“But how?” Shailiha asked.

“For this to become possible, the Tome states that several things must first be accomplished,” Wigg replied. “Things that the Directorate never believed could be arranged. First, the mines at Ilendium must be opened, and the black marble taken from them. Second, at least one being of truly immense power—one who could oversee both the building and the empowering of the Gates—needs to walk the earth and be under the Heretics’ control. No such power of that magnitude has ever before been known to exist. And third, there needs to be a catalyst, an empowering substance if you will, that would be used to energize the Gates. Faegan and I now believe that substance to be endowed blood.”

“What would happen then?” Tristan asked.

“First the Gates must be built,” Wigg answered. “And then, at dawn, they are empowered with the blood of the endowed, combined with the inherent energy of the being responsible for the process. The Tome states that once energized, the azure of the marble returns to its previous state—that is, the blood of the Heretics. The details of all of this are still very unclear to us, but apparently the Heretics will be drawn to this empowerment of their blood, and then somehow be able to descend from the heavens. Their spirits would then pass through the Gates, regaining their bodies, rejoining the world of the living in the same powerful, fully human forms they enjoyed before perishing in their struggle with the Ones. But this time they would be alone on the earth, without the Ones to oppose them.” He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. “The Guild of the Heretics are the true masters of the Vagaries, Tristan,” the wizard said, lowering his voice. “This rebellious offshoot of the original harnessers and employers of the craft would make the comparatively limited abilities of the Coven seem as mere child’s play.”

“One other fact has become abundantly clear,” Faegan said. “Ragnar is obviously not the being who has been chosen to oversee this great venture. He is a pawn in the game, rather than the king he would like us to think he is. His powers do not in any fashion possess the dynamism required to perform such a thing. There is someone else, at least one such person, who will be responsible for performing all of the more infinitely difficult aspects of the process.”

“The same being creating the amazing glow Wigg and I witnessed in the Caves,” Tristan said softly. “The power to which I felt so curiously drawn. Now I understand.”

“Yes,” Wigg said. “It was the plan of the Heretics to leave behind their blood, hoping for a practitioner to eventually come who was strong enough to aid them in their return. Just as it was the hope of the Ones to leave behind the stone and the Tome, so that the compassionate side of the craft might flourish. Faegan and I now believe we may also have the answers to some of the other things that have been troubling us so,” he added.

“Such as?” Tristan asked.

“For one, if it is indeed true that someone is attempting to construct the Gates, the killing of the citizens of Ilendium seems a logical if brutal first step. They would have been in the way. And this being may have a specific use for the city. It might better serve his purposes if it were abandoned, perhaps even destroyed. In addition, the wanted posters of you that have been scattered around the countryside, blaming you for the ‘murder’ of your father, now seem to fit, also.”

“Why?” Shailiha asked. Morganna whimpered. Smiling down at her, Shailiha stroked the baby’s soft cheek and then adjusted the sling a bit. Morganna began to quiet.

“We had first postulated that the posters were a result of our enemies wanting to keep Tristan in hiding so that he could not rally the citizens against them,” Wigg went on. “This was only partially correct. No citizen army in the universe could combat what we are facing. Scrounge put the posters up and offered the reward for a different purpose. To keep Tristan safe.”

Shailiha furrowed her brow in frustration. “But they are our enemies, are they not?” she asked. “Why would they want to keep him safe? And how does making the entire nation want to capture him accomplish that?”

It was then that Tristan suddenly understood. “They wanted me safe so that nothing would befall me before they were able to take my blood,” he replied softly. “Keeping me here, among the wizards, was the best way to accomplish that. The posters and reward were intended to drive me underground. And they worked.” He looked up to Faegan, the muscles in his jaw tense. “That is why they wanted my blood, isn’t it?” he asked slowly. “It is my azure blood that they plan to use to empower the Gates of Dawn.”

Faegan nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “Right now that makes the most sense. As I said, the Tome states that they will not only require the talents of a great adept, but also an ‘energizing’ agent. Wigg and I now believe that agent is to be your blood—the finest ever known. In fact, it is most probably the only substance in the world that could accomplish such a thing. We have long known that if your blood is employed correctly, not even the waters of the Caves would be as potent.” The room went silent for a moment. Shailiha placed her hand over her brother’s.

“But then why blind Wigg and poison my blood?” Tristan asked. “Why bother, if they already had what they wanted?”

“As far as blinding me is concerned,” Wigg answered, “you must remember that Ragnar hates me with a passion that is virtually unequaled. Blinding me was a simple act of revenge. But as for why your blood was poisoned, we really have no answer. Only time will tell.”

“And time is quickly running out,” Tristan said darkly.

“The taking of the consuls,” Shailiha said. “What of that?”

“The consuls must be helping them to mine the stone, for they shall need a great deal of it,” Wigg answered. “And using the craft to get at it would be the most efficient way. It is the only answer that makes any sense. The black-and-azure marble is the hardest in the world, and is virtually impervious to ordinary, unendowed mining techniques. But of greater interest is how this being is able to control so many of the consuls at once. His or her power must be virtually without limits.”

“And where did this creature come from?” Tristan asked.

“In that, as with so many other questions, we have no answers,” Faegan said, his usually mischievous voice full of frustration.

“This is also why the Paragon is being drained,” Wigg said. “The combination of all of the power of the stone poured into a single being, coupled with Tristan’s raw, untrained blood will make for an event of unparalleled proportions.”

“We also have no rationale for their raid on Fledgling House,” Faegan added. “No doubt by now they have collected all of the children of the consuls—both the boys and the girls. But to what ends this was accomplished we do not know.”

“And they let us have the Tome,” Tristan said, looking over his shoulder to the book. “Yet another mystery.”

“You mentioned the Art of Transposition,” Shailiha suddenly said. “Is it this spell that allows the Heretics to return?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Faegan said. “But it is far more complicated than that. The Art of Transposition is the method by which one substance is converted to another, such as attempting to turn dirt into gold. After centuries of trying, even the combined efforts of the Directorate failed to unravel the calculations required.”

“But I have often seen you conjure things out of the air,” Tristan countered. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Indeed it is not,” Wigg replied. “At first glance one would suppose that creating something out of nothing would be far more difficult than the mere changing of one thing into another. But in fact, the exact opposite is true. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that it has to do with overcoming the strength of an object’s present existence, rather than overcoming the relative weakness of nothingness. Do you see? When the Art of Transposition causes the veins of the marble to revert back to the blood of the Heretics, this shall be an example of the craft that will have no previous equal in its complexity. It shall be something never before seen upon the earth.” The wizard thought to himself for a moment. “Or, should I say, at least since the discovery of the stone and the Tome, and the enlightenment of the wizards. It is yet more proof of the hugely advanced abilities of those who were here before us.”

“Why can’t the Ones do the same thing?” Shailiha asked.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Faegan.

“Why can’t they do the same thing? Why can’t the Ones also return?”

“We do not know that they can’t, but to our knowledge they never have,” he answered. “We have long theorized that the act of returning from the Afterlife would require a connection to at least one part of the departed ones’ bodies—something of them that had been left behind upon the earth, with which to once again bond. The Heretics, of course, were somehow wise enough to leave behind a portion of their blood, encasing it for safety within the marble at Ilendium. Logic dictates that they must have accomplished this before the great cataclysm of their times. But as for the Ones, they must have left nothing of their bodies behind.”

“Nothing that we know of,” Wigg countered.

Faegan raised his eyebrows. “Quite right,” he added. “Nothing that we know of. In addition, this method of return from the Afterlife is presumably an act of the Vagaries, and therefore something that the Ones would not allow themselves to do. At least not in this exact way.”

Tristan suddenly remembered something. “In your first quote you recited the words ‘among the other instruments of the craft,’ ” he said eagerly. “Is it possible that there are other things still to be found? More artifacts that may also have the power and importance of the stone and the Tome?”

“There may indeed by such things still within the earth, carrying secrets and power we could only dream of,” Wigg answered. “But no such additional treasures have ever been discovered. Still, the prospect continues to exist. Tantalizing, wouldn’t you agree? To that end, many parties of wizards and consuls have searched Eutracia over the years, looking for the remains of the One’s civilization. It was felt that if we could discover the ruins of their cities, much would be revealed. But nothing ever came of it, and the prospect was abandoned. It was as if the Ones and the Heretics vanished into thin air.”

Tristan slumped down in his chair, fatigued and stunned by all he had heard. He shook his head back and forth slowly. There seems to be no end to the secrets of the wizards. And despite all that they seem to know, they tell us that the total sum of their knowledge is only a smattering of those who were here before us.

“What we do not know is who,” Tristan whispered to himself, so softly that the others at the table could scarcely hear him.

“What did you say?” Shailiha asked. Morganna had begun to fuss again, and Shailiha adjusted her clothing to nurse the baby. Her brother smiled at the two of them, and then his face turned serious again.

“What we do not know is the identity of the being Wigg and Faegan describe,” he said. “Until that is uncovered, I fear we may never solve the rest of the riddle lying before us.” He paused for a moment, looking around the table. “It is now more clear than ever that I must go to Parthalon. If the Paragon continues to decay and the wizards lose their powers before we find a way out of all this, the warriors may be the only means we have to help control the situation.”

Faegan sighed resignedly, placing either hand into the opposite sleeve of his robe. “At first Wigg and I were skeptical about that,” he said slowly. “We would have preferred to keep you here, so that you could at least begin your training and also read the Prophecies to us. But now things have changed markedly, and we are forced to agree with you. Frankly, we see little other hope for us. Whoever is controlling these events has planned exceedingly well, and we have been bested at every turn. But if the Minions come here, quickly enough and in numbers sufficient enough to matter, we may have a chance against Scrounge, his hatchlings, and those insects that were used in Ilendium. That would be a start. But as for stopping the return of the Heretics . . . Well, that is a different problem, for it is of the craft. Wigg and I must work ceaselessly on it.” He turned his gray-green eyes to the prince, giving him a hard look. “But before you go,” he said sternly, “there is something we must ask of you. Actually, it is more of a demand.”

“I’m listening,” Tristan said, folding his arms across the worn leather of his vest. He had long ago made up his mind to go, and he didn’t like demands, especially when they came from the wizards. Even as a child, he had always hated constraints of any type placed upon his movements. The look in his dark blue eyes told Faegan that whatever it was they wanted him to swallow, it would not go down easily.

“We’re assigning you a bodyguard,” Faegan said simply. “At least until such time as you may be healed from the poison that runs through your veins.”

“A bodyguard!” Tristan exclaimed. “Absolutely not! I am entirely capable of taking care of myself!”

“Under normal conditions, perhaps,” Faegan said sternly. “But current conditions are far from normal. First of all you are ill. Another convulsion is certain to befall you, and probably soon. When that occurs, you will need help. In addition, suppose when you reach Parthalon things have changed? True, Traax agreed to accept Geldon’s orders. But for all we know he could have been only giving us lip service, waiting for your unsuspecting return to take your head, laying claim to your position.”

“Even if that were true,” Tristan countered, “there would be little two of us could do against such numbers.” Fully realizing that the wily wizards had already chosen someone to be his bodyguard he paused for a moment, thinking. “And just who is it that you two brilliant mystics would send with me to defend my honor, eh?” he asked sarcastically.

“Ox,” Wigg answered calmly from across the table.

“Ox!” Tristan exclaimed. “Can’t you send Joshua with me? At least he is of the craft. Compared to a consul of the Redoubt, what possible good can a Minion warrior do me?”

“Hear us out,” Wigg said calmly. “We have our reasons. I am blind, and of little use to you. Faegan remains trapped in his chair. We considered sending Joshua, but the sad truth is we now need him here, to help with our research. He is the only other person trained in the craft, as far as we know, who is free to help us. Besides, we think that with Ox at your side the Minions will come to feel that you respect them. They will surely know that as the Chosen One you could have traveled with anyone you like, but instead chose to be with one of their own.” Wigg pursed his lips ironically. “Even though that really isn’t true,” he added drily.

Out of the corner of his eye Tristan thought he caught a quick smile on Shailiha’s lips. “And if I refuse?” he asked.

“You’re forgetting something, my young friend,” Faegan said with a wink.

“And that is?”

“You want to go to Parthalon, and I am the only one capable of opening and closing the portal.” He grinned impishly. “That is, of course, unless you would like to do it without my services, and brave the Sea of Whispers alone.”

Tristan laughed—a resigned sort of snort. They had him, and he knew it.

“If not for the wizards, then do it for me,” Shailiha said seriously. She reached out with her free hand and gently touched the gold medallion around his neck. “You and Morganna are all I have left of my family.”

She always did know how to get to me, he thought to himself.

“Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I accept.”

“When you arrive, you must be exceedingly careful in how you handle things,” Wigg said. “First and foremost, you must convince the Minions to come to Eutracia under your leadership, and go to war with the hatchlings. Second, should you feel a convulsion coming on, it is vitally important that you do not let any of the Minions see it. You are their lord, having risen to that position by virtue of a fight to the death with Kluge. They expect strength and decisiveness from you, not weakness.”

“Very well,” Tristan answered. “I will do my best.”

At that there came a knock on the door. It opened to reveal Geldon holding a shopworn straw basket that was soaked with blood.

“What is it, Geldon?” Tristan asked urgently. “What do you have there?”

The hunchbacked dwarf walked into the room, carefully holding the basket away from his short, bent-over body as if it were filled with venomous snakes. “I found this when returning to the Redoubt. It had been placed at the foot of one of the revolving boulders.” He paused for a moment, tentatively looking around the table. “I took the chance to look inside, and now I wish I hadn’t,” he said distastefully. “It isn’t pretty.”

“Please place it on the table,” Faegan ordered. Geldon did so. The stench of the blood clotted between the strands of straw caused Wigg to gasp. Shailiha looked as though she might be ill.

“What’s in there?” Tristan asked anxiously.

Geldon looked around, not wanting to upset those gathered any more than he had to. But there was no other way to say it. “It contains a human head,” he said softly. “And there is another parchment scroll. I believe it is meant for the prince.”

Tristan looked quickly to Faegan. At the wizard’s nod he carefully opened the basket, withdrawing the head by the hair and placing it on the tabletop.

The victim had been fairly elderly, with gray hair and a rather long beard. The face was smudged and very dirty, covered with a strange kind of black soot. The head had been severed cleanly. Blank, emotionless eyes stared hauntingly out at nothing. Faegan raised one hand in the direction of the head, and the eyes gently closed for the final time.

Tristan immediately recognized Scrounge’s miniature arrow embedded in the forehead, and saw the scroll. He carefully removed the scroll from the length of the shaft, untying the ribbon and unrolling the parchment. His eyes tore down the page, eager to read the message. But he couldn’t.

It was written in blood, just as the others had been, but neither the handwriting nor the language was recognizable. This was not Eutracian as Tristan knew it. It was written in a very flowing, beautiful style, the odd-looking symbols completely unintelligible to him. Then he realized he had seen this form of writing before. It had been in the Caves of the Paragon. He had also seen it in various places within the Redoubt of the Directorate, primarily over doorways that were almost always closed. Puzzled, he laid the parchment flat upon the table. Faegan pointed to the scroll and caused it to flatten out, keeping it in place.

“What is it?” Wigg asked.

“Another scroll,” Faegan answered. “But this one is different. This one is written in Old Eutracian.

“In case the two of you are bewildered,” Faegan said to the prince and princess, “Old Eutracian is the ancient language of our nation. It is the dialect spoken and written by the Ones, and therefore presumably by the Heretics as well.”

“Is it written in blood?” Wigg asked.

“Yes,” Faegan answered. “In that way it is like the others.” He rubbed his hand across the dirty face of the head and then held his fingertips high, examining the black dust he had collected upon them. He blew on his hand, and the soot flew into the air. As it drifted harmlessly to the floor it caught the light, and to Tristan’s eyes it appeared to have a bluish cast intermixed with the black. Faegan cast a knowing glance to the table at large. “This man was most probably a consul,” he added.

“How do you know that?” Shailiha asked.

Faegan held his dirty palm up to the table. “This is marble dust from the quarries of Ilendium. I would bet my life upon it. It also contains traces of azure, meaning that they are indeed mining the forbidden black marble—and almost certainly using the consuls to do it. Just as we surmised.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the language?” Wigg said in the direction of the prince. Despite both his infirmity and the darkness of their situation, the lead wizard had a short smile on his face.

“Ask what about it?” Tristan said blankly.

“How did you learn Old Eutracian?” Shailiha asked.

“Well done, Princess.” Wigg smiled. “Please continue.”

“If all of the Ones and the Heretics are dead, then who taught you to understand their language?” she asked.

“Think about it for a moment,” Wigg said. “The answer to your question is before you, in this very room.”

Tristan looked around at the vast, rather dark room, carefully observing the seemingly endless floors with their stack of books, and the entryway to the Vault of Scrolls that lay within the far wall. Perhaps the answer is to be found within one of the books or scrolls, he thought. He also saw the white, leather-bound Tome. And then something began to pull at his mind. Rubbing his brow with his fingertips, he thought for a moment. Of course! he finally realized.

“The Tome is written in Old Eutracian,” he said softly, almost to himself. He thought again for a moment. “In the early days of its discovery it was unreadable, written in a language that was completely foreign to you. But after Faegan’s daughter, Emily, the first to wear the stone and read the Tome, led the way with her first translation, you worked to unravel the Old Eutracian symbols.”

“Very good!” Faegan pointed a long, bony finger at the prince and barked a cackle. “Emily was also able to read the language aloud in its original form—allowing us to learn how to speak it as well as read it. All the consuls and wizards have learned it, and we speak it among ourselves when the topic is particularly secret.”

Tristan looked back down at the scroll, his mind alive with questions. “Would you please read it?” he asked Faegan.

“Of course,” the crippled wizard answered. “I will first read it aloud in Old Eutracian, so you may hear what it sounds like. I shall then translate it for you.”

Faegan looked down at the scroll, measuring the import of the words he saw there. It had been almost three centuries since he had read any ancient text, but the words came back to him as surely as if it had been yesterday. As he began to read aloud, Tristan found the language mellifluous and soothing. But as Faegan continued to read the scroll, Tristan was disturbed to see that the wizard’s face darkened further with every word.

Faegan sat back in his chair, seemingly stunned. Wigg also seemed overtaken. “Please,” Tristan urged anxiously. “Translate it for me.”

“Very well,” Faegan replied.

“I am the power behind the glow, and I am the one you seek. I am also he who has caused the wailing and torment of your nation. Have you not felt yourself drawn to me? Have you not already seen my face? There is much for us to discuss, Chosen One. I am in the Caves. Come to me tonight. Come and much shall be revealed. Leave your wizards behind in their useless pursuit of the answers. For their inferior, unenlightened gifts are useless to beings such as we. Come alone.”

After a period of intense silence, Wigg finally spoke. “This is obviously not the work of Scrounge,” he said quietly. “I am not even sure whether Ragnar, in his madness, could have written this.”

“I agree,” Faegan replied. “But now we must decide whether Tristan is to do this thing, especially without protection.”

“I have seen him,” Tristan said suddenly. His face was a blank, his eyes staring out at nothing.

“What?” Faegan exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I have seen him,” Tristan repeated. He finally turned his eyes to the wizards. “At the beginning of my first convulsion, I saw a face that I was inexplicably drawn to. It was a dark-haired male. And he was quite young, little more than a boy. Just before I blacked out I remembered thinking that he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who. I dismissed it, thinking it was a hallucination. But now I know better.” He paused, his breathing starting to visibly quicken. “Now that I have seen the scroll and remember the vision, I can literally feel his presence in my blood. It is almost as if his heart beats in time with mine . . . the same feeling that overcame me when I saw the glow sweeping across the floor in Ragnar’s chambers.” He paused for a moment. “But how could a mere boy be responsible for all of these wondrous, terrible acts of the craft?” he asked.

“Have you seen this face since?” Faegan asked urgently.

“No,” Tristan answered, shaking his head.

Despite the lifeless nature of his eyes, Wigg’s face said much. Faegan, too, appeared as if something monumental had just occurred.

“I think you should go,” Wigg said flatly from the other side of the table. “And you should go tonight, alone, just as the note asks.”

“I agree,” Faegan replied.

“Are you both mad?” Shailiha exclaimed. She grasped her brother’s hand, as if doing so could somehow keep him by her side forever.

Morganna seemed to sense her mother’s agitation, and her little eyes went wide. The princess was angry, and it showed.

“Have you forgotten what happened the last time?” Shailiha continued. “He is mortally ill because of that visit! How do you know something worse won’t happen this time? How could you possibly let him do such a thing?”

Wigg and Faegan remained quiet for a time, letting the princess’ emotions calm. Finally Wigg said, “If those in the Caves had wanted us dead, we would be already, Shailiha. And I believe that if Tristan can use this opportunity to discover anything about this being, anything at all, he must do so. Not only for our sake, but also for the craft and the nation.”

“I agree,” Tristan said, giving his sister’s hand an affectionate, reassuring squeeze. “I must go now, before my trip to Parthalon. Surely you can see that. If I can bring back anything that might be of help to the wizards, they can be researching it while I am meeting with the Minions.” He smiled, trying to help her mood. “And in case you haven’t noticed,” he added, “we’re losing this battle.”

“But what about Ox?” she asked, knowing she was losing the argument. “The wizards said you should have a bodyguard. Shouldn’t he go too?”

“Not this time,” Tristan answered. He looked to the wizards to see that they were both nodding in silent agreement. “The being responsible for the scroll said to come alone. And that is what I shall do.”

Shailiha lowered her head in frustration. “Why must you always be so eager?” she whispered to her brother.

Tristan placed a finger under her chin, raising her face, then smiled at her. “I take after you, Shai. You were born eight minutes before me, remember?”

She said nothing for several moments, searching his face as if trying to make sure she could keep it locked in her memories. “When will you leave?” she asked quietly.

Tristan looked to Faegan and said, “Within the hour.”

Faegan closed his eyes, nodding approval.

Shailiha had seen her brother leave for the Caves once before. But that time he had been with Wigg, and despite her misgivings she had felt relatively sure they would return. But this time was different.

This time her heart told her she would never see her brother again.

35

As Ragnar approached the marble steps to Fledgling House, the bitter, unrelenting wind swirled around him, teasing the hem of his robe. The coldness seeping into his bones told him, as had so many other things of nature lately, that the Season of Crystal was near. Looking up to the jagged Tolenka Mountains, he could see that the snow that for three seasons of the year resided only at the very top of the peaks had begun creeping its way downward. Its whiteness would soon also come from the sky, laying a frozen blanket over the land. The air smelled of musty, dead leaves, the once-magnificent colors of their foliage having slowly expired to orange, then brown, and in most cases dust. Nearby, the cold, dark blue waters of the Sippora River babbled happily onward, going about their business.

How idyllic, he mused. Pausing for a moment, he looked up at the edifice that had, until only recently, held within its walls one of the greatest secrets of the Directorate of Wizards: the training of females in the craft of magic.

The castle had been built some twenty-five years earlier, and little had been spared in its expense. Although small compared to the royal palace at Tammerland, this lesser manor was nonetheless comprised of four stories, containing more than four hundred rooms. The rose-colored marble was gracefully shot through with streaks of magenta; the columns and steps were of the faintest pink. How appropriate for little girls, he thought. Two massive oaken doors, their planks bonded together with strong-looking ironwork, stood side by side, seeming to bar entrance to anyone not associated with the craft. On either side of the doors was a hatchling, fully armed and standing at attention. Others flew high in the sky above, carefully watching over the scene. Still more were camped nearby.

The stalker paused at the top step, relishing the many victories that the master had already afforded them. Soon, he thought. Soon we shall have it all. Curious to see more, he pointed to the doors, watched them open, and stepped inside. The hatchlings obediently bowed as he passed, shutting the great doors behind him with finality.

The large foyer was also of marble, the floor a complicated pattern of dark and light inlaid mahogany. Twin staircases, their steps of marble and their railings of patterned wrought iron, curved upward from opposite sides of the floor, ascending to the higher levels. Originally the girls’ quarters, he presumed. A huge stained-glass window lay in the opposite wall from the entryway doors, a representation of the Paragon inlaid into the curving, gentle grace of its design. Oil chandeliers gave off a delicate, subdued essence, and the air smelled delicately somehow of both potpourri and the never-ending promise of youth.

From a hallway leading off to the right came the familiar, magnificent glow. The aura that existed only in the presence of the master poured forth from the doorway of the corridor, partially covering the foyer floor. Ragnar turned toward it and began walking down the hallway, his feet strangely covered in the glow of the craft.

Just before leaving the quarries, Nicholas had told him to come here later in the day. There was something he wished the stalker to see. Several hatchlings had carried the stalker in his ornate, personal litter, landing him at the doors of Fledgling House. Still intrigued by what the master wished him to witness, he finally came to the room at the end of the hall.

The huge marble room had been completely stripped of its furnishings, its emptiness a distinct contrast to the sumptuous foyer the stalker had just left behind. Nicholas hovered several feet above the floor in the center of the room, his back to the stalker, the folds of his white silk robe falling gracefully over his muscular form. He was surrounded on all sides by open-faced, coffinlike boxes. Rows upon rows of them were stacked in tiers on the walls. In each one lay a child, his or her eyes closed peacefully in sleep.

A transparent sphere sat on the floor of the room. From it, a mass of clear, flexible tubes snaked outward, one to each child. Both the sphere resting on the floor and the tubes were pulsing with red liquid.

“Enter,” Nicholas said without turning around. Ragnar stepped tentatively into the room, as if his very footsteps might upset the delicate balance of what was unfolding. The master had told him not long ago that he would be needing the blood of the endowed children, but the stalker was still at a complete loss as to why. Ragnar was transfixed at the scene before him, his mind alive with questions. Even to him, what Nicholas was doing to the children had a ghastly, macabre quality.

Never before have I seen such a huge quantity of endowed blood in one place, the stalker thought. Why does he need so much?

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Nicholas asked, rotating at last to look at the confused stalker. “Each day I take a little more from them. As much as their young bodies will safely allow, without placing them in shock. But even with so many children here at my disposal it will be two more weeks until I have enough. So much beautiful, endowed blood! But still the potential collected in this bowl is infinitesimal compared to the sanguine fluid of myself and the Chosen One, my father of this world.

“You are wondering why I need it, are you not?” he asked as the hundreds of tubes continued their grisly task. “All in good time, my friend, all in good time. For now let it suffice to say that their blood shall become the mortar, if you will, that shall bind the pieces of marble together, to create the Gates.”

“But the blood of these children is of very low training,” Ragnar countered politely. “How is it that it could be used for such a grand purpose?”

Nicholas smiled. “It is precisely because of the relatively meager training of their blood that I require it,” he answered. “The blood of the children, because they have not received a great deal of training, is more ‘malleable,’ so to speak. Using the blood of their fathers for this purpose would have presented a far greater challenge.” He smiled again, his exotic eyes flashing. “But one I am sure I could have surmounted, nonetheless.”

“Are they in pain?” Ragnar asked, looking up at the rows of children on the walls. He asked not out of compassion, only curiosity.

“Oh, no,” Nicholas replied. “Not at all. And afterward they remember nothing of the experience. Aside from some initial weakness they are quite well, and ready to be used in the same manner again the following day.”

He changed the subject. “The mining continues to go as ordered?”

“The consuls work endlessly in shifts, day and night,” the stalker answered. “I am amazed as to how fast they are able to gather the marble. It is being cut and polished exactly to your specifications.”

“When not working they are billeted in the city of Ilendium, as I asked?” Nicholas asked.

“Yes, Master,” Ragnar answered. “As are the hatchlings you have ordered to remain there. In addition, the carrion scarabs’ eggs that were laid in the corpses of the dead at Ilendium have begun to hatch.”

“Excellent,” Nicholas said. “All is going according to plan. And now I must stop the blood collection for today, for I have other matters to attend to.”

The stalker watched as Nicholas narrowed his eyes. Almost immediately the hundreds of needles in the children’s feet came out, and the bleeding stopped, the small pinpricks vanishing in mere seconds. Then the tubes connected to the sphere hauntingly retracted, melding into the sides of the vessel itself.

Nicholas lowered the children gently to the floor, and they began to awaken. Within a matter of only moments, the unsuspecting youths started to laugh and play happily among themselves.

“You see?” Nicholas said, placing an affectionate hand on the head of one of the young girls. “No harm done. Now I must leave. After I am gone, order a squadron of hatchlings here to watch over the children and feed them. Walk with me.”

Ragnar walked silently alongside his master as Nicholas glided above the floor. Entering the foyer, they went to the door and opened it. The hatchlings on either side bowed obediently.

“If I may ask, where is it that you now go, Master?” Ragnar asked.

“The Caves,” Nicholas answered. “I am about to receive a very important guest.” With that the adept spread his arms and flew away, higher and higher, until he was a mere pinprick in the sky. Ragnar stared after him, stunned. How could anyone, even one of such highly endowed blood, fly without wings?

Ragnar’s eyes finally lost the adept as the whiteness of the young man’s robes became one with the nighttime stars.

After ordering a squadron of hatchlings into the castle to care for and protect the children, he called for his personal litter. Four of the great birds landed with it, one of them at each corner. As the stalker climbed inside and gave orders for his return to the quarries, his mind went to other, more pleasurable pursuits.

He had been several hours without his fluid, and he needed it badly. Taking the ever-present vial down from a specially built shelf on the inside wall, he luxuriously scooped some onto a finger and licked it off. Lying back on the overstuffed pillows, he let down the velvet side curtains, so as to be alone with his thoughts.

Once he had checked on the consuls’ progress with the mining, he would turn his entire attention to the beautiful woman he had brought to the quarries with him. True, she was not Celeste, but she would do for now . . . until the daughter of Wigg was again his to do with as he wished.

36

As Tristan neared the Caves of the Paragon, a flood of thoughts and memories came to his mind. Some of them were pleasant, but most were far from reassuring. Although always drawn by his blood to these remote, underground caverns, he nonetheless had a deep dread of coming here alone now.

It was cold, the clear sky above scattered with thousands of twinkling stars. Pilgrim’s breath came out of his nostrils in short, streaming puffs of vapor, the dead leaves crunching pleasantly beneath the heavy, gray-and-white dappled stallion as he carried the prince ever deeper into the woods.

The last time Tristan had come here by himself was that fateful day when he had accidentally discovered the Caves’ existence. He had fallen in while trying to learn how the fliers of the fields had seemingly disappeared, as if melting into the wall that barred the Caves’ entrance. He had nearly died that day, and his father and the Directorate of Wizards had been furious with him. Now, of course, he knew why. Sighing, he shook his head. So much had transpired since then. Closing his eyes, he tried to fight back the feeling that all would soon be lost.

Before donning a fur coat and setting out, he had looked at his shoulder. The dark, ominous-looking spider veins that covered the skin of the joint were slowly lengthening into his biceps. Strangely, he felt no pain from them. Nor did he feel ill or weak when not in the grip of a convulsion. The wizards had told him that that might change, though.

But he also knew it would only be a matter of time before another of the attacks came, and he closed his eyes briefly at the thought. The pain and disorientation had been so intense he wasn’t sure he could survive another convulsion, and he only hoped that one of his allies would be near him when it happened.

But Ox cannot be with me tonight. Neither can the wizards. This I must do alone.

He raised his eyes to the heavens, thinking of the incredible tale the wizards had told him and his sister about the Ones and the Heretics.

But perhaps the thing that concerned him the most was the continuing erosion of the wizards’ powers. Although he had not yet seen either of them fail in attempting to use their gifts, he knew it would only be a matter of time until it happened. It was as if there was little either of them could do to stem the tide of all that was happening. Their resignation was unusual, and only added to the prince’s personal sense of defeat.

And then there was Celeste. When he had first seen her that night by the graves he had been deeply drawn not only to her beauty but to her solitary, mysterious strength. So much like her father, he thought. Incredibly, she was one of them now—the long-lost daughter of Wigg. Whenever he and Celeste were in the same room together he was still intensely aware of her presence, but there was little time for such things. Besides, she was Wigg’s only child. Becoming involved with her at this time would not only be irresponsible, but could perhaps even intrude on the delicate relationship between father and daughter that had only so recently begun to take root.

As he approached the little rise where he would tie his horse, Tristan’s mind finally turned to the strange, obviously very powerful presence in the Caves—the still-unknown being Wigg and Faegan had described as able to return the Heretics to the earth. He remembered the amazing glow that had flooded the floor with its majesty the day he had been cut by Scrounge, and Wigg had been blinded by Ragnar. He had been strangely drawn to it, almost as if it was a part of him. And then, after reading the scroll and remembering the face that had appeared before him just as his first convulsion occurred, he had known without a doubt that he had to come here, that the wizards had been right. He must face whatever this thing was, discovering all he could. And somehow get back alive.

He stopped Pilgrim and dismounted, then tied the stallion to a tree and crept slowly up to the top of the little rise. Sliding his dreggan from its scabbard, he looked down to the wall of fieldstone that marked the entrance to the Caves.

There was something different about it this time. The hold that he and Wigg had made in the wall had been enlarged. Light shone from it, flashing hauntingly, an odd combination of flickering orange-red that was intermittently combined with the glow of the craft.

The being is here, Tristan realized. He wiped the sweat from his palms, contemplating his descent into the Caves. I can feel its presence in my blood, beckoning me to join it. He cautiously started down the rise.

Suddenly, he stopped. Looking at the dreggan in the moonlight he took a deep breath, recalling something the wizards had said. If Wigg and Faegan were right, had the thing in the Caves desired it he would probably be dead already. He slowly replaced the sword into its scabbard and climbed through the hole.

Standing at the top of the stone landing he could see that the vein into which the power of the Paragon was being drained now ran through the walls of this room as well. As always, the majestic falls continued to noisily spill the waters of the Caves into the stone pool at the bottom. The wall torches had been lit, and combined with the azure of the vein they gave the chamber an eerie, macabre look.

The deep glow he had seen before in Ragnar’s chambers was seeping silently outward from another hallway to the left. Tristan could not remember ever seeing that corridor before. He could only assume that the being had somehow recently created it. Just as it had perhaps also created the newly discovered chambers he and Wigg had been forced to navigate. Carefully, his senses alert, he continued down the stone steps.

Once upon the floor of the chamber, the overpowering effect of the waters on his blood made him dizzy. He was forced to go down on one knee, his breath coming quicker, more hungrily to his lungs.

“Come to me, Chosen One.” The voice was strong, yet somehow also soft and reassuring. It resonated deeply through the chamber and the hallway from which it came, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Tristan stood up on shaky legs and started down the hallway to the left, following the glow.

The corridor twisted and turned. With every step he took the dynamism of the being called more powerfully to his blood. And conversely, the effect of the waters of the Caves lessened, finally vanishing. The corridor ended at a solid-black marble door. The azure glow seeped from beneath it, spilling out over his boots. Tristan slowly reached out and pushed the door open.

Before him was a man of about his own age and size, seated cross-legged in the air. His hands in the opposite sleeves of his fine, white robe, he stared peacefully at the prince. He was apparently unarmed. Long, dark, shiny hair fell down to his shoulders, framing high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth. But there was something else about him. Something that immediately unnerved the prince as he stood there, taking him in. It was his eyes.

Dark and sparkling, the eyes slanted upward slightly at the corners, giving the man an exotic, almost feminine appearance. They seemed strangely familiar to Tristan.

Looking around, he saw that the vein ran through the walls of this room also. To the right stood a black marble pedestal, on top of which was a small glass beaker.

“Who are you?” Tristan asked the man.

“You truly do not know?”

“Only that you are the being who is about to build the Gates of Dawn, unleashing the Heretics on the world,” Tristan said. “It is my duty to stop you.”

“Is it really?” the man asked, pursing his lips. “Are you quite sure of that? As the male of the Chosen Ones, he of the azure blood, your wizards have yet to completely tell you of your duties. But you still do not know that, do you? So much to learn, so little time left. In fact, both you and your sister have more in common with those in the heavens than you could possibly know.”

Understanding the reference to time but little else, Tristan pressed. “Why did you poison my blood?” he asked angrily. “If you wish me dead, why not just kill me and get it over with?”

“First things first,” the man said. He hovered closer, looking deeply into the prince’s face. “You truly do not know who I am?” he asked again.

“No,” Tristan answered simply.

Again the man smiled. But then the smile suddenly vanished as quickly as it had come. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Do you not recognize these eyes?”

Tristan hesitated, unsure of what to say. The exotic eyes were beginning to unnerve him. It was as if something in his subconscious was trying to convince him of an impossibility—that he had seen them before.

“They are somehow familiar to me, but you are not,” he answered. Suddenly he had endured enough. “No more games,” he said sternly, taking a slightly more aggressive stance. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

The dark-haired man before him took a short breath, then let it out slowly. “I am your son, Chosen One,” he said softly. “The boy-child you so casually left behind in the shallow grave in Parthalon. Do you not remember me? I am also the son of Succiu, second mistress of the Coven. One of the four women you and your wizard killed.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I am Nicholas,” he finished softly. “And I have returned.”

Despite the similarity of the man’s eyes to those of Succiu, at first Tristan wanted to dismiss him as mad. But then a creeping dread began to overcome him. The longer he stood there, the more he could see Succiu’s eyes staring back at him. It sent a shiver down his spine. In fact, he could now see much more than that. It was as if this man somehow possessed the finest aesthetic qualities of both himself and the sorceress who had raped him.

“It is not possible,” Tristan whispered. “You lie. My son died. Succiu took him to his death, when she committed suicide by leaping from the roof of the Recluse. I excised the body and buried it myself, weeping over the grave. And aside from the impossibility of him being alive, you are far too old. No—this is some kind of trick. A cruel, sick prank. And I will have none of it.” He warily took a step back, wondering what to expect next. It was difficult to keep himself from reaching for his sword. But he knew in his heart that such a crude weapon would be completely useless against the creature before him.

“Are you so sure?” Nicholas asked, closing the distance between them. His dark, sparkling gaze was relentless. “If the Heretics, my parents of the Afterlife, can come back with my help, then what makes you so certain they could not save me from the grave, and return me to the earth?”

Tears began to gather in Tristan’s eyes. Not because he was ready to believe, but because of the horrific memories that came with having to speak of it with a stranger. “But you are too old . . . It . . . it would be impossible,” he stammered.

“Very little is impossible with the practice of the Vagaries, Father,” Nicholas said. Hearing himself called “Father,” Tristan felt something inside of him slip. “It is true that I first returned to your world as an infant,” Nicholas continued. “But I also came with certain preordained knowledge, granted to me by my parents above. There are certain advantages to being dead, you see. At least in the unenlightened way you understand it. As I said, so much to learn, so little time. But I digress. The most important of these abilities was the taking of the power of the stone. Think of it, Chosen One. All the power of the Paragon—imbued into a single being. When I began to harvest the dynamism of the stone, my knowledge, power, and physical stature grew exponentially, resulting in the man you see before you.” He paused for a moment. “I am truly your son of this earth,” he said softly. “Why do you think you were so drawn to me?”

Tristan shook his head back and forth, trying desperately not to believe. But inside his heart of hearts, he was starting to have doubts. He lowered his head. “No,” he whispered softly, his voice cracking. “It simply cannot be . . .”

“You are indeed as stubborn as your reputation claims,” Nicholas said. “Therefore I shall provide proof. Behold.” With that, the adept narrowed his eyes, and an incision opened in his right wrist. His blood began to run slowly from it. He placed two fingers against the wound and collected some, then held it up to Tristan’s face. The prince’s breath came out in a rush. The blood was azure.

“The wizards told me that I was the only being in the world with such blood,” Tristan whispered, barely able to get the words out. “How can this be?”

“The answer is really quite simple,” Nicholas answered. “If you were at one time the only such being in the world to possess it, and you fathered a child, then . . .”

Nicholas left the sentence hanging, watching amazement and pain blend in Tristan’s expression.

Shock nearly caused the prince to faint. He lost his balance, collapsing slightly, going down to one knee. He finally regained his legs, standing before Nicholas with some difficulty. Tears ran down his face.

“There, there—steady, Father,” Nicholas said almost compassionately. “You mustn’t take it all so hard. In fact, there is a great deal of very important work still remaining we can now do together. That is if you will simply choose to cooperate.”

Nicholas reached out his hand, caressing one side of Tristan’s face. “You see, I am no monster. I am simply a messenger. A constructor of worlds, if you will. I do not need your help in these things I must do, but the Heretics and I would prefer it. You will find our methods not to be so crude and clumsy as those of the Coven.” He smiled wickedly. “My late, extremely perverted but very beautiful mother being no exception. I’m sure it must have been very interesting when she coupled with you.”

Nicholas produced a small piece of parchment from a pocket in his robe and allowed a drop of his blood to fall on it. The blood immediately began to convolute into its own distinct signature. When it was dry, he tucked the parchment inside one of Tristan’s boots. “When you return to the Redoubt, show this to your wizards. They will know what to do. After that, you shall have no doubt. And when you are finally sure of my identity, there shall then be decisions you must make. When you have done so, you need only to come back here to find me.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristan asked.

“I can see that the stalker’s dried brain fluid is already taking effect in your bloodstream. Your veins are turning black, just as I am sure the wizards told you they would. Soon the pain in your shoulder will begin. By now you have most certainly lived through your first convulsion. An interesting experience, no doubt. Tell me, Father, do you know why I poisoned your blood?” Nicholas asked, backing away slightly.

“For the only reason there could be,” Tristan snarled. “You want me dead.”

Again came the twisted smile. “I knew your wizards would not grasp it,” Nicholas said. “Their view of the world is so limited. Indeed, Father, the reason I poisoned your blood was because I wanted you to stay alive.”

“I don’t understand. What you are saying makes no sense.” Tristan’s heart was telling him to leave, if indeed Nicholas would let him. He desperately wanted to be gone from this place—gone from the being who called himself his son. But his mind told him not to leave yet. He must try to remain calm, keeping the adept talking for as long as he could. He had promised the wizards he would bring them back as much information as possible.

Nicholas glided to the black pedestal, holding out his hand. The glass beaker left the table, slowly levitating into his grasp. “I poisoned your blood as an incentive, Father,” he began quietly. “As you know, the dried stalker fluid works very slowly. Even more slowly than usual, due to the great strength of your magnificent blood. This gave us both time. Time for me to construct the Gates, and time for you to become increasingly ill . . . and to make up your mind.”

“Make up my mind about what?” the prince countered.

“About joining our cause, Chosen One,” the adept said. He glided closer, continuing to look straight into Tristan’s eyes. “Join us, Father. It is the ultimate goal of the Heretics above to rule the world. With you to lead us. Just as it should have been eons ago, before the Ones with their ridiculous love of the Vigors started the War of Attrition. Both you and your twin sister are of their blood, Father. Just as I am of yours.”

Stunned, Tristan took a step backward. Ask the important things only, he told himself. Ask the questions that will help you defeat this monster that has somehow sprung from your loins.

“Why would you want me?” he asked carefully. “My blood is not yet trained, and therefore of little use to you. You and the Heretics are already vastly more knowledgeable than the wizards of Eutracia, so there is nothing you could learn from me. How does my joining with you help your cause?”

“You forget something, Father,” Nicholas answered. “Despite the fact that you are not trained in the ways of the craft, you are still the Chosen One. You and your sister are the only two such beings in the world. You possess the finest blood in the universe. Even I, your direct progeny, do not possess blood the equal of yours, because mine is diluted with that of the sorceress Succiu. Have the wizards ever told you what the word ‘Chosen’ really means? Or who it was who truly placed that title upon you? Or why the same blood and moniker were also given to Shailiha, your twin sister and my aunt? Ah, I can see by the look upon your face that they have not. Your wizards know far more than they are telling you, Father. Unless, of course, they mentioned your eventual joining of the two sides of magic. That was the ultimate goal of the Ones. But never the goal of the Heretics. In fact, it was this schism that started the war. The act of joining the two sides was to be just the first of many such deeds only you—or my aunt, if need be—would eventually be able to perform. But the Heretics do not want them joined, you see. They do not wish their pure, perfect art to be adulterated by the weaker, compassionate side of the craft. And it is the Heretics, because of their ability to return before the Ones, who will come to employ you first.”

Tristan’s mind was suddenly awash in new worlds, new horrors, and vast new dangers. “And just what is it you would have me do, assuming of course that I agreed to join you?”

Nicholas smiled. “Lead us,” he said simply. “After the return of the Heretics, we shall eliminate all the others of this earth. Our world shall become one barren of all human life other than that which is sufficiently gifted. A true paradise of the craft. Following that we will return the power from my consciousness to the Paragon. You will then be trained by the Heretics in the ways of the Vagaries.”

“Why would you do such a thing willingly?” Tristan asked. “Once you have it all, why would you choose to return the power to the stone?”

“Because the Heretics, unlike you, cared for me. I am bound to their wishes in ways you could never imagine.”

“And after I am supposedly trained?”

“Together we shall destroy the Vigors and their orb forever, leaving only the true, sublime teachings of the Vagaries that we have so come to love. The Heretics and I could eventually accomplish this ourselves, but it would take eons. That is why we need you, and your perfect blood. The Coven only attempted to use your sister to complete their self-indulgent ritual, and to employ you to propagate your seed.” Again came the knowing, twisted smile. “An understandable desire, but shortsighted. We intend to put you to a much higher use. We shall train you to become one of us. You will come to know the more perfect, exquisite side of the craft, leading us for eternity.”

“And if I refuse?” Tristan asked.

“Then you and all your loved ones will perish,” Nicholas answered. “If you do not join us in this, the female of the Chosen Ones, my aunt, must also die. Despite the fact that she is one of the Chosen, she is not of azure blood, and is of no use to us. As I said before, we would prefer to have you with us, since your azure blood makes our task so much simpler. But should you choose not to do so, your end will be quite gruesome, I can assure you.”

Nicholas held out the small vessel that he had taken from the pedestal. It contained a white, milky substance. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“How could I?” Tristan answered caustically.

“It is the antidote to your illness, Father. Swallow this, and in a mere two days your disease disappears forever. Agree to stay here with me, submit to my mind so that I know your intentions are true, and it shall be yours. Perhaps the wizards have told you of the technique used to test the quality of one’s heart? A simple use of the craft, but also quite effective. That is to be my proof that you mean what you say. Come to us, and bring your sister and her girl-child. They too are welcome, but as with you, the quality of their hearts must be tested first.”

Tristan was familiar with the technique Nicholas had just mentioned, for he had watched Wigg and Faegan perform it on Geldon to be certain the dwarf did not side with the Coven. It will do no good to lie to him, the prince realized. He would immediately know, and there would be no way to stop it. His face became dark with defeat. “And if I refuse?” he asked.

“Then you condemn yourself, your sister, her daughter, your wizards, and the rest of the endowed of your world to certain death,” Nicholas answered casually. “The existence of all of the unendowed has become quite academic, since they are to die whether you join us or not. So the choice is simple, don’t you see? It is only a matter of taking your rightful place in the world, thereby allowing your loved ones to live.”

Tristan’s mind reeled. “The wizards will find the cure,” he said tentatively.

“Wrong, Father,” Nicholas gloated. “The wizards are quite incapable of finding the cure. First, the calculations required are very probably beyond their gifts. Secondly, the antidote, as are so many antidotes of this world, is partially made of the very thing that poisons you—the brain fluid of a stalker. Wigg and Faegan have no access to this most important of ingredients. With everything else that is going on I cannot envision them, one blind and the other crippled, combing the woods to find and kill another stalker, can you? No. Therefore, do not rely on those two relics of the past to cure you, for they cannot.”

He paused for a moment, his exotic eyes boring directly into Tristan’s. “You will soon see that I cannot be defeated,” he said menacingly. “Things have been put into motion that even I cannot stop. The only choice you have is to relinquish yourself to us.”

Tristan lowered his eyes. “If you are truly my son, how is it that you could do these horrible things to us?” he asked softly. “We are of the same blood. Does that not count for anything with you?”

Nicholas’ face became commanding. “Consider my next words well, Father, whatever your eventual choice in this matter is to be. My mother of this world, the sorceress Succiu, took my life with her own. And you, my father of this world, chose to leave my body behind in that awful land, rather than return it to your own. But my fathers above took me in, trained me, and returned me here, to the world of the living. Given that, do you really believe I would ever choose you over their power and majesty? All you really did was to vomit your seed into the depths of a woman. She, in turn, chose to see me dead. After that, you ceased to care.”

Tristan hung his head. In a bizarre, twisted way he could almost agree. Forcing his mind back to his many questions, he decided to keep Nicholas talking for as long as he could. Concentrate on the things that will help, he reminded himself. The things Wigg and Faegan will need to know. “The hatchlings and the carrion scarabs,” he asked. “Where did they come from?”

Nicholas smiled. “They represent but two types of the servants employed by the Heretics during the War of Attrition. I brought the Forestallments for their conjuring with me from above. After that, letting them multiply on their own was simple enough. One creature for the sky, another for the earth, just as it was so long ago. They’re unusually effective, don’t you think?”

Tristan thought for a moment, wondering how long Nicholas would allow his questions. “If the Heretics can send you back from the Afterlife, then why can’t they simply do the same thing for themselves?” he asked. “Why do they need you? And you said that both Shailiha and I have much in common with those in the heavens. To whom are you referring—the Heretics, or the Ones?”

“Ah,” Nicholas said. “Finally the Chosen One comes to the very heart of the matter. The center of the riddle surrounding his existence, and that of his twin sister. The truth is that the Heretics could not return until they had an emissary of your blood given to them. And you yourself provided it in me. The Heretics are spirit only, as are the Ones. As we speak the two forces are still in constant struggle with each other, even in the Afterlife. They have been since the War of Attrition. But my parents above desire to live again. To feel, touch, smell, and taste again. And to again know the pleasures of being a man or a woman. I will not delve into such questions further unless you choose to join us, for the answers would prove far too revealing. Similarly, I shall not reveal the truth about the link between you and your sister and those of the heavens. I am fully aware that you are trying to enhance your knowledge for your wizards.”

“Why did you take the consuls’ children?” Tristan asked. “And why did you raid Fledgling House? Of what possible use could the young endowed be to your far greater powers?”

“As with so many things of this world, it has to do with blood,” Nicholas answered. “But I will say nothing more of that.” Still holding the vessel of antidote, he looked calmly into the face of his father. “You have been given sufficient information in order to make your choice. It is now time for you to do so.”

Tristan looked into the dark, slanted eyes. Even if you are of my blood, one day I will kill you, he swore silently. No matter what it takes, I will wipe this scourge of my seed from the earth.

“No,” he said flatly. “I will never join you.”

“Are you quite sure, Father?” Nicholas asked coyly. He held the bottle of antidote before Tristan, swinging it back and forth temptingly. “A little sip of this and you would be made well again. Not to mention the fact that you have not only just condemned yourself to death, but your sister, niece, and wizards, as well.”

“I have given you my answer,” the prince said softly. He was trembling with anger. “Now let me take my leave of this place.”

“As you wish,” Nicholas said, gesturing courteously to the doorway. “It was never my intention to harm you further, or to keep you captive. But hear this, Chosen One: Pain will grow within in your body as the dark veins continue to encroach. The sword arm you so prize and the weapon over your shoulder that you used to kill my grandfather will both eventually be worthless. During the onslaught of your fourth convulsion, you will die. And nothing except what I hold in my hand can stop it. I tell you this so that you will have a frame of reference as to how much longer you shall live.

“Should you change your mind, simply come to the Gates of Dawn, Father,” the adept continued. “By then they shall be constructed.” Again came the rather twisted smile. “As you will see, they shall be very difficult to miss.”

Tristan turned to the door, taking his first few steps toward it. Stopping, he turned around. “I will kill you,” he said softly. “Whether you are truly my son or not. Somehow, despite your powers, I will find a way. I will make sure before I die that what I have sired will do no further harm to this world.” With that he left the room.

As he approached the chamber of the falls he could again feel the powerful effect of the waters on his blood, but he ignored it and ran up the stone steps out into the light. His chest heaving, he paused to look at the early-morning rays that had just begun to creep up over the horizon beyond. Tears of anger and sadness welled in his eyes.

How many more such dawns? he asked himself. How many dawns before they come back, and all that we know perishes forever? And it is all because of me, and what I did not finish in Parthalon.

“What have I done?” he cried aloud, his voice shaking desperately.

He covered his face with his hands and went to his knees in the cold, frosty grass.

Tristan stayed that way for some time. He finally sat upright in the cold, damp grass, watching the sunrise. His head was a whirl of stunning new facts and seemingly endless, frightening implications. He knew he needed to return to the Redoubt quickly, and tell the wizards everything he had just learned.

It was then that he heard it. Steel on steel—the unmistakable sound of swordplay.

Immediately jumping to his feet he drew his dreggan, the blade ringing in the air. Turning, he searched every foot of the little clearing, but could see no threat. Nonetheless the clang of swords could be plainly heard, sounding to his experienced ears like two single combatants. The action seemed intense, their swords clashing together almost constantly. Finally realizing the sounds were coming from higher up, he raised his eyes to the sky.

Above him, one of Nicholas’ hatchlings was locked in mortal combat with some other winged creature. At first Tristan couldn’t make it out. Then the two flew lower as they struggled, and the prince was shocked to see who it was. Ox.

The huge Minion warrior was fighting mightily with the hatchling, and it was plain to see that the great bird was at least an equal match. As they swooped and darted through the air, frustratingly out of reach, Tristan could only stand there, mesmerized by the battle taking place above him.

He immediately recognized that such fighting required skills he had never experienced. It was amazingly different from fighting on the ground, where a fighter relied upon his feet and legs for both quickness and balance. In the fight above him the entire sky was at the combatants’ disposal, and they each made the most of it, covering distances with the use of their wings that an earthbound swordsman’s feet and legs could not begin to address. A full three dimensions of turns and maneuvers were possible in the air.

Where the hatchling might be quicker, Ox seemed a little stronger. Whenever the bird threatened with his broadsword, Ox seemed able to counter the blows effectively with his dreggan.

But why is Ox here? Tristan wondered desperately, his frustration causing him to tighten his grip around his sword. But all he could do was watch and wait.

Stretching his wings further, Ox flew up and over the hatchling, positioning his body directly above the great bird. With a sudden series of relentless, powerful slashes he began to force the hatchling downward, ever nearer to the ground. The hatchling fought back mightily, but Ox now held the advantage, for Tristan could see that it was much easier for the Minion to slash downward than for the bird to thrust upward.

The clanging of their sword blades became louder as Ox pressed his opponent ever lower. Tristan would soon be able to reach the hatchling’s legs with his dreggan. He touched the button at the hilt of the sword to launch the extra foot of blade; then he raised the dreggan high in both hands. But he came to a sudden realization.

Tristan dropped his sword in the grass, and searched frantically through the glade. Finally he found a heavy, dried tree limb that looked sturdy enough.

Tristan’s first swing barely missed, and the hatchling cried out in its desperation. Ox made a great, final effort, driving the bird even lower. This time the prince’s aim was true.

The limb connected mightily with the side of the hatchling’s head, and it fell unconscious to the ground, the light going out of its hideous, red eyes. Exhausted, Ox landed next to the bird, looking at Tristan as if the prince had just lost his mind.

“I sent to protect,” Ox breathed, sliding his dreggan into the scabbard at his hip. “Why Chosen One no kill bird?”

Tristan did not immediately respond. He roughly kicked the hatchling’s side, testing whether the bird was indeed knocked out. It remained motionless. Tristan reached down, relieving it of its sword. Finally he picked up his dreggan, retracting its blade and placing it into its scabbard.

Tristan looked at the exhausted Minion warrior, realizing that it was finally time to make up his mind about the huge Minion. If there is no other choice but to trust him, then I shall do so, he decided.

“What happened?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

“Wizards send Ox,” the warrior said proudly. “To look after Chosen One. It Ox’s new task in life. But they say no go into Caves after you. Only follow, and wait in sky. Ox glad Chosen One still alive.” His chest was fairly puffing out with pride.

“And when I came back out?” Tristan answered. “What happened then?”

“I wait in sky. Then bad bird come. When I see bird, I fight. Then you hit with branch.” His face screwed up quizzically again behind the black beard. “Why you no kill bird?” he repeated.

Tristan glanced back down at the inert hatchling. “Because I wanted it alive,” he said flatly. “If I had killed it without Wigg and Faegan having a chance to study it while it was still breathing, they would have never forgiven me. Especially if this is one of those that can speak.”

Looking back at Ox, Tristan thought quietly for moment. “Cut down a pile of strong limbs,” he ordered. “And gather up some vines. Make sure they’re all sturdy. We’re going to make a cage, place the hatchling into it, and then fasten it to a litter. Pilgrim can drag it back to the Redoubt.”

Although the prince knew these birds were of the craft, he seriously doubted that they were capable of using magic on their own. But the cage would either hold it, or it wouldn’t. If he succeeded in returning with the hatchling, then the wizards could decide how best to control it.

“No need to make cage, Chosen One,” Ox answered. “I strong. I carry.”

“Oh, no,” Tristan said gently, raising his eyebrows. “If the bird awakens, I don’t want to take the chance of losing it.”

Ox placed an index finger upon his lower lip. Tristan could sense the wheels in the Minion’s head, while apparently not exactly spinning, at least grinding away with difficulty. Finally Ox said, “Chosen One right. Chosen one smart. I make cage and litter.”

“Good,” Tristan answered.

They completed the job together, then placed the still-unconscious hatchling inside the cage and bound the remaining logs together to enclose it. While Ox used vines to lash the cage to the litter, Tristan retrieved Pilgrim. They then secured the litter to the back of Tristan’s saddle.

Tristan walked to Pilgrim’s head and grasped the bridle. Giving the stallion a short, clacking sound out of the corner of his mouth, he urged the horse forward. Ox proudly brought up the rear on foot, dreggan drawn, acting as if they were about to be attacked at any moment.

Tristan shook his head slightly. Despite all he had been through, he snorted a quick, unbelieving laugh down his nose. From somewhere an old quotation came to his mind—one that described the situation perfectly.

“Before the Afterlife makes one mad,” he remembered, “it first gives one the strangest of traveling companions.”

37

Tristan sat back in his upholstered chair in the Hall of Blood Records. His mind was a confusing whirl of questions and concerns. Across from him sat Wigg and Faegan, their faces dark. To his right was Shailiha with Morganna, and next to Wigg sat Celeste. Tristan stared for a moment into Celeste’s lovely, sapphire eyes. She looked back at him with concern.

After successfully delivering the unconscious hatchling to the Redoubt, where Faegan had immediately secured it in a wizard’s warp, Tristan had glumly told them of the many things he had learned in the Caves. The one thing he did not speak of was his shame—the realization that he should have allowed Wigg to burn Nicholas’ dead body back in Parthalon. Tristan had wanted his unborn son to have a real burial, and he had seen to it that it had been done before Wigg had the chance to intervene. Now, because of his selfishness, he felt responsible for unknowingly leading them all to this most grievous of calamities. As if reading Tristan’s mind, the lead wizard spoke.

“It’s not your fault, Tristan,” Wigg said gently from the other side of the table. “There was no way you could have known. You only did what you thought was right, and it took great courage. Even I had no inkling of what was to follow.”

Tristan looked down at the parchment with Nicholas’ azure blood signature. He had pulled it from his boot and laid it on the table for all to see.

Faegan cleared his throat. “We must be sure, Tristan,” the master wizard said compassionately. “We must check the signature to know whether what this person told you is the truth.”

Tristan nodded. But in his heart of hearts he already knew the answer.

“Prince Tristan of the House of Galland,” Faegan called out to the enchanted room. “Son of Nicholas and Morganna, onetime king and queen of Eutracia.” One of the mahogany drawers began to slide open, and a sheet of parchment rose into the air and floated across the room to come to rest in front of the prince. Tristan looked down at his blood signature. It was azure this time. This was the one that had been produced most recently, showing the many Forestallments and their respective branches.

“Succiu, second mistress of the Coven,” Faegan said simply. Another of the drawers opened, and the parchment holding Succiu’s blood signature floated to the table.

Using the craft, Faegan coaxed the sheet holding Tristan’s signature to separate widthwise, dividing the top from the bottom. Then the lower half of Tristan’s signature glided to Succiu’s signature, covering its original lower half, creating a new one. Finally Faegan caused the blood signature of the one calling himself Nicholas to move next to it. Everyone in the room held his or her breath.

They were identical, except that Nicholas’ signature held even more Forestallments than did Tristan’s.

Letting out a sigh, Faegan sat back in his chair. “It’s true,” he whispered to the table at large. “He is without doubt Nicholas, Tristan’s son.” As if not knowing what else to say, he looked down, unconsciously drawing his robe closer about his legs. Finally he turned his deep, gray-green eyes toward the prince.

“The first child of the male of the Chosen Ones now walks the earth, and he does so with the blessings of the Heretics,” the wizard continued. “His blood, although slightly diluted by that of his mother, is the closest in the world to his father’s perfect, azure blood. And to make matters even worse his blood will soon have gathered all of the power of the Paragon. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!” Tristan had never seen the master wizard so beside himself with frustration and sadness.

“The centuries-old balance and power of the craft is about to shift,” Faegan added. “Completely and irrevocably. Such a being, who commands both azure blood and the complete power of the craft held only within himself, will be the likes of which the world has never before seen. There can simply be no stopping him now.”

Faegan slumped forward. For the first time since Tristan had known him, he seemed completely defeated. No one spoke for what seemed a very long time.

“But how could such a thing have happened?” Tristan asked at last. “Nicholas died! I left him in the grave in Parthalon! How could he have anything to do with the Heretics?”

Faegan closed his eyes, preparing his mind. He then relaxed a bit, letting the appropriate quote from the Tome come to him.

“ ‘And it shall come to pass that the Heretics, in their mastery of the Vagaries, shall attain power over those of the lower world possessing azure blood,’ ” Faegan said. “ ‘But first the mortal, azure blood of the lower world must die. It is also ordained that the Ones shall have powers in the world of the living, should what they left behind be discovered.’ ” Faegan opened his eyes.

“Another quote from the Tome?” Wigg asked.

“Indeed,” Faegan answered, already lost in thought. “From it we can make two relevant, although incomplete assumptions. First, it would seem that the Heretics have mastered the Vagaries to the point they can take action upon those in our world who possess azure blood—provided the blood is dead, as theirs is. This of course meant that the one possessing azure blood must first have expired, as did Nicholas. I believe they were somehow able to take his body to the heavens. They then prepared him, returning him to do their bidding.”

The room went silent again as everyone tried to comprehend the immense ramifications of their problems.

“You mentioned two assumptions,” Wigg finally said. “What is the other?”

“That the Ones also have potential powers over our world,” Faegan replied. “Provided whatever it is they left behind is eventually discovered. And we have absolutely no idea what that might be, or where to go looking for it.”

“What about Nicholas’ hatchlings and scarabs?” Shailiha asked. “Have you determined where they came from?”

“The horrific creatures of the Vagaries always owe their existence to four aspects of the craft,” Wigg answered. “The first and by far most difficult of these methods is called ‘conjuring,’ or invoking their entire presence. Those are beings created from scratch, if you will, via extremely convoluted calculations of the craft. The second method is to mutate an already normal, existing being into another, such as when the Coven mutated wizards into blood stalkers. The third way is to combine a human with an animal, giving it inordinate powers. This is illustrated by the screaming harpy—a giant bird with the head and face of a woman. And the fourth way is to combine any of the aforementioned practices, in as many ways as one chooses. The combinations are virtually limitless. But to answer your questions, Princess, Faegan and I believe the hatchlings and the scarabs to be purely products of Nicholas’ conjuring. The spells and calculations required for their development were most likely placed into his blood by the Heretics, via Forestallment.”

“But surely there is something we can do on our own to stop Nicholas,” Shailiha said adamantly. She had become quite tired of hearing all that they couldn’t do, and she desperately wanted to take some kind of action. “I thought you and Wigg postulated that if the stone still had at least some color, we might have a chance. And I can tell the Paragon is not yet completely drained, because both of you still possess at least some of your powers.”

“That’s true,” Tristan insisted. “There must be something we can still do!”

“Neither of you completely understand,” Wigg said seriously. “What we told you was before we knew the true identity of Nicholas. His being born of Tristan’s blood changes everything—for the worse. Had Nicholas proven to be someone else, anyone else, we might have had a chance. But not now. You see, only one power is strong enough to defeat his blood: the male or female blood of the Chosen Ones. Only your blood is superior. But to defeat him, your blood would first have to be trained. And we cannot accomplish that in time.”

“Why not?” Tristan asked rather angrily.

Wigg sighed. “First is the fact that in order to train either of you, it is ordained that Tristan must first read the Prophecies. Only after he has done so may Shailiha then read them. Tristan cannot do that without the Paragon around his neck. And if we do that, the poison in his blood could kill him. Second, even if we were somehow able to surmount the first obstacle, it would literally take decades, perhaps even a lifetime, to bring Tristan to Nicholas’ level of understanding. Sending Tristan to confront his son without the proper training would be like sending a lamb to slaughter.” Wigg sat back in his chair, running an ancient hand down the length of his face. “So there it is,” he said wearily. “Faegan and I don’t like it any better than you, but facts are facts. It is only now that we fully come to understand the true ramifications of the Heretics’ vision for the future. Their plan is brilliant.”

Tristan was beside himself with frustration. He had never seen the wizards so downhearted, even during the worst of those times when they had faced the Coven. But then again, he reminded himself, they knew far more about the craft than he apparently ever would. But there is still something I am capable of doing that no one else at this table can, he thought.

He looked into Faegan’s eyes. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” he asked bluntly. His question did not come from concern for himself as much as the fact that he needed an answer to be able to finalize his plan.

“Yes,” the ancient wizard replied softly, looking down at his legs. “In truth, unless your son can be stopped, we all are. But you will most probably be the first, due to your condition. What Nicholas told you is true: The brain fluid of a stalker is required to make the antidote. And acquiring any seems quite impossible.”

“Then it is imperative that I go to Parthalon and order the Minions to come back to Eutracia,” Tristan said flatly. “They are our only hope of buying time. Their numbers may be able to slow down the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs. Perhaps even tie up some of Nicholas’ attention, as well, thereby slowing down the construction of the Gates. It is the least we can now do. And as their lord, I am the only one who can lead them to war. You said so yourself. I must go immediately.” He paused for a moment, weighing his next words. “Because it must be done before I die,” he added softly.

Shailiha turned around in her chair, facing the wall so that the others could not see her tears. Celeste placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. The princess of Eutracia gripped it without turning back around.

“I’m sorry, Shai,” Tristan said to his sister. “But we must face facts, and time is of the essence.” He looked at Faegan. “For how long each day can you hold your portal open?” he asked seriously.

Faegan narrowed his eyes, rubbing his chin. “I have never been able to do so for more than one hour per day,” he answered glumly. “But I could try to attempt it every twelve hours, after I have rested. That would make two hours per day. Order the warriors to assemble near the portal’s entrance, ready to run through it as fast as they can when they see it appear. That will also speed up the process. But there will eventually come another problem,” he added, frowning.

“And what is that?” Wigg asked.

“You all must keep in mind the Paragon is constantly diminishing in power,” Faegan answered. “My abilities to form and sustain the portal will therefore be affected proportionately. If any of the warriors are in the process of coming through while my powers are weakening, forcing me to end the spell before the hour is up, those caught in between will die horribly. Even by Minion standards. And there will be nothing I will be able to do to save them. Tristan, you must tell them that if they see the color or intensity of the portal begin to waver, they are immediately to stop going through until they see its strength return, no matter how long that takes. Even as it is, I am sure we will see many of them die. It will not be a pretty thing to watch.”

“There will truly be nothing you can do?” Celeste asked. She placed her other hand on top of her father’s.

“No,” Faegan said flatly, the frustration clearly showing on his face. “Nothing at all.”

I have never ordered men to die before, Tristan thought with a heavy heart. Apparently that is about to change. He cast his dark blue eyes at Wigg and Faegan in turn. “And what will the two of you be doing while I am gone?”

“What we have been doing all along,” Wigg answered. “The only things that make sense. Namely, trying to discover the answers to our defeat of Nicholas, and to unravel the cures for both you and myself. But there is something else you, Shailiha, and Celeste must know. In all fairness, it needs to be said.”

Tristan looked calmly into Wigg’s unseeing eyes, knowing that whatever he was about to hear would not be good. Shailiha turned back to face the table, her eyes wet and red.

“Nicholas told you that Faegan and I were keeping information from you, did he not?” Wigg asked.

“Yes,” Tristan answered. “What did he mean?”

“The information we have kept from you is that we truly fear this shall be the end of us,” Wigg said, rubbing his brow as if to ease an aching head. “We have no real answers to these many dilemmas. In fact, we are really no more ahead of where we started. The powers arrayed against us are just far too strong. But before you travel to Parthalon, we need you to know what is in our hearts, and not suffer from delusions or unjustified hopes as to our relatively meager abilities to solve this crisis.” He sat back in his chair. It was plain to see that the old man’s heart was breaking.

Tristan felt even more of his energy slip away. Looking at Shailiha and Celeste, he could see that they too had been equally affected. In truth, he had hoped that the two ancient, wily wizards had something—any glimmer of optimism whatsoever—that they had not shared with him. He had never before known them not to have at least one playing card up the sleeves of their robes. But he could tell by the look on Wigg’s face that the wizard was telling the truth. And the continuing decay of the stone would only make things worse. He tried to smile.

“We all know you two are trying your best,” Tristan said gently. “You and I have been through a great deal together, old one. But what you have just told me only reinforced the fact that I must leave immediately, does it not?” he asked. Wigg nodded, his white eyes shiny.

“You will take Ox with you?” the wizard asked.

Tristan thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Good,” Wigg answered. “You will need someone, in case you . . .”

The wizard never finished the sentence, immediately regretting having started it.

Tristan resolutely stood from the table. There was a little more to be said, and he and Ox needed to be going. “Faegan,” he said, “if you would be so good as to meet me and Ox in one half hour?” Faegan nodded. Celeste and Shailiha also stood.

The two wizards ruminated sadly, as the younger people walked from the room.

Wigg and Faegan continued to sit in silence for a time after the three others had departed, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Faegan spoke.

“I am glad you informed them of our true lack of success,” he said softly. He paused for a moment, as tears welled in his gray eyes. “There is something else I feel I need to say,” he went on at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. In a rare gesture, he reached out and took Wigg’s hand. After a moment of surprise, Wigg returned his grip.

“What is it?” Wigg asked.

“I’m sorry,” Faegan said. Wigg could barely hear him. A tear finally freed itself from one of the crippled wizard’s lower eyelids and began its journey down his cheek. “Despite how much I tease you, I love you like a brother. Had I been here, where I belonged, all those long years, we might not be in such dire straits today. There is so much I regret. Please forgive me.”

Wigg sighed. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” he answered. “You did what you thought was right—just as we of the Directorate did. But you are here with us now, and that is what truly matters.” One corner of his mouth came up. “And in case you haven’t noticed, the Directorate didn’t do such a wonderful job of controlling things, either.”

Silence reigned.

“I told Tristan and Shailiha the things I did because I did not want them to have any hopes that were unjustified,” Wigg finally said. “That would be cruel, since Tristan and Shailiha have always relied on me for so much. Especially since the death of their parents. And now I find I have a beautiful daughter who is endowed with the gift. She is all any father could ever ask for. Yet it appears I have found her only to lose her again. Just as you did, my friend.” An uncomfortable silence descended between them.

“The Chosen One will most probably die in his war with Nicholas’ creatures,” Faegan said after a time. “You know that, do you not?”

“Yes,” Wigg said sadly. “But I agree with him that it has to be done. Going to war is one of our few options left. And he is the only one the Minions will obey. But I doubt he can win. There simply will not be enough time to bring sufficient numbers of Minion troops across the sea. By the time the battle is joined, I estimate Nicholas’ hatchlings will still enjoy a great superiority of numbers. And even if we did somehow win the war, there would still remain the larger, far more dangerous problem.” He paused for a moment. “Fighting the war may do little, if anything, to keep Nicholas from activating the Gates of Dawn.”

“I also reluctantly agree that Tristan must do this,” Faegan answered. “But we still must make the necessary contingency plans in the event of his death.”

Faegan closed his eyes, again calling on his powers of Consummate Recollection. “ ‘And should the male of the Chosen Ones perish, those of the craft who remain shall leave no stone unturned in their care, protection, and training of the female. For it shall then be her blood, and hers alone, that shall persevere in the survival of the compassionate side of the craft,’ ” he quoted. He opened his eyes.

“I am aware of the passage,” Wigg said quietly.

“If Tristan dies, whatever the cause, we must immediately take Shailiha away from this place,” Faegan said sternly. “For it shall then be only her blood that can effectively continue the struggle for the preservation of the Vigors. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Wigg said reluctantly. “I do.”

“Very well. And now, if you will excuse me, Wigg, I have two people to send to Parthalon.”

“Before you do, Faegan, would you be so kind as to hand me the parchment containing Nicholas’ signature?” Wigg asked as he heard the wheels on Faegan’s chair begin to roll.

“Certainly, old friend.” Faegan retrieved the parchment and placed it in front of Wigg. “Good luck in your studies.” With that, he wheeled himself from the room, the massive door closing behind him.

Sitting there in the quiet of the Hall of Blood Records, alone with his thoughts, a tear came to Wigg’s eye. How in the name of the Afterlife did everything come to this? he asked himself. But then again, the Afterlife is exactly the problem, isn’t it?

Wigg reached out to the sheet of parchment in front of him and invoked the craft to sensitize his fingers even further to the design upon it. He wished to commit its shape to memory, just as he had done with so many others of this place over the centuries. Slowly, his endowed fingers traced over the complicated design of the blood signature. And then, suddenly, he stopped.

Again he felt it, thinking it had been not quite real.

Wigg sat back in his chair, his heart and mind racing. He would wait for Faegan, and they would talk until dawn.