The Gates of Dawn

38

When Tristan came to his senses, he was lying on his back on the cold, frozen ground. A beautiful blue sky lay above him, cumulus clouds patterned throughout. Birds sang loudly, announcing the advent of morning. His mind was cloudy, but he knew the sleepiness and dizziness would soon depart. He sat up, his head slightly spinning, and turned to look at Ox.

The huge Minion had not fared so well. His slumber was so deep and his breathing so shallow that anyone passing by might have thought him dead. Then, without moving, the warrior began to snore. Loudly. Tristan smiled, thinking of the day before, when he and Ox had captured the hatchling and dragged it back to the Redoubt. What he lacks in wit he more than makes up for in courage, he thought. One could have worse friends.

Tristan pulled closer the gray jacket of Eutracian fox that Shailiha had insisted he wear to ward off the cold. He decided to let the Minion sleep for a few more moments.

He looked around, reacquainting himself with the area. Light, fluffy snow blanketed the ground. Faegan’s portal had deposited them in the immediate area of the shattered Recluse, and he could see the foundation of the partially reconstructed building rising nearby, on a mound of land surrounded by water.

He felt a sudden jab of pain in his right shoulder and reached under the fur with his opposite hand to rub it. Just as Nicholas had predicted, he was beginning to have pain and weakness in his arm: the arm he relied on the most. He knew without looking that the dark, ominous-looking spider veins had extended farther down the length of it. They knew exactly what they were doing that day in the Caves, he thought, his hand instinctively tightening the grip upon the joint.

He stood slowly, anxious to be on his way, then walked to the snoring warrior and gave the bottom of the Minion’s right boot a gentle kick. “Ox,” he said strongly. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Ox slowly stirred, finally sitting up. “Portal make Ox sleepy,” he said thickly. He stood and stretched his arms and then his dark, leathery wings to either side. “We go Recluse now, Chosen One?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tristan said, tugging first at the hilt of his sword and then the handles of a few of his throwing knives, making sure the cold weather would not cause them to stick. “But first I wish to go to another place. It is important to me.”

“I live to serve,” Ox said. Together they walked around to the left of the island that held the smashed Recluse.

After about half an hour of walking, Tristan finally saw what he had been searching for. As his eyes fell upon it, his expression darkened. The little mound of earth and its wooden marker seemed to have remained undisturbed. With every step he took, the sight of it stirred within him stronger and stronger emotions. Love mixed with hate, knowledge permeated by confusion, anger swirling with compassion—they all welled up inside of him, swelling almost to the bursting point.

But he had to know, and there was only one way to be sure.

He stood before his son’s grave with the Minion, his knees shaking slightly, and read the wooden marker that he had so lovingly carved that fateful day:

Ox’s eyes widened as Tristan shoved away the stones piled atop the grave, then ripped the marker from the ground, and used one end of it to shovel away the dirt. After many moments the prince stood up, his chest heaving, to see the awful truth. The grave was empty.

He went to his knees before it, the horrific realization tearing through his mind. The monster you sired lives, and is about to destroy everything you hold dear.

Suddenly all the mixed emotions melted away, leaving a single, unrelenting sentiment coursing through his endowed veins. Hate. Gripping the marker, he threw it as far as he could into the neighboring woods, as if by doing so he could also cast off not only the terrible memories of this place but also the monstrous nightmare plaguing his nation.

I will kill you, my son, he seethed inwardly. Somehow, some way, I will find the method by which to overcome your blood. The blood I was forced to give to you. I know I can do it now, and I swear by all that I am I will see you die.

Looking to the Recluse, his mind drifted back to the day when Succiu had so brutally raped him. He returned his gaze to the empty grave. You were conceived in violence and pain, Nicholas. And your life has been devoted to nothing else. But I shall end it for you.

As he made this new oath to himself, he looked down, staring defiantly at the wounds he had carved into his palms not so long ago. When he had sworn a similar pledge, also upon his knees, at yet a different burial place of those he had also once loved. These scars had only recently healed—far more quickly than the ones that remained upon his heart. Or the new one that he now realized he must create. And then his mind and vision began to swim.

Perhaps it had been the sudden, unrelenting rage passing through his blood. Or the fact that he was so near to yet another place of Nicholas. But for whatever the reason, Tristan immediately knew he was in the grip of his second convulsion, and it was far worse than had been his first.

He fell the rest of the way to the ground, foam surging from the corners of his mouth. The pain wracking his body was excruciating, and he screamed out blindly into the clear Parthalonian morning. On and on the torment went, without reprieve. The last thing he remembered was Ox trying to force something into his mouth, and being dragged toward the nearby forest.

Then everything went black as night.

39

Faegan sat comfortably in his chair on wheels, his violin beneath his chin, in the spacious but stark chamber he had specially selected. He had chosen this particular room because there was only one massive, very secure marble door, and no chimney. The music he was creating was both thoughtful and soft, exactly befitting the master wizard’s current mood. His eyes were closed, and he let his hands perform their art without the use of the craft, preferring this day to produce the enchanting melody from his heart, rather than from his gifts. He had been playing for hours, as was his custom when there was an unusually difficult decision to make. And the problem he now wrestled with was one of the most trying of his very long life in the service of the craft.

Finally placing the violin in his lap, he turned his attention for the hundredth time to the glowing bars, within which resided the captured hatchling. Now conscious, the dangerous-looking bird had so far said nothing, simply glaring with hatred at him. Initially it had attempted to free itself by smashing its body against the bars of Faegan’s wizard’s cage, of course to no avail. This much, the wizard knew, was to be expected.

Even after his painstaking examination of the bird while it had remained unconscious, he still had serious doubts as to his plan. So had Wigg. After hearing of Faegan’s idea, he had instantly blustered and argued, finally saying he could not give his blessing to such a thing. He had instead gone off to meditate, trying to envision how he could somehow come to a compromise with Faegan. But in his heart Wigg knew it would probably have to be all or nothing. Half measures certainly would not work, and might prove to be even more dangerous.

Faegan could easily understand Wigg’s concern, for such a thing had never been attempted. Their knowledge of this particular branch of the craft was still very much in its infancy. But these were extraordinary times, he had told Wigg, and they needed to make use of any advantage they could think of. Even one this tenuous. And they needed to do it quickly.

Faegan again put the violin beneath his chin and started to play, going over in his mind the few facts that he had become relatively sure of regarding the bird. The hatchling had not spoken, but the wizard believed it was able to. When Faegan had first produced the instrument and begun playing it, the bird’s red eyes had widened, and it shuffled back and forth as if in surprise. It had started to form a word but had then closed its beak. It was no doubt under orders to remain silent if captured, Faegan realized.

He was quite sure that the hatchlings were a product of the Vagaries, since they were not only used for destruction but also seemed to relish their work. He knew that the spell needed to conjure such beasts was very intricate indeed, and had most assuredly been given to Nicholas by the Heretics via Forestallment. This last point, he reasoned, was the worst of the problems.

As he played, the unfazed hatchling continued to stare hatefully at him from between the glowing bars of its cage.

Faegan heard the massive door open and knew without turning that it must be Wigg. He put aside his violin to lead his old friend to a chair.

After a very long sigh of resignation, Wigg spoke. “Are you sure there is no other way to accomplish your idea?” he asked. “This is so risky I don’t even know how to begin to broach my many concerns! Such a thing has never been tried before, and we still know so little about Forestallments! And it is her very life we are talking about, not just her mind. Are you sure there is no other way?”

“We have been over and over this,” Faegan answered gently. “If you have a better plan, I am ready to listen. But as we sit and do nothing, every moment that passes Nicholas grows stronger, and we weaker. I checked the Paragon again today, and more than half of its color is now gone. I’m sure that you, like me, have sensed the acute reduction in your powers. Not a very pleasant experience, is it? It is time, Wigg. Like it or not I feel we have to proceed, before we both become powerless. And as the stone weakens, so does my warp that holds the hatchling at bay, and it’s far too valuable to kill.” He smiled coyly, though he knew Wigg couldn’t see the expression. “Do you really want it running loose through the palace, Lead Wizard?”

Scowling, Wigg ignored Faegan’s sarcasm. “But do you really believe the strength of her blood will prevail?” he asked. Uncharacteristically, he wrung his hands. “I know the theory proves itself on paper, but there is still so much about Nicholas and his spells that we do not know, not to mention the Heretics . . .”

“I too have grave doubts,” Faegan said. “It is true that again exposing her mind to the Vagaries, especially after her vicious treatment by the Coven, may be the end of her. But I believe her Forestallment, coupled with the nearly unparalleled quality of her blood, will overcome. Provided she agrees I feel we must push forward. Did she accompany you here?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “She waits in the hall. Given the nature of the situation, I requested that she leave the baby with Martha. I have explained nothing of this to her. But if we are to do this, there is something I must insist upon. She must know everything involved—especially the reasons for this and the accompanying risks. Only then can I consent. May the Afterlife grant us success.”

“The Afterlife is precisely the problem, is it not, old friend?” Faegan asked, unknowingly echoing Wigg’s thoughts of the previous day. “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I love her too.”

Wigg nodded resignedly, tacitly giving his consent.

Faegan rolled himself to the door and opened it, then ushered Shailiha in.

This was her first time to see the hatchling, and on noticing it she took a step back, looking nervously from one wizard to the other.

“It cannot harm you,” Faegan said gently, motioning her to a chair.

“Is this the creature that Tristan brought to the Redoubt?” she asked, coiling up a little as she sat in a nearby chair.

“Yes,” Wigg said.

Shailiha stared at it a moment longer, then turned to the wizards. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What is it that you desire of me?”

In careful, measured tones, Faegan and Wigg began to explain their plan to her. At first she did not respond. But as they finally described the most important part of it, she shrank back farther into the chair. They told her that what she was about to do must be of her own free will, but that it was not just for the sake of her brother that she would be making the attempt, but also for the survival of her entire nation. And then they told her why it must be done. Upon hearing this, her eyes went wide. They went on to say what she must do should the process be successful.

“There is another fact you need to know,” Wigg said softly. “It is entirely possible that you could die in this attempt. We believe the spell used to conjure the hatchling will be very powerful indeed, having come directly from the Heretics themselves. Given your relative weakness from the Chimeran Agonies, we cannot be sure your blood will be able to stand the strain. But we feel its virtually unsurpassed quality will win out.”

Shailiha nodded her understanding.

“And one last thing,” Faegan added. “Perhaps the most difficult of all, in fact, given how much you love the prince. Should you be successful, no one outside of this room is to know what happened here. No one. No matter the circumstances. Especially Tristan. And for the good of us all, we will eventually be forced to tell him a lie. A lie that he must believe totally, and without hesitation. It will become imperative that you join with us in this. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said quietly, staring at the awful thing in the cage.

“Come to me, Princess,” Wigg said.

Shailiha walked to him. He felt for her hands and took them in his own. “What say you?” he asked. “Will you do this thing?”

She turned to look at the beast in the cage. The hatchling stared hatefully back at her with its grotesque, red eyes.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I owe you, Faegan, and Tristan my very existence. And I love you all more than my life. I also know that you mean only well in all of this. Therefore, I will try.”

“Very well,” Wigg replied, his voice cracking with emotion. He turned toward the other wizard. “Faegan, if you please,” he said.

“Of course.” Narrowing his eyes, Faegan encapsulated the bird’s body in an additional manifestation of the craft. At first the beast tried to struggle, but in the end it settled down, unable to move in any way.

Shailiha walked slowly toward the glowing cage. Stopping before it, she looked back to Faegan for a sign of support. Smiling slightly, he nodded to her.

Shailiha took a deep breath and tentatively slid one of her hands into the cage.

The hatchling was held immobile by Faegan’s warp, but as Shailiha’s trembling hand continued its dangerous journey toward the great bird, the hatchling’s eyes began to glow an even deeper, fiercer red.

Carefully, very carefully, the princess wrapped her fingers around the leathery, pointed top of the bird’s head. Almost immediately a change overtook her.

She began to perspire, and her entire body started to shake. She lowered her head like an animal, moving it back and forth as if in some kind of trance. When she finally lifted her face again, her eyes had rolled up high beneath her lids. Her teeth were bared in a kind of silent, almost vicious snarl, and her breathing was heavily labored, her chest heaving mightily. Faegan feared she might die. He watched in helpless frustration, desperately wondering whether they had done the right thing.

But then her sense of self and her breathing slowly returned to normal, and she finally removed her hand from the creature’s head. Still standing before it, she adopted a stance with her legs spread slightly, her arms folded across her chest, and glared directly into the thing’s bloodred eyes.

Neither bird nor woman flinched. It was as if the two of them had suddenly become locked within a place and time that somehow only they could inhabit. Everything about Shailiha now suggested an attitude of complete power and domination. Sensing the moment was right, Faegan terminated the warp holding the bird. Seeing the azure glow fade away, Shailiha spoke.

“Who is it that you serve?” she asked rather harshly.

“Only you, Mistress,” the hatchling answered dutifully, breaking its self-imposed silence for the first time since being captured.

The hatchling called her mistress! Faegan’s mind shouted out to him. But of course it would! The Forestallments in Shailiha’s blood are of Failee’s doing, and she would have wanted all of her endowed creatures to address the princess in that way! It makes perfect sense!

“And who are Nicholas, Ragnar, and Scrounge?” she asked, employing the second of the questions the wizards had instructed her to put to the bird.

“I know of no such beings,” the bird answered obediently. “My entire world is only of you, my mistress.”

We have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams! Faegan realized. Not only has her touching an endowed, winged creature of the craft enacted the Forestallment, just as it did with the fliers of the fields, but the superior quality of her blood has actually pushed out all of the hatchling’s memories of its original master. This bird will truly do our bidding.

“I shall ask you a question,” Shailiha continued, “and you shall endeavor to respond without the use of the spoken word, using only your thoughts to reveal the answer to my mind. Tell me, hatchling, what is my name and title?” The princess closed her eyes, waiting for a response.

And then suddenly there it was, resonating within her mind as clear as if the bird had spoken it with its tongue. Shailiha, fifth mistress of the Coven.

She turned, repeating the answer verbatim to the wizards.

And then she collapsed to the floor.

Faegan rushed to her and used the craft to lift her body into a chair.

“What is it?” Wigg shouted urgently. “What’s going on?”

“She collapsed,” Faegan answered.

The princess looked pale and drawn. Faegan lifted one of her eyelids, peering in. Seemingly satisfied, he closed it again. “I think she is going to be all right.”

Shailiha stirred, then opened her eyes and sat up a little straighter, getting her bearings. “Did we succeed?” she asked thickly. Her hair was matted against one side of her face from perspiration, and she weakly hooked some of it behind her ear. “Did I really do it?” she asked again. “I cannot completely remember . . .”

“Oh, yes,” Faegan answered her. “And to our wildest expectations. But there is still one thing I do not know. Are you able to communicate with the minds of all of the other hatchlings, or only this one before us?”

“Only this one,” she answered, looking back at the bird in the glowing cage. “Why is that, when I can communicate with all of the fliers if I choose to?”

Faegan paused for a moment, lost in the question. “Presumably because the magic sustaining the hatchlings is stronger,” he answered at last. “As such, your Forestallment, especially with your blood not having yet been trained, could only penetrate so far. Remember, we assume that this spell for Nicholas’ creatures came directly from the Heretics themselves. Given that premise, it is a true testament to your blood that you were able to accomplish as much as you did.”

Shailiha slowly stood, testing her legs, then walked gingerly to the cage. “I no longer fear it,” she said rather absently. “It is mine now, heart and soul.” Wigg stood, and Shailiha went to take him by the hand.

“Thank you, my child,” he said with shiny eyes, “for all that you have done here. But I think we should leave now. I want you to get some rest.”

The three of them walked to the door. Before going through, Shailiha suddenly stopped, turning back to the hatchling for the last time. She commandingly trained her eyes upon the beast.

“In my absence you are to obey these two men, and these two men only, just as you would obey me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered, lowering its head slightly in submission. Even the glowing sense of hatred that had once possessed its eyes was now gone.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, Faegan leaned toward Shailiha’s ear and whispered something to her.

The princess nodded and again addressed the bird. “There is one other order I have for you, and it is to be obeyed to the letter, as are all of my demands. Do you remember the Chosen One, the man without wings who brought you here?” The bird nodded. “Good,” Shailiha said. “Under no circumstances is he to become aware of your powers of speech. You are never to speak in his presence, nor to answer him should he ever ask you anything by which he might test you in this regard. And test you he will, mark my words. In addition, only the three people you see here before you are to know that you can speak. Should any others be present, anyone at all, you are to remain silent. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered. “It shall be as you order.”

“Well done.” Wigg smiled.

“Indeed,” Faegan added, winking. No longer having a reason to contain his delight, he levitated his chair and, cackling, whirled twice in a circle in the air before lowering himself back to solid ground. Wigg scowled. Shailiha smiled weakly.

And then the three of them, one wizard on each side of the exhausted princess, left the room, starting down the halls.

40

When Tristan finally regained consciousness, pain wracked his entire body, and he was weak and trembling. His breathing was labored, and he was covered with perspiration. Lying on his back in the snow, as he looked up all he could see were the leafless tops of the trees, swaying gently in the wind. And then he vaguely remembered being dragged toward the woods by Ox. He could feel as much as see the Minion warrior sitting nearby in the snow, carefully watching over him.

He tried to raise himself, but couldn’t help falling back to the ground. Immediately Ox was next to him, helping him to sit up. Then the vomiting came, and seemed to last forever. Finally feeling somewhat better, he looked over to the Minion.

“Thank you,” he said weakly. He smiled at the warrior.

“Ox only do what wizards say,” the warrior replied, an uncharacteristically worried look gracing his usually menacing face. “Ox again glad Chosen One lives.”

“You dragged me here, didn’t you?” Tristan asked.

“Ox bring here, so other Minions not see Chosen One sick. That bad for new lord of Minions.”

Tristan noticed a strange taste in his mouth, coming from something that seemed to be lodged between two of his teeth. He liberated it and spat what looked to be a tiny piece of tree bark into the palm of his hand. “What’s this?” he asked. “Did you do this, too?”

Ox picked up a small, wet length of tree branch. There were deep bite marks at its center. “Ox put this into Chosen One’s mouth, just as wizards say,” the Minion answered. “Keep from swallowing tongue, or Chosen One could die.” He smiled, almost sheepishly. “Chosen One almost bite Ox finger off.” He raised his eyebrows at the prince. “Ox thinking maybe wizards would have to put it back on, like foot.”

Another faint smile came to Tristan’s lips. “How long have I been out?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head. Ox looked up between the tree branches, finding the sun.

“It midday. You gone about five hours.”

Five hours, Tristan thought glumly. I have now had the second of my four convulsions. I can’t begin to imagine a third. Two more, and I will be a dead man.

Looking down at his right arm, he saw that the menacing black veins had lengthened even farther, extending into his hand. His arm felt far more stiff and sore than before. He sat there for some time saying nothing, quietly thinking to himself before trying to stand up.

With Ox’s help he finally came to his feet. He checked his weapons, also taking stock of where he was. Thankfully, the warrior had dragged him approximately twenty meters into the woods. Through a clear spot at the edge he could just make out the dark soil of the grave he had unearthed, and the heel tracks left in the snow. Choosing to say no more of it, Tristan began to exit the forest, Ox in tow. After walking silently past the grave, they headed for the Recluse.

The partially constructed foundation of the blue marble rose commandingly into the air, resting squarely atop the island in the center of the magnificent lake. But as Tristan and Ox approached the first of the two drawbridges, they could see no one. Nor were there any of the normal, busy sounds of construction work, or voices ringing out through the air that would accompany an undertaking as grand as the rebuilding of a castle. Sensing something was amiss, Tristan and Ox slowly stopped. It was then that they heard the sound. Cheering.

Turning, Tristan finally noticed a mound of earth to his right. It was approximately one hundred meters away, and covered with snow. It rose upward for about thirty meters, ran for some distance, and then descended to some depth. Looking at it, Tristan came to realize that it was a great bowl of some sort. The bowl was obviously man-made, and he was sure it had not existed at the time of Shailiha’s rescue.

Looking quizzically to Ox, he asked, “Do you know what this is? Why is there shouting coming from it?” The hollering and cheering seemed to come in waves, rising and then subsiding, over and over again.

“Was built after Chosen One leave first time,” Ox answered. He looked Tristan in the eyes, but it was clear he did not quite know how to proceed. “Is for Kachinaar.”

Tristan looked back at the mound. “What is a Kachinaar?”

“Is warrior’s vigil,” Ox said. “If one warrior accuses another, then Kachinaar held. If contest fails, then warrior guilty and killed, punishment already done. If contest succeeds, then innocent, warrior set free. Kluge use Kachinaar very much, sometimes in other ways. Traax use too.”

Tristan’s jaw went slack. “What happens during this Kachinaar?” he asked quickly.

“Kachinaar take many forms,” Ox said. “Best go look.”

Tristan had originally hoped to see Traax, the second in command, in a private setting. But on the other hand, confronting a great number of the Minions at once might prove more effective. Provided, of course, that they accepted his rule over them. And besides, there seemed to be no one at the construction site to speak with, anyway.

“All right,” he said resignedly. “But I do not want our appearances made known until I say so, do you understand?”

Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. “I live to serve,” he said quickly. Together they started up the side of the embankment. Finally reaching the top, they looked down.

Layered from top to bottom against the inner side of the earthen walls was row after row of blue marble seats filled with shouting and cheering Minion warriors. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was apparent to Tristan that many of them were quite drunk. The amphitheater was in the shape of an oval, rather than a circle, as he had first presumed. The floor in the center was made also of blue marble, presumably having been taken from the nearby construction site. Tristan ordered Ox to lie on his stomach behind the last row, then followed suit.

There were perhaps a dozen Minion warriors on the floor of the amphitheater, where they seemed to be playing some kind of violent, deranged game. Arranged into two teams, each was struggling mightily to gain and keep control of some type of ball. As one warrior would gain possession of it and try to make it to the opposite side, those from the other team would use any and all means—short of weapons, he noticed—to try and take it away. There seemed to be no other rules whatsoever. Blood lay pooled in many areas upon the slick marble floor, and the bodies of several of the warriors, apparently smashed senseless from their previous participation in the game, lay inert along the sides of the ring. Some of them, unconscious and their mouths open, were quite obviously missing teeth. Others of them were splayed out in very unnatural directions, their limbs obviously broken. It was then, during a split-second break in the action, that Tristan could finally see the “ball” clearly. It was the severed head of a fellow warrior.

Aghast, Tristan turned to Ox. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

Ox indicated an area segregated from the others. Small and square, it held a single warrior. He was seated in a marble chair, his hands, wings, and feet bound tightly with rope. He looked extremely worried.

“He accused,” Ox whispered back. “If team on right side take head across to opposite end three times first, then he guilty, and die. If team on left get head and take across other way three times first, then he innocent, and live.”

Tristan shook his head back and forth in utter disbelief. “This is insane!” he snarled. “Only a proper court can make a man guilty or innocent! Besides, I outlawed this kind of behavior before I left Parthalon! Why are they disobeying me?”

Ox looked back, an obvious expression of complete misunderstanding upon his face. “Pardon, but Chosen One wrong,” he said as courteously as he knew how. “Chosen One never outlaw Kachinaar. Ox know. Ox there that day in courtyard.” He looked back down to the bizarre game. “Is Minion way,” he added with finality, the pride in his warriorship showing through.

Tristan thought for a moment, his mind going back to that awful day when he had slain their previous leader, subsequently being anointed the new lord of the Minions. Ox is right, he finally realized. I only outlawed those things that I knew of at the time. He looked back down at the horrific game as the warriors continued to gleefully, recklessly maim each other.

“Why do they use the head of a warrior?” Tristan asked. “And where did it come from? Did they kill someone just to provide a head for this awful game?”

“If two warriors accused for same crime, and first one guilty in different Kachinaar, then head brought here for second. Is only time this place used. Kachinaar in theater special, and much enjoyed. Minions like.”

Tristan looked down again at the accused, sitting alone in the marble box. “If this man is found guilty, then how will he die?” he asked, playing along for the moment.

Ox pointed to another segregated area at the side of the amphitheater floor. “There,” he said. “If guilty, warrior go to that.”

Tristan’s eyes followed Ox’s thick arm.

Lashed beneath huge rope nets, a long, black creature was being kept under tight control. Huge, sleek, and deadly looking, it had a barbed, reptilian tail and a head and face that closely resembled a rat. Pink, obscene-looking gills lay just behind its head.

In the same area in which it was confined could be seen a rather large pile of what looked to be human bones, long since polished clean and glistening in the cold afternoon sun. Bits and tatters of what was once obviously the leather body armor of Minion warriors still somehow clung to many of them.

“What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” he whispered urgently.

“Swamp shrew,” Ox whispered back. “If warrior guilty, they push him down shrew throat.”

Tristan shook his head and closed his eyes. For as long as I know the Minions of Day and Night, they will continue to amaze me, he thought. Just as with the wizards.

He turned his attention back to the raucous game below, and to the plight of the warrior in the marble box. He knew he had to make a decision quickly, but he remained unsure of what to do.

Suddenly the warriors stood and cheered. A player in the game had finally been able to take the severed head deep enough into the opposite team’s territory, placing it triumphantly on the floor of the theater for what was apparently the third and final time. His teammates ran to leap happily upon him, literally burying him with their bodies and wings.

“Kachinaar over,” Ox said. Tristan held his breath, at first not wanting to ask.

“Is he—”

“Warrior innocent,” Ox answered, interrupting the prince. “Warrior live.”

Tristan let out a thankful sigh and tried to focus again on his now-more-pressing problem. “Ox,” he whispered, “are you strong enough to carry me in your arms when you fly?”

The huge Minion smiled, puffing out his chest. “Few that strong, but Ox able.”

Tristan bit his lower lip, thinking. It would definitely create a dramatic entrance, he thought. That is exactly what I need. And now would be the perfect time. It was then that he saw Traax.

Traax had left his seat and was walking toward the validated warrior, apparently to free him. Tristan took in Traax’s tall, muscular stature and the fact that he was one of the few Minions he had ever seen who was clean-shaven. Younger and more handsome than Kluge had been, Traax wore his long, dark hair tied in the back with a piece of black leather. The Minion commander drew his dreggan, and the familiar ring of its blade drifted through the theater. He expertly severed the Minion’s bonds with a few sure strokes, then took him into a congratulatory bear hug. The entire crowd leapt to their feet at once, arms waving in the air. Minion ale and wine slopped over many of the warriors’ heads and the amphitheater seats. The cheering was deafening.

“Ox,” he said quickly, “pick me up and fly me around the theater twice, then land us in the center, directly before Traax.”

“I live to serve,” the warrior said. Picking Tristan up, Ox snapped open his strong, leathery wings. Taking a few quick steps down the other side of the embankment, he launched himself into the air.

Tristan was mesmerized by his first experience of flight. The cold wind in his face was bracing, the sensation of freedom wonderfully intoxicating. Ox soared higher, his strong wings carrying them around the perimeter of the theater. Many of the Minions began to point into the air at them, shouting among themselves. Finally completing the two turns ordered by the prince, Ox swooped to the center of the amphitheater floor and landed gently. He let the prince down directly in front of Traax.

The entire theater went silent as Tristan and Traax stared at each other in an obvious contest of wills. No one moved; no one spoke. The only sound was the cold, swirling wind as it blew in and out of the great bowl.

Tristan stared calmly into Traax’s green eyes, not giving an inch.

He must speak to me first, thereby recognizing my authority over him, he remembered. Even Traax does not know how important this moment is. For if he will not honor my authority, I cannot order the Minions back to Eutracia, and all is finished for us.

The initial look of surprise in Traax’s eyes was quickly replaced by one of skepticism, as if he did not wish to relinquish command of his legions, no matter how briefly. His jaw hardened, one brow coming up questioningly, almost sarcastically. Every pair of Minion eyes was on Traax, waiting to see what he would do.

After several silent, excruciatingly tense moments, Traax relented, slowly going down on one knee. “I live to serve,” he said in a strong, clear voice.

Immediately the entire body of warriors in the theater also went to their knees. “I live to serve,” they said as one, the many voices seeming to shake the very coliseum in which they stood.

Tristan showed no outward signs of emotion, but his heart was leaping. He’d done it, he thought. But now that he had control, he had to learn to keep it.

“You may rise,” he shouted to the theater as a whole. Traax came to his feet. The other warriors did the same, continuing to stand at stiff attention.

“The Chosen One graces us with his presence,” Traax said, bowing slightly. Tristan thought there might be a hint of sarcasm in the Minion officer’s voice, but he brushed the concern away. “It is an honor,” Traax added, this time a bit more humbly. He then looked at Ox, and to the foot that had once been severed from the warrior’s body. “I see your foot is healed,” he mentioned. “I am glad the Chosen One’s wizards were successful.”

Bowing shortly, Ox clicked his heels.

“I have come for your report, as I said I would that day in the courtyard,” Tristan replied calmly, continuing to hold Traax’s eyes in his. “There are also urgent matters to discuss pertaining to Eutracia. Is there somewhere more private that we may speak? What I have to say is for your ears only.”

“Of course,” Traax said. “Follow me, my lord. But first may I request permission to return these warriors back to their duties of rebuilding the Recluse?”

Tristan had almost forgotten them, focused as he had been upon Traax. “Granted,” he said.

With a wave of his arm, Traax indicated the Minions were to leave. At once the several thousand warriors took to the air, flying back in the direction of the castle. “Now, if you will follow me,” Traax said.

Tristan and Ox followed him out the amphitheater and around the outer edge, finally stopping before a rather elaborate entrance of marble that had been constructed into the wall of the embankment. It was guarded on either side by very large, fully armed warriors. Opening the door, Traax beckoned Tristan and Ox within.

Once inside, Tristan was surprised. He had expected something rather stark, as was his overall impression regarding most things of the Minions. Instead the chambers here were light and airy, the marble of the palest indigo, with carpets on the floor and comfortable furniture placed tastefully about. A broad marble conference table with six chairs sat in the middle of the largest of several such rooms. Oil chandeliers gave the chamber a soft, inviting glow. It was not entirely unlike being in one of the smaller rooms of the Redoubt.

They each took a seat at the table. In an obvious gesture of respect, Traax removed his dreggan and placed it on the tabletop. Tristan and Ox replied in kind.

“Food and drink?” Traax asked.

“Yes,” Tristan answered, suddenly realizing how hungry and thirsty he was.

Traax slapped his hands, and almost immediately two Minion women appeared, coming to stand by the table. Tristan realized that these were the first Minion women he had ever seen.

They were quite beautiful.

They stood proudly, rather than adopting the meek, subservient postures he imagined they had been forced to maintain under Kluge’s command. It would be interesting to see how Minion society emerged, provided his orders remained in place, he thought.

“Food and wine,” Traax said to the women. “The grouse, I think. And be quick about it.” He then looked to Tristan, pursing his lips. “Please,” he finally added, in a softer, less commanding tone. As the women walked away, Tristan thought for a moment he could see slight smiles come to their lips. He had a hard time repressing one of his own, but he managed.

“They are strong, the Minion women,” Traax said thoughtfully. “Many of the warriors, especially those who have recently married as a result of your permission, seem to be even happier than before. Minion warriors prefer their women to be forceful, and sexually aggressive. Given their newfound freedoms, the females have responded in kind. Many of them have even made significant suggestions as to the rebuilding and decorating of the Recluse.” He spoke almost as if it were astounding that mere women could accomplish such intellectual acts. Then one corner of his mouth came up. “As I said, my lord, your changes have been interesting.”

“Please give me your report,” Tristan said. “I particularly wish to hear of your progress in the orders I gave you just before I left Parthalon. But be brief. There is much left for us to discuss.”

Traax nodded, quickly outlining for Tristan the progress that had so far been made.

When Traax had finished, Tristan asked, “What were the crimes of those who endured the Kachinaar? And why is this theater here?”

“The first warrior, the one whose head you saw, was accused of forcibly taking another man’s Gallipolai wife,” Traax said. “There was truly little doubt that he was guilty. His vigil failed, reinforcing not only the fact that other men’s women are no longer to be shared, but that the Gallipolai are no longer slaves.” Traax spoke as casually about this brutality as though he were discussing the weather.

“If two or more Kachinaars are to be held within days of each other, should the first accused be found guilty we also take his head, using it for the theater games,” he continued. “It was said the second fellow, his friend, also took the woman after the first one did. But his guilt was far less certain. In any event he survived his vigil, and is now free.” He paused for a moment, smiling.

“And to answer your second question, the theater was constructed of imperfect marble pieces left over from the site of the Recluse,” he went on. “There is still more work to be done upon it, such as decorative statues and the like. I ordered the stadium built so that if more than one accused was to suffer the Kachinaar at once, or if I deemed the crime to be important enough, far more of the Minions would be able to watch. It has become quite a tradition.” He smiled again, leaning in conspiratorially. “As you saw, we even keep a live shrew here, for just this very purpose. It tends to add a great deal of liveliness to things. Sometimes bets are taken on which day the shrew will vomit the bones back up.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, trying hard not to appear as disgusted as he felt. “Is there a name you have given to this place?” he asked.

“Of course,” Traax answered. “We call it the Proscenium of Indictment. Other places also serve as venues for the Kachinaar, of course, but the Proscenium is quickly becoming the favorite.”

And just what in the name of the Afterlife do I do about this now? Tristan wondered. Allowing this form of barbarism to exist here, under his aegis, was unthinkable. But he needed these warriors—every single one of them. Eliminating something so popular and that they were obviously so proud of, and doing so on his very first visit, might well cause too much ill will.

Still struggling with the decision, Tristan tried to think of what Wigg would tell him if he were here. Many had been the time, during their search for Shailiha and the Paragon, that the lead wizard had ordered him to forget the things he saw, no matter how vile, and to concentrate instead on the larger goal. Using the Minions to crush Scrounge’s hatchlings and somehow prevent Nicholas from empowering the Gates of Dawn had to take priority. He therefore decided to speak no more of the Proscenium or the Kachinaar for the time being. He would not condemn these traditions. But he would not give them his verbal approval, either. He decided to change the subject.

“And now for the true reason I have come,” he said, looking into Traax’s eyes. “I am ordering as many of the legions as you can possibly spare to Eutracia. Immediately. We have a host of new enemies, and it shall be the Minions’ task to destroy these monsters.” He folded his arms across his chest and sat back. Holding his breath, he waited for Traax’s response.

“It has been too long since we have seen action, my lord,” Traax said. Gripping the hilt of his dreggan, he held the shiny blade to the light of the chandeliers. “And it will be good for our swords to again taste blood, especially since we can no longer train to the death. Your enemies are ours.” He refocused his green eyes back on the Chosen One. “Tell me more,” he said eagerly.

At that moment the food came. Tristan became quiet, waiting for the women to depart. The Parthalonian grouse was excellent, perhaps the best bird he had ever tasted. He quickly washed down several helpings of both the seasoned grouse and the dark, rich bread of the Minions with several glasses of hearty red wine. In between bites he gave Traax his orders.

The reconstruction of the Recluse was to be put on indefinite hold, he said. Traax was to begin assembling his men—along with weapons, support staff, materiel, and foodstuffs—and placing it all near the entrance to Faegan’s portal. Also, the fleet anchored at Eyrie Point was to depart as soon as possible, carrying additional troops. Should there be any serious problems in the execution of his orders, a Minion messenger was to immediately come through the portal, informing him.

Tristan described the hatchlings and the scarabs, and Traax only smiled, his sense of anticipation growing. Tristan purposely did not mention Nicholas or the building of the Gates of Dawn. He would explain those things to Traax once the entire force had arrived in Eutracia and were at his disposal. Getting them there was the chief concern now, and he did not wish to confuse the issue for his second in command, or give him a possible reason to object.

Above all, he especially did not want Traax or any of the other Minions to become aware that the wizards were losing their powers.

“There are several other points you must adhere to strictly,” Tristan continued, remembering the things the wizards had insisted upon. “Mark my words well, for your life and the lives of your troops shall depend on it. Should you see any weakness or fading in the consistency of the vortex, it is paramount that no more warriors go through. Such an anomaly will mean either that the portal is about to close, or there is something wrong with its operation. If anyone goes through at that time they could die horribly, forever lost somewhere in between. They are to run through as fast as they know how and as many abreast as the portal allows, so as to add to our numbers on the other side as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Traax answered.

“You are also to leave a small skeleton force here, to continue hunting the shrews. I give you five days to organize all of this. Then you are to come to Eutracia, by way of the portal. You and I still have much to discuss, not the least of which is our plan of battle.”

Traax took a deep breath as he formulated his next thought. He took another sip of the wine. “The Chosen One understands, does he not, that the ocean voyage takes at least thirty days?”

“Yes,” Tristan said. “But there is little we can do about that. And in the meantime Minion troops should be pouring through the portal, especially if my wizards can find a way to enlarge it, or to hold it open longer.”

“And my lord understands the bargain of tenfold times four, the agreement made by the Coven to ensure a safe crossing?” Traax asked politely.

Tristan froze, not knowing what to say. At long last here it is, he thought frantically. He reminded himself that he must never show weakness or a lack of knowledge, especially at this stage. He needed to get the answer without revealing to the Minion that he did not know what it was. He turned to Ox. Having been part of the force that invaded Tammerland, the giant Minion must also know—yet in their great concern for their many other problems, they had not thought to ask him. Tristan saw a hint of concern creep into the corners of Ox’s large, dark eyes. This has to do with the craft, he realized. For nothing else of this world gives pause to a Minion warrior.

“I forced the Coven to reveal the secret of crossing before I killed them all,” Tristan finally said with hardness in his voice, hoping desperately that the Minion would accept the lie. “We must make allowances for the increased degree of difficulty, of course. I know you yourself have crossed, for you were upon the dais in Tammerland that day.” He paused, his jaw hardening. “The day my family and the Directorate of Wizards were all murdered.”

Traax took a long, deep breath, leveling a clearly remorseless gaze at Tristan. “I follow my orders to the letter,” he said sternly, quietly. “No matter who my lord may be at the time. Do you think my great numbers could not have crushed you and your wizard that day in the courtyard when you killed Kluge? But usurping one’s lord in unfair battle is not the Minion way. It is something you shall be quite glad of when we finally arrive again upon your shores.”

Tristan stiffened at the tone in Traax’s voice, but at the same time he knew the warrior was only telling the truth. Tristan was coming to have more than a modicum of respect for the intelligent, clean-shaven Minion sitting before him.

“Tell me your version of the crossing,” Tristan said, finally using his ploy. “I wish to see whether the Coven lied to me.”

Traax nodded, Tristan’s bluff having apparently worked for the moment. “At fifteen days into the voyage, the ships enter a ‘dead zone.’ By this I mean that there is suddenly no wind for the sails, and the sea becomes smooth as glass. The air is so cold that one can see his breath. Then a thick fog coalesces into the shape of two hands, gripping both the bow and stern of the ship, holding it in place. Voices come from faces in the water, demanding the forty dead bodies. We throw them over, and they are consumed. Only then do the Necrophagians, the Eaters of the Dead, allow us to pass.” He paused for a moment, thinking.

“We will, of course, require forty dead bodies. And, as you know, they must be fresh,” Traax added. “If my lord would allow it, I am sure we could easily arrange for a session of training to the death on board, just before entering the dead zone. This could easily result in the required number of fresh corpses.” He paused again, a look of concern growing on his face. “All of this assumes, of course, that the Necrophagians will honor the bargain despite the fact that the sorceresses are not aboard, much less still living.”

Tristan sat back, trying not to appear horrified by Traax’s story. Necrophagians . . . the Eaters of the Dead. He had to find a way to corroborate the bizarre tale—and the one person in this land he was so far willing to trust was Ox. He turned to the huge Minion by his side. “Is this the way you remember it?” he asked.

“Yes, Chosen One,” Ox said.

Tristan nodded. “Then either my wizards shall deal with the Necrophagians, or we shall not cross by sea. One way or another, we shall find a solution.”

Traax gave the prince a strange look.

“Is there something else?” Tristan asked him. “Something you don’t understand?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but this is something I must ask,” Traax replied. “Are you ill?”

Tristan stiffened. “Why do you ask?” he answered as casually as possible.

“The veins in your arm,” Traax said. “They look inflamed. Have you been injured?”

“A battle wound, nothing more,” Tristan lied. “My wizards have already begun the healing process. I shall be by your side when the time comes.”

He stood from the table, indicating that Ox and Traax should follow suit. Each of them replaced their dreggans into their scabbards. Tristan turned to Traax. “Do you understand your orders?”

Traax clicked the heels of his boots together. “Yes, my lord,” he answered quickly. Together the three of them walked outside, reentering the coliseum.

“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Traax asked. “Will you be staying the night?”

“No,” Tristan answered. “We must go back.” With a sense of finality, he looked at the stars. “I ordered my wizard to briefly open the portal each hour until my return. We shall walk to the place at which we first arrived. Our wait will not be long.”

“In that case I shall go to the Recluse, and begin informing the legions of the upcoming campaign,” Traax said. He smiled again. “They will be most happy to hear of it. I shall see you in Eutracia, in five days’ time.”

“Five days,” Tristan repeated. In a final gesture of good faith, he held out his right hand. Traax extended his, as well. With a strong slap, each man firmly grasped the inner side of the other’s forearm. The pact had been made. With that Traax again clicked his heels, then walked away.

Tristan and Ox left the hauntingly beautiful, moon-shadowed Proscenium. The fresh Parthalonian snow crunching beneath their feet, they returned to the spot in which they had arrived. In the near distance the partially rebuilt Recluse shone brightly from the many torches surrounding it, just as it had during the days of the Coven. Suddenly, from the area of the castle came the sound of great cheering and yelling.

His breath leaving his lungs in frosty clouds, Tristan looked to the stars, and to the three rose-colored moons that bathed the twinkling, snowy ground with their crimson hue. He gathered his coat around him and remained that way for some time, thinking of his many loved ones who had died at Minion hands. Ox stood silently by his side, as if the huge warrior had been doing so all of his life.

May the Afterlife grant me the peace to know that what I have done is right.

41

Wigg sat quietly at the rather large table. He had his doubts concerning what Faegan was about to do, but he had finally agreed to it. Faegan sat nearby in his chair on wheels. In his hands he held an oddly shaped glass beaker, its liquid contents glowing brightly with the power of the craft.

Tristan and Ox had not yet returned from Parthalon, but each of the wizards knew it was still too early to be concerned. Shailiha was sleeping safely in her bedroom. The rest of those who lived here in the Redoubt were quietly going about their duties.

The two wizards sat alone in the antechamber that protected the Well of the Redoubt. Several days before, they had removed the stone from around Faegan’s neck and placed it beneath the continually running waters of the Well, hoping that might help protect the stone. That act should also have caused everyone of the craft to lose their gifts, but to their amazement, that didn’t happen. Not only did they all keep their gifts, but the decay of the stone went on unabated.

Wigg and Faegan had just come from checking on the stone. The Paragon losing its color—and at a strangely accelerating rate. To an untrained eye, the loss of color in the Paragon would have appeared fairly constant. But not to someone as highly trained as Faegan. This had set the curious master wizard to thinking. As a result he had come to view the entire problem of the fading jewel in a potentially new light.

A murky light, he thought as he sat there in his chair, holding the odd beaker he had brought with him. But not one without possibilities in the darkness of our troubles.

Given his tenuous but hopeful new hypothesis, he had immediately gone to the Archives to do research. It had taken some time, but he eventually found the rather esoteric calculations he was looking for. Then had come several hours in one of the Redoubt laboratories, laboring to get the mixture just right.

Due to his reduced powers, it had taken him far longer to accomplish this than normal. The hard-won result was the glowing fluid he now held.

“Are you really sure that this is going to work?” Wigg asked, ever the skeptic.

“What’s wrong, Wigg?” Faegan retorted impishly. “Do you no longer trust my abilities?” His experience of being back in one of the laboratories again, even though difficult, had energized him. Just as it always did. Research, followed by the successful physical application of its results, were his favorite aspects of the craft.

“Let’s see,” he continued, feigning an air of ignorance. “First it was the Forestallments I had to convince you of. You fought back hard on that one. And then came the bond between Shailiha and the hatchling. You were highly skeptical about that one, too. But I was correct on both counts, I believe. Will you never be able to admit that I sometimes get things right?” His gray-green eyes twinkled, and he dangled the beaker tauntingly at Wigg, even though he knew his friend could not see him doing so. “Would you like to try for two out of three?”

Unwilling to join into the game, Wigg simply sighed. “Has Shawna the Short done her part in this foolishness?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Faegan said happily. “She informed me this very morning that she was quite finished. And she took great relish in it, I can assure you. It took her the past two evenings to finally accomplish her mission without raising suspicion. She has, of course, absolutely no idea why I would request something so bizarre. She has also been sworn to secrecy regarding her actions.” Faegan smiled. “She certainly loves a good mystery. Almost childish about it, in fact.”

She’s not the only one, Wigg thought. “Let’s get on with it,” he growled.

Closing his eyes, Faegan levitated Wigg in his chair. Then he levitated himself, chair and all, in the same fashion, and carefully removed the stopper from the beaker. He slowly poured the azure fluid out into a small, glowing puddle on the floor of the room.

His expression became more serious, and he closed his eyes in concentration. Almost immediately the fluid began to spread across the floor, finally progressing from wall to wall and corner to corner. Not one scintilla was left uncovered. And then, after several moments had passed, the fluid completely disappeared.

Faegan opened his eyes, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Time to go, Wigg,” he said softly. “Our work here is done.”

With that, the single door at the opposite side of the room swung open by itself and the two wizards floated from the room, coming to rest on the floor of the hallway outside.

The great mahogany door closed firmly upon its strange secret as the two ancient friends made their way back down the hallways of the Redoubt.

42

Tristan sat with Faegan, Wigg, and Shailiha behind closed doors in the Archives of the Redoubt. As usual, Morganna slept in the sling across Shailiha’s chest. It had taken the prince some time to relate his experiences in Parthalon.

The wizards’ expressions had become far graver when they heard the macabre tale of the Necrophagians.

“We simply cannot allow the armada to cross,” Faegan said. “The Necrophagians’ bargain was with the Coven, and the sorceresses are all dead. We have no way to know whether the bargain would still be honored, and we can’t risk losing all those warriors for nothing.” He thought for a moment. “We must send Ox back to Parthalon immediately, with written orders from Tristan to belay the sailing.” He stroked his blue cat as it contentedly purred in his lap. “It seems I shall just have to speed up my efforts to find a way of both widening the portal, and holding it open longer.” He sighed deeply. “But it shall not be easy.”

Tristan looked to Shailiha. She seemed more pale somehow, and weaker. “Are you all right?” he asked earnestly. “Did something happen to you while I was away?”

Knowing how much she cared for her brother and how difficult it was for her to lie to him, the two wizards held their breath, hoping against hope she would say the right thing. Shailiha stifled the urge to bite her lower lip, a dead giveaway whenever she was unsure of herself.

“I’m fine, little brother,” she said reassuringly. She reached out, gently touching the gold medallion that hung around his neck. “No need to worry. I think I’m just tired from all of the excitement.” She saw the wizards uncoil a little. Deftly changing the subject, she took up Tristan’s right hand. “Was it bad?” she asked, referring to his second convulsion.

“Yes, Shai,” he said quietly. “I have never experienced such pain in my life. My right arm is now somewhat weaker, and very sore. Had Ox not been with me, I might have swallowed my tongue and suffocated. I still can’t get used to the fact that a Minion has become one of my friends.” He turned to the wizards. “I don’t suppose there is any point in my asking whether you two are any closer to finding a cure?”

Faegan shook his head slowly. “But we do have something else for you,” Faegan added. “A surprise! Something that I believe will cheer you up.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” he asked skeptically.

“For the answer, you must follow us to the upper levels,” Faegan answered cryptically. Without waiting for Tristan’s response he began wheeling toward the door. “Shall we go?”

Tristan dutifully followed the two wizards and his sister out of the Redoubt and up into the broken, looted palace rooms above. He eventually found himself standing before the doors that once barred entrance to his mother’s private chambers.

“And just what is it that you all think is so interesting here?” he asked. One corner of his mouth came up.

“Why don’t you open the door and see for yourself?” Wigg asked him. The smile was one of the few Tristan had seen on the lead wizard’s face in weeks, and it only added to the deepening mystery. The prince took a breath and then turned the doorknob, walking purposefully into the once-sumptuous room.

Considering the fact that the wizards were involved, he could have witnessed any number of bizarre things in these rooms, and he knew it. But what stood before him now was the last thing he had ever expected. Especially here, in his mother’s chambers.

The hatchling he and Ox had captured stood in the center of the room on its strong rear legs. Seeing the bird was for some reason free of its wizard’s cage, Tristan began to reach for his dreggan. But then he saw that the bird was calm, and was regarding him with only mild interest.

Faegan cackled. “You won’t be needing your sword. I suggest you take another look.”

Tristan carefully examined the beast. Something about it was clearly different. And then, recognizing why, he immediately understood what was going on.

They’ve broken it, or trained it somehow! he realized.

The bird made no move to escape out the open balcony doors behind it. Tristan’s eyes immediately went to the odd-looking saddle and stirrup combination that had been cinched to the hatchling’s back, and then to the bridle and reins. His eyes widened with sudden realization.

They actually expect me to ride it! Ride through the sky!

He turned back to the three of them, his jaw slack, to see that they were all smiling from ear to ear. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Wigg replied. “But in all fairness we have some explaining to do.”

“An understatement, I’m sure,” Tristan muttered. He turned to his sister. “I assume you knew about this,” he added.

As she rocked the baby slightly, Shailiha could not keep from biting her lip. “I knew, but I really didn’t have anything to do with it,” she lied convincingly. “It was all the wizards’ idea.”

He regarded her narrowly for a moment, finally accepting her answer. “Can this thing talk?” he asked the wizards.

“Unfortunately not,” Wigg lied. “Even though it has human arms. There were apparently three generations of these birds. We believe this one to be second generation, rather than third.”

“Did you ever learn how it came to be separated from the others?” Tristan asked skeptically. “Could this be a trick of some kind? How do I know it won’t simply fly me back to the enemy?”

Understandable questions, especially given the fact that we are not being truthful with him, Faegan thought. “We considered that possibility, eventually dismissing it as illogical,” he replied. “You were just with Nicholas in the Caves, and he willingly set you free. Why would he send a single bird out, simply to take you back to him? If he had wished to keep you there, he could have easily done so. Besides,” he added, “the bird fought with all of its strength to keep from being captured, did it not?”

“Yes,” Tristan answered. He rubbed his sore arm, thinking. “But that still doesn’t explain how it came to be wandering around on its own.”

“Faegan and I believe that this bird was one of those that ransacked Ilendium,” Wigg suggested. “In the darkness and chaos that must have ensued, it is easy enough to imagine how one or more of them might have become lost.” He raised the usual eyebrow. “I suggest you start being more positive about all this, and stop looking a gift bird in the mouth, so to speak.”

Tristan turned back to the creature, beginning to think that this might be a blessing in disguise after all. “Where did the strange saddle and bridle come from?” he asked.

“You have Geldon to thank for those,” Wigg answered. “He took them from the palace stables, and modified them for use on the hatchling. As it turns out, among his many other talents he is quite a good leatherworker, as well.”

Being careful not to make any sudden moves, Tristan walked closer to the bird. He closely examined the saddle. The pommel had been enlarged, presumably to provide a better grip. The leather bands leading down to the stirrups had been widened. Leather belts, complete with buckles, had been stitched into them, three on either side.

“What are these extra belts for?” Tristan asked quizzically.

Shailiha smiled. “To keep you from falling off, of course. They go around your legs and buckle in the front, holding you in the saddle.” In truth she had been particularly worried about this, despite the fact that Tristan had always been one of the finest horsemen in the kingdom. Nonetheless, he fell from the bird at any significant altitude, death would be certain—Chosen One or not. It had therefore been she who had insisted on the additional straps.

Tristan simply stood there, not sure of what to say. It seems they have thought of everything. “But none of this explains how you were able to turn the hatchling to our side, or do it so quickly,” he insisted.

Faegan cleared his throat. “It seems that the bird’s ties to Nicholas were not so strong, after all. I reasoned that with so many hatchlings, even he surely cannot keep perfect control over them all, every second of every day. Assuming this to be true, I invoked a spell that allowed me to sense when his control was at its lowest point. That’s when I broke the bond, turning it to our side.” He made a nonchalant, throwaway gesture with one hand. “But all of that is wizards’ business, and you needn’t concern yourself with the whys or the hows of it all.” Watching the prince’s reaction carefully, he sensed that his lies had worked.

“And you really expect me to ride it?” Tristan asked. “What’s wrong with using Pilgrim, just as I always have?”

“You are about to lead the Minions into battle,” Wigg said sternly. “Have you somehow forgotten that they fly? Or that every single lord they have ever had has always been able to join them in the air? This shall be a new kind of battle for you, Tristan. One that takes place primarily in the air, just as Faegan’s prophecy decreed. In addition, this creature can give you greater speed, and the ability to see what is happening on the ground over great distances. Besides, it is our belief that the hatchlings can run as fast across the ground as any horse that ever lived. So what are you going to do, eh? Ride your hatchling into the skies to command the Minions properly, or plod around on the snowy, slippery ground atop Pilgrim, wondering what in the name of the Afterlife is really going on above you?”

Tristan glared at the wizard, finally understanding that Wigg was right. In truth the prince was thrilled at the prospect of riding a hatchling. But there were questions he wanted answered first. The wizards had been acting strangely lately, and he wanted to know why.

But it was clear by the imperious look on Wigg’s face that no more questions were going to be answered at the moment. Tristan turned to his sister. She had a curiously mischievous look in her eyes.

Grasping his medallion, she pulled his face close to hers and raised her eyebrows at him mockingly. “What’s the matter, little brother?” she teased. “Afraid Scrounge can do something you can’t? I hear he doesn’t even need a saddle.”

That was all it took. Taking the medallion from her grasp, Tristan walked to the hatchling. As if the bird knew his wishes, it kneeled down, allowing Tristan easier access to the stirrup. When he climbed aboard, the saddle felt good beneath him, almost as familiar as the one he always used on Pilgrim. He carefully cinched the straps around his thighs, buckling them tight, and finally took the reins. As if he had been doing it all his life, he expertly wheeled the bird around to face the others in the room.

“We’ll see about that,” he said softly. Shailiha held her breath.

Tristan turned the muscular bird toward the balcony, and the hatchling launched itself into the air.

Shailiha, Wigg, and Faegan went to the railing. The princess strained her eyes for as long as she could, as the strange bird carrying her twin brother became little more than a dark speck against the sky, finally vanishing altogether.

“Do you think he believed us?” she asked tentatively.

“That is hard to say,” Wigg answered, pursing his lips. “Tristan is both highly intelligent and very stubborn. But the important thing is that he is finally on the bird.” He turned his unseeing eyes toward the princess. “Your comment about Scrounge was the turning point. Well done. As to whether he believes us—well, who knows? But he must ride none other than that particular monstrosity of the craft into battle if we are to have any hope of succeeding in all of this.”

The three of them finally turned away from the balcony, retreating to the depths of the Redoubt.

43

You have done well, Nicholas, the young adept heard the Guild of the Heretics say. Their many voices came to him as one—both male and female, both strong and soft. It was as if a choir sang the most beautiful songs imaginable within the depths of his consciousness. His very blood was alive with their sound. And as he hovered in the depths of the Caves, taking in their words, he closed his eyes in ecstasy.

The Gates of Dawn shall soon be complete, they said. The Chosen One continues to grow more ill, and will soon come to you on bended knee. Complete the Gates as soon as possible, our son. At that time the Vagaries, the truly sublime side, will reign continually and without contest. And the Ones, our enemies of the craft, shall be locked within the firmament forever.

I shall, my parents, Nicholas told them. I shall.

“Nicholas soared through the cold, clear sky and quickly approached the construction site. He hovered near the magnificent black-and-azure Gates.

The three massive structures had climbed even higher, and their graceful, more artistic aspects would soon be in evidence. Nicholas was pleased. In only two more weeks they would be finished, and he could then activate them, bringing his parents of above back to the earth.

He had just come from yet another blood-drawing session in the special room at Fledgling House. That was the slowest part of the process: He could only take a bit at a time from the children without killing them.

But he still had time. The Chosen One’s Minions were not yet here, and his wizards were already drastically weakened. His father of this earth was therefore in no position to challenge his hatchlings, much less stop the construction of the Gates. Soon, very soon now, the Chosen One would see the awesome power of his son’s creations for himself.

Nicholas flew higher to examine the new construction.

The blood of the children ran freshly from the seams between the great stones, dripping lazily down the sides of the stunning black-and-azure pillars and forming little endowed ponds around each of the legs.

Satisfied, Nicholas backed away, and closed his eyes.

Almost immediately the blood of the children began to turn azure. Steaming with heat and glowing brightly, it began to pull the massive stones closer together, their surfaces grating against one another as the joints slowly, agonizingly fused.

Excess blood ran down the sides of the Gates, leaving macabre, winding trails down the smooth edifices, adding crazily patterned streaks to those already shot deep throughout the stone.

Smiling, Nicholas flew down to hover near the base of one of the legs.

Ragnar stood there waiting, dressed in his fur robes, Wigg’s ceremonial dagger at his side. He bowed, then pulled the robe closer, warding off the cold.

“The bond between the most recently erected stones is now complete,” Nicholas said quietly. “Later this night I will harvest yet more of the children’s blood. I shall return with it at midnight to repeat the incantation for the pieces the consuls shall erect between now and then. In less than a fortnight, we shall be victorious.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered obediently. He placed two fingers into his ever-present vial of yellow fluid, then sucked on them. Almost immediately he felt warmer.

“Keep the consuls working,” Nicholas ordered quietly. “I will brook no slackness in this.”

Again Ragnar bowed, smiling.

Nicholas soared into the sky, his white robe and dark hair billowing about him, and disappeared.

44

The next two days passed in relative calm for Tristan. At first learning to control the movements of the bird and trying to stay in the saddle at the same time had been a challenge.

It was much like riding Pilgrim, he soon discovered, but more unpredictable. And far more dangerous. However, as time went on, he was becoming more and more used to the experience, finding it mesmerizing.

Not only could the bird climb swiftly, but it could also, given the proper commands, hover, seemingly indefinitely, or fold its wings to dive with great speed toward the ground. Tristan dove the bird often, from increasingly greater and greater heights. He would pull up at the last second, only to do it again. He came to love soaring through the white, humid fog of the clouds, only to emerge suddenly out the other side. He quickly came to realize what a wonderful place these clouds—or even the branches of a tree, for that matter—could be to hide from an enemy. And seeing Eutracia from this far up gave him a unique, awe-inspiring perspective on his nation that before he had only dreamed about.

He had also purposely landed the hatchling on a large, bare, snow-covered field to test the wizards’ other belief regarding the creature’s abilities. Sure enough, when finally made to understand, the bird ran across the snowy ground as fast and as surefooted as Pilgrim ever could have.

When he finally landed on the balcony of his late mother’s rooms on the afternoon of the second day, Geldon was there waiting. Tristan walked the bird into the chamber, then dismounted and began removing the saddle and bridle. Geldon closed the balcony doors.

“You have become very good in such a short time,” the hunchbacked dwarf said with a smile. “But there is now business to attend to. The wizards ask for us.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Did they say what it was about?”

“No,” the dwarf answered. “Only that it was important. We are both to go to the antechamber that lies outside the Well of the Redoubt. Now.”

Tristan took a deep breath, shaking off the cold. Then he removed his gray fox coat and slung it over one shoulder. “Very well,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let’s go.”

Inside the chamber, Wigg, Faegan, Shailiha, and Celeste were seated at the ornate table. Behind them, a fire danced merrily in the familiar, light blue fireplace. The prince and Geldon took seats. As always, Tristan found himself acutely aware of Celeste’s presence and the way the fire showed off the highlights in her long, red hair. She smiled at him. Shailiha, on the other hand, looked anxious. Morganna was not with her. But before he could ask her what was going on, the door opened again.

Joshua walked into the room, looked around briefly, and then took a seat at the far end of the table. His hazel eyes took in the group gathered there, then settled on the princess. He smiled.

Faegan cleared his throat. “Now that we are all present, there is something of importance to discuss,” he said sternly. Abruptly he raised one arm, and azure flashed from the ends of his fingers. A wizard’s cage immediately formed about the young consul.

Joshua looked up first in horror, then in fury. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked angrily. “Have you lost your mind?”

Faegan pursed his lips. “No, I think not,” he replied softly. He leveled his gray-green eyes at the younger man. “Tell us, if you would, how it is that you were able to circumvent the death enchantments, considering the fact that you have been practicing the Vagaries?”

Faegan’s question hit Tristan like a thunderbolt. What in the world is the wizard talking about?

Joshua turned to look at Wigg. “What is the meaning of this, Lead Wizard? Surely you cannot be a part of this madness! Tell Faegan that you know me well, and that I have done nothing wrong!”

Wigg sighed long and hard. “You know I cannot do that, Joshua,” he answered. “For you also know that it is not the truth. I may be blind, but there are still some things I am able to see clearly.” He paused for a moment. “And my eyes have finally been opened regarding you.”

“What is it you are accusing me of?” the consul asked frantically, refocusing his attention on Faegan. “I have the right to know!”

“Simply put, you are in league with Nicholas, and we can prove it,” Faegan answered, his face dark. He was literally shaking with anger. It was as if the formidable power he controlled was about to burst forth at any moment in some incredible use of the craft.

“I am not a traitor!” the consul protested. “You have no proof!”

“Oh, but we do,” Faegan countered. “You have been instrumental in helping Nicholas drain the power of the stone. I am now as sure of this as I am my own name. But still, the most interesting piece of the puzzle is how you were able to deny the death enchantments. As a consul of the Redoubt who has willingly taken them upon himself, performing such acts of the Vagaries as I accuse you of would normally result in instant death. So the question remains. Or, put another way, how is it that you continue to live?”

At this, Joshua seemed to calm somewhat. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, he lowered his eyes menacingly at the master wizard across from him. This was a Joshua that Tristan had never seen; it was as though something vile had just come over him.

“First show me your proof, cripple,” he shot back.

“Very well,” Faegan answered calmly. He turned to Shailiha. “Princess, if you please.”

As if in concentration, Shailiha lowered her eyes somewhat. And then, from the bookcase behind the table and directly across from the secret door leading into the Well of the Redoubt, came Caprice, Shailiha’s violet-and-yellow flier. She had apparently been hiding in the dark space that would have ordinarily been occupied by an unusually thick, tall volume. Pausing tentatively for a moment on the edge of the shelf, she launched herself into the air, coming to rest on Shailiha’s arm. From there, presumably at the princess’ silent order, the flier flew down to land on the center of the table, her wings opening and closing silently.

For what seemed to be an eternity, no one spoke.

Joshua looked hard at Wigg. There was venom in his eyes. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he snarled. “Do you really expect me to accept the absurd accusations of some perverted creature of the craft? Especially one without the power of speech, who can communicate only with a woman who has just been supposedly cured of the Chimeran Agonies? No, gentlemen—I’m afraid you’ll have to do much better than that.”

“It’s over, Joshua,” Wigg said softly. “The flier, or should I say the princess, told us everything. You have been helping Nicholas drain the power of the stone. In fact, you have probably been doing so since the process first started. We had long wondered why the rate of decay varied so much from one day to the next—almost as if there were more than one force at work. After you, Faegan, and I placed the stone in the Well, Wigg and I placed the flier here, to determine whether anyone would enter the Well of the Redoubt without authorization. From her hidden perch in the bookcase, Caprice saw you. When you left she informed Shailiha, who in turn informed us. Faegan then immediately came here to check. The rate of decay had been increased, and the only changed variable was your presence.”

“Even if all this were somehow true, it isn’t enough, and you both know it,” Joshua protested. “For all I know this is something the two of you made up—an elaborate hoax of some kind, designed to force me from the Brotherhood.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I have never, in my entire life, been to the Well of the Redoubt alone. The only time I have ever been there is with you.”

This seemed to be exactly what Faegan had been waiting for. “Really?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “We thought you might say something like that.” He turned to the prince. “Tristan,” he said, “please remove the consul’s right boot.”

Tristan stared at the old wizard in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Remove the consul’s right boot, and place it on the table in front of me,” Faegan answered calmly. “I have engineered the warp so that you might reach through it without harm. Except for his right foot, I will momentarily immobilize him so that he cannot resist you.”

Still nonplussed, Tristan nonetheless did as he was asked.

“Thank you,” Faegan said as Tristan walked back to his seat. “Now then,” the wizard went on. “Everyone please observe.”

At once the chandeliers in the room began to dim, until finally the only light came from the bars of the cage holding Joshua. In the eerie glow, Faegan turned his wheelchair toward the center of the room, then raised his arm. A glowing broom appeared and hovered silently in the darkness. Then it began to sweep the floor, until its sparkling, glowing bristles had covered it all. With that, Faegan caused the broom to vanish and the lights to come back up. Tristan looked down at the floor, amazed.

A set of very clear boot prints, glowing with the power of the craft, led to the secret wall panel guarding the Well of the Redoubt, and back again.

“Tristan,” Wigg said. “Go to the boot prints, and look closely at the right heel. Tell us what you see.”

The prince rose, and went to study one of the prints. In the center of the glowing heel mark was a dark letter “J.” He bent down, just to be sure, then turned back to the table and reported what he saw.

“Now,” Faegan said, “if you would also be so kind as to turn over Joshua’s boot.”

Tristan walked to the table and turned over the boot. In the center of the heel had been carved the letter “J.” The exact duplicate of the one upon the floor, it stared back silently at him, a clear testament to what had transpired here.

Speechless, Tristan turned to Faegan. “How?” he asked. “How was this done?”

“A little-known use of the craft,” Faegan replied, turning his chair around and staring directly into the eyes of the consul. “I created an elixir that when spread across the floor subsequently vanishes, but can later reveal the tracks of anyone who walks upon it. Because only his boot prints appear in that area, only Joshua has entered and exited the Well of the Redoubt since I poured the elixir onto the floor. As for the mark on the heel, well, ‘J’ obviously stands for ‘Joshua.’ It was carved there by Shawna the Short. She slipped into his chambers while he was asleep, and did the job for me.” Faegan smiled knowingly into the consul’s face.

“But suppose others had gone there, even for innocent reasons?” Celeste asked from the other side of the table. “Or he had used an accomplice? How would you know who they were?”

Faegan grinned impishly. “Because Shawna did everyone’s boots and shoes.”

Reaching down, Tristan quickly removed his right knee boot and carefully examined the heel. Sure enough, a small “T” had been carved into it. He shook his head. As he put the boot back on, he looked over at the fuming consul in the glowing wizard’s cage. And just what will become of him now?

“What made you suspect him?” Shailiha asked.

“First of all,” Wigg answered, “there was the fact that he has been the only consul to ever make it back to the Redoubt alive. Think about it. Didn’t that ever strike you as strange, given the fact that there were roughly three thousand of them out there? Surely if he could escape the hatchlings and make it to safety, so could at least a few of the others. It is our belief that Joshua traveled from squad to squad as Nicholas’ agent, helping the hatchlings to capture the consuls. We had often wondered how the birds could find the squads so easily, and why it was that the consuls’ powers were completely useless against them. It just made no sense. In both cases we believe Joshua used a superior spell given to him by Nicholas, perhaps even placed into his blood by way of Forestallment. A simple blood signature will tell us that. His emaciated condition and dislocated shoulder were a nice touch, as well. A small price to pay for authenticity and sympathy, wouldn’t you say? And so he came to us, at Nicholas’ orders, to tell us his sad story, infiltrate the Redoubt, and begin helping to drain the Paragon.” Wigg paused, collecting his thoughts.

“And then there was the fact that Joshua would not let Geldon unearth Nicholas’ grave in Parthalon, or at least talked him out of it,” he continued. He looked in the general direction of the dwarf, giving him a short, compassionate smile. “Geldon wanted to bring the body here for you, Tristan, so that you might bury it in the grave site of your parents. He thought that as long as he was there, he would do you a kindness, saving you at least that part of the grief. But Joshua couldn’t allow that, because there was no body to bring back, was there? And finally there was his suggestion that we use Ox as your bodyguard. An idea Faegan and I eventually embraced, ordering Tristan to accept. Fiendishly clever, I’ll give the consul that much. We never told you that it had been Joshua’s idea, but it was.”

“I still don’t understand,” Tristan said. “What has Ox got to do with all of this? Is he a traitor, too?”

“No,” Wigg said, shaking his head. “Ox’s heart is pure, and he would gladly die for you. Nicholas wants you protected, for he still hopes that you will join him in his madness. The poison he ordered placed into your system by Scrounge, as he told you himself, provides the ultimate incentive to do so. Things are starting to make more sense, but I’m afraid there are still far more pieces to the puzzle.”

Tristan stared at the consul, stunned that he could be a traitor. “But what about placing the stone in the Well, and you retaining your powers?” he asked. “How could Nicholas do that?”

“No doubt via one or more of the Forestallments placed into his blood by the Heretics,” Wigg answered. “Perhaps even the same Forestallment that allows our ‘friend’ Joshua to help Nicholas accelerate the decay of the Paragon. As I said, a simple test of the consul’s blood signature will reveal much. For if he is innocent, his signature will contain no Forestallments. Isn’t that right, Joshua?”

The consul stayed silent, his lips drawn into a thin line, his eyes seething with hate.

“Assuming Joshua was our culprit, we needed to be able to prove it without a doubt,” Faegan continued. “I assumed he needed to be near the stone to help with its decay. He was occasionally in my presence as I wore it, but not always. By having him help us place the stone in the Well of the Redoubt, we gave him the opportunity—and the temptation. Wigg and I replaced the Paragon around my neck this morning, after Shailiha informed us of Caprice’s observations.”

“But we still have questions, Joshua,” Wigg said. “Questions that you shall answer—one way or another. How was it that Nicholas was able to defeat your death enchantments? And, even more importantly, is there a way by which we can return the power to the stone?”

Joshua produced an evil, twisted smile.

“Very clever, Wigg.” He nodded. “Yes, I have always been his, right from the moment he first revealed his mind to me, even while he was still a child. Even then his power and knowledge of the craft dwarfed anything you and the cripple have ever seen. But why, you are no doubt wondering. Why is it that a trusted consul would do such a thing? I’ll tell you why, you pompous old man. Because Nicholas promised me the one thing you and your vaunted Directorate would never share with any of us who wear the dark blue robes: power. And with that a complete understanding of the craft, especially the darker side. The adept has promised me things that you could never, in your exclusive, infantile practice of the Vigors, ever conceive of. And I wanted them. Oh, yes, Lead Wizard, I wanted them badly.” The wicked smile again contorted his face.

“And there is something else,” he hissed, so quietly his words were almost inaudible. “There are a great many more of the Brotherhood of Consuls just like me—brothers who went over to Nicholas’ cause willingly. A greater number of us than you could ever imagine. The master removed their tattoos so that they could never be identified.” He paused to stare menacingly at Tristan. “But your son didn’t tell you any of that, did he, Chosen One? No. For you see, there is still far more to all of this than any of you can imagine. But you shall never understand it all, for very soon now shall come the Confluence, and you shall all be quite dead.”

Wigg looked as if he had seen a ghost. Darkness passed across his face like a thunderstorm across the sky, and tears welled up in each of his useless eyes. But Faegan seemed less daunted by what he had just heard. Quickly wheeling his chair closer, he faced the consul directly.

“You said ‘the Confluence.’ What do you mean by that?” he demanded urgently.

“It makes no difference whether you are told, for you cannot possibly stop it now, anyway,” Joshua gloated. “The Confluence is the combination of four separate, but equally necessary elements. First comes the azure blood of the Chosen One, which my master already possesses. Second: a sufficient quantity of the blood of endowed children—blood that is gifted, but still malleable. He now has that, too. Third, waters from the Caves of the Paragon. And finally the power of the Paragon, transferred into the willing, azure blood of just one individual—an individual who is completely devoted to the teachings of the Heretics. The individual the Chosen One himself so conveniently took from the womb of the sorceress Succiu and left behind in Parthalon. As I said, it is the Confluence. Through the unique combination of these elements, the Guild of the Heretics will be allowed to return to the earth, to rule once more.”

Suddenly he smiled again. It was a more knowing and somehow more decisive smile—as if his mind was suddenly made up about something.

“But I digress,” he said, almost casually. “I shall not address your first questions—those of the death enchantments and the power of the stone. Those, I’m afraid, you must decipher for yourself. But there is still one thing of the highest importance that I have yet to mention. It would be quite impolite of me not to do so.”

“And that is?” Faegan asked, leaning forward.

“That death itself is not the end, nor is it even the problem,” Joshua answered cryptically. “That it is, truly, only the beginning. Something the master, in his infinite wisdom, will soon demonstrate to you.”

With that, the consul smiled calmly. Then his eyes began to roll up into his head. Reaching into his robes, he produced a long stiletto with a strange-looking, very tiny hook just visible at the end of the blade. Faegan’s eyes widened in realization and he raised his right arm, but even for the master wizard there was not enough time.

Joshua inserted the strange blade deep into his right ear. As blood gushed out, he slammed it in even farther, then gave the blade a sudden, forceful pull. Tristan heard a moist, muffled crack.

The consul was dead before his face hit the bars of his cage.

After everyone’s shock subsided and they verified that Joshua was truly dead, Tristan dragged the body outside the room to be disposed of later, then came back to the somber gathering.

“Why would the consuls revolt?” he asked. “I thought they were bound, heart and soul, to the Brotherhood and the exclusive practice of the Vigors. And how is it that they have somehow been able to circumvent the death enchantments?”

Wigg had been deeply affected by the news of the consul’s betrayal, and tears ran blatantly down his cheeks. Celeste placed an affectionate hand over his, and the lead wizard closed his ancient fingers around it. He seemed unable to speak.

Faegan, however, having had no such long-term relationship with the Brotherhood, remained more pragmatic. “For the same reasons Joshua mentioned, although I believe I can name a few more,” he said quietly. “First, the nation was destroyed by the Minions. The royal family, with the exception of the Chosen Ones, is dead. As is the entire Directorate, save for Wigg. So to whom do the consuls now owe their allegiance, eh? From their perspective, it is apparently up for grabs. For the first time in over three centuries, there is clearly a power vacuum in Eutracia. Second, Nicholas supposedly offers them far greater power than the Directorate would have ever dreamed of doing. This would be a very tempting proposition, especially in light of the fact that there is now no Directorate to punish them for their actions. They may even consider Wigg to be a traitor to the nation, just as the populace at large considers you, Tristan, to be the willing murderer of your father, the king. And then there is the most compelling reason of all.” Faegan sat back in his chair, his face grave.

“And that is?” Celeste asked, her sapphire eyes alive with curiosity.

“The promise of the time enchantments, granting them eternal protection from both disease and old age, and the concurrent circumvention of the death enchantments, finally freeing them to do literally anything they choose,” Faegan said glumly. “A very tempting package for those already partially trained, and still possessing an overriding curiosity about the craft. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Again the wizard paused, measuring his words. “We must therefore assume, at least for the time being, that the Brotherhood of Consuls is now in revolt.” Like the peals of a death knell, his words hung heavy and deep over the table.

“But Joshua has been exposed, and is dead,” Tristan countered, trying to find a gleam of hope. “Surely that is a good thing.”

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But we are not much better off than before. All we have gained is the fact that the Paragon will not decay so rapidly.”

Shailiha leaned forward, placing her arms on the table. “Joshua talked about the ‘Confluence.’ What is that?”

“The Confluence is mentioned in the Preface to the Tome,” Faegan explained, “and refers to the spell allowing the ‘rebirth,’ if you will, of those who have departed to the Afterlife. It is the concurrent gathering of usually disparate powers that will allow Nicholas to perform his version of the craft, thereby empowering the Gates and the blood of the Heretics locked within them.”

“And what happens then?” Tristan asked.

“It is written in the Tome that the Gates shall literally split open the heavens, releasing the Guild of the Heretics from their bondage in the firmament. The spirits of the Heretics shall then appear, descending from the heavens to come flying through the Gates, passing by their reactivated blood. They will then bond with it, taking on their original, human forms.”

“But if the Heretics can be released, then why are the Ones not released, as well?” Tristan asked.

“Because their blood is not in the marble of the Gates,” Wigg answered. “And is therefore not a part of the Confluence.”

Tristan looked around the table at the dark, defeated faces. Sighing sadly, he turned again to Faegan. “Tell me,” he asked, “why are they called ‘The Gates of Dawn’?”

“The Preface of the Tome states that the activation of the Gates is to take place precisely at dawn,” Faegan answered. “That is the only answer that we have.”

And with that, the room went silent.

45

Tristan stood in the middle of a snowy field some distance north of the royal palace, watching the many individual fires as they roared high into the evening sky. From their hot orange-and-red flames came a sickening odor that brought forth his memories of the destruction of Tammerland. It was the distinctive, unmistakable foulness of burning flesh.

The funeral pyres rose high into the sky, their many levels littered with the mangled and torn corpses of Minion warriors. Tristan had given permission for the pyres to be used, and as their lord he knew he needed to be present at the burnings, to pay his respects to the dead.

There had been many such nights already, and he knew there would be more. For although Faegan had been able to widen the portal, it had not functioned entirely as planned.

It had taken the ancient wizard many hours of study in the Archives to come up with a workable calculation for the enlargement of the vortex, but doing so had drained his mind terribly. Added to this was the fact that his powers were by now very much in decline.

Despite Joshua’s death two weeks earlier, the Paragon was still being drained, albeit at a constant rate. The stone was now almost colorless, and Tristan could easily see that what they had so feared was surely near—a world without magic. Or rather, he reminded himself, a world in which all of the magic had been taken into only one person, intent upon using it to commit an unspeakable act.

Tristan had never seen the usually impish and powerful Faegan so drawn and exhausted, and the prince worried for him. But still the ancient one sat defiantly in his chair each day in the cold, snowy field, holding the portal open for as long as his powers would allow.

The portal had let thousands of Minion warriors through, but with Faegan’s successes had also come problems.

Just as his powers now waxed and waned, so did the effectiveness of the vortex. This meant that many of the Minions trying to come through from the other side died horribly in the attempt.

Each time the vortex collapsed, some dead bodies, or what was left of them, made it through, while others did not, forever lost in the netherworld of the craft.

Blood lay everywhere upon the snowy field. The screaming and wailing that could be heard coming from inside the whirling maelstrom was terrifying—despite the fact that these warriors were Minions, and the bravest fighters Tristan had ever seen. Sadly, the prince estimated they were losing about one of every six. Their already bad odds against Nicholas’ hatchlings were growing worse by the moment.

What’s more, Tristan was worried about the wizards. It wasn’t just the continual loss of their powers that bothered him. They had become unusually secretive and quiet. Whenever Faegan was not operating his portal, he and Wigg shut themselves off behind closed doors. Even Shailiha seemed to be more withdrawn.

Tristan gazed along either side of the banks lining the Sippora River. From his position on higher ground, he could easily see the thousands of red Minion war tents that had sprung up. Torches twinkled gracefully within the gigantic encampment, the campfires before most of the temporary dwellings causing the surrounding, melting snow to gently give up the colors of the rainbow. In the firelight Tristan could make out hundreds of pairs of wings as the warriors landed and took off, the patrols ordered by Traax continually checking for any signs to the north that the enemy was on the move. The entire scene somehow seemed peaceful and idyllic, convincingly belying the true reasons for its existence.

The warriors were eager for the battle to be joined, and yet they waited, as more of the winged fighters poured through the vortex every day. At Traax’s suggestion the prince had billeted the officers in the empty palace. It had at first unnerved Tristan to see them walking briskly through the halls, setting up their quarters in the various rooms as if they owned them. These were some of the same warriors who had killed both his family and the Directorate of Wizards. And now, impossibly, they were here once more, this time occupying the palace to protect it, rather than destroy it.

Traax, Wigg, Faegan, and Ox waited with Tristan, watching the corpses burn. Traax had come to Eutracia, luckily without harm, on the fifth day, just as Tristan had ordered him. The Minion turned to his lord.

“Why do these hatchlings and scarabs not attack us now?” he asked Tristan. “Their hesitation makes no sense. Every day we grow stronger. Surely they must know that. Even more effective would have been a powerful, continuous attack upon us just as we started to exit the portal, only ten Minions at a time. Given enough opposing forces, even we could have been picked off in this way. So why do they wait?”

“There are several answers to your question,” Wigg replied, raising the usual eyebrow. “First and foremost, the Gates of Dawn are clearly Nicholas’ first priority, and he wishes them to remain protected by his servants until just before he activates them. Then, and only then, will he send his creatures against us. Second, he knows we shall be heavily outnumbered, and feels victory is already in his grasp. Sadly, in this he is probably also right.”

Wigg paused for a moment, uncomfortable with telling the Minion second in command so much. But Tristan had told Traax everything the previous night. Considering the fact they would probably die in battle together, the prince had decided there should be no secrets between them.

“And lastly,” he continued, “is the fact that as each day goes by Tristan becomes more ill. In Nicholas’ twisted world, that means the longer he waits, the better the odds are of Tristan joining him in this madness. In his own way, he is still protecting the Chosen One. But that will end when the Gates are finished and he finally realizes that his father has refused him. Then he will launch his attack, for at that point he will have little to lose.”

“There will probably be only one battle,” Faegan interjected, the look on his face both exhausted and grave. “Given the way we are outnumbered, they will do their best to finish us off in a single, powerful stroke, and be done with it.” He turned to Tristan and Traax to see that each of their faces had become hard in the flickering light of the pyres.

“You must do your best to keep them at bay,” he continued. “Even though, in the end, it probably won’t matter. But you must give us all the time you can. Even with Joshua’s death the Paragon continues to decay, and our powers will soon be gone. You must remember that this means the time enchantments protecting Wigg, myself, and Celeste will most certainly vanish, and we will quite literally fall into piles of dust, to be blown away on the winds of the Season of Crystal. If and when that happens, your fighting force will become the only remaining chance of stopping the Guild of the Heretics from returning to the world of the living and employing the Vagaries to rule forever.”

Tristan looked down to his right hip, to the new, bizarre-looking weapon he now carried there—the device with which Joshua had killed himself. Curious of all things martial, Tristan had carefully removed it from the dead consul’s ear, examined it closely, and then wiped it clean, asking the wizards if he might keep it. They had quietly agreed.

The weapon was appropriately called a brain hook, and although the prince had never heard of one before, it apparently had quite a long history with the wizards, having been standard issue for them during the Sorceresses’ War, when the Coven was becoming increasingly fond of taking wizards captive to turn them into blood stalkers. This small and easily hidden weapon could be deadly at close quarters, but it had originally been intended as an instrument of swift suicide.

Tristan had decided long ago that he would not suffer through the entirety of his fourth, final convulsion. He had no way of conjuring a trance to numb the pain and slow the onset of shock as Faegan had explained Joshua had done—as indicated by the rolling back of the consul’s eyes into their sockets—but when the time came, he was determined to use the brain hook as best he could, ending his life cleanly. He looked down at the simple weapon tucked beneath his belt. May the Afterlife give me the strength to do it right, he thought. He took his eyes away from the brain hook and again regarded the flames of the funeral pyres.

Traax took a step forward, anger and frustration clearly showing upon his face. “For a Minion warrior to die in battle is expected, even welcomed,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes locked upon the pyres. “It is the very reason for which we are born. But to die like this, defenseless . . . Such a thing simply should not be.”

Many such things should not exist right now, my friend, Tristan thought.

But they do.

39

Faegan sat comfortably in his chair on wheels, his violin beneath his chin, in the spacious but stark chamber he had specially selected. He had chosen this particular room because there was only one massive, very secure marble door, and no chimney. The music he was creating was both thoughtful and soft, exactly befitting the master wizard’s current mood. His eyes were closed, and he let his hands perform their art without the use of the craft, preferring this day to produce the enchanting melody from his heart, rather than from his gifts. He had been playing for hours, as was his custom when there was an unusually difficult decision to make. And the problem he now wrestled with was one of the most trying of his very long life in the service of the craft.

Finally placing the violin in his lap, he turned his attention for the hundredth time to the glowing bars, within which resided the captured hatchling. Now conscious, the dangerous-looking bird had so far said nothing, simply glaring with hatred at him. Initially it had attempted to free itself by smashing its body against the bars of Faegan’s wizard’s cage, of course to no avail. This much, the wizard knew, was to be expected.

Even after his painstaking examination of the bird while it had remained unconscious, he still had serious doubts as to his plan. So had Wigg. After hearing of Faegan’s idea, he had instantly blustered and argued, finally saying he could not give his blessing to such a thing. He had instead gone off to meditate, trying to envision how he could somehow come to a compromise with Faegan. But in his heart Wigg knew it would probably have to be all or nothing. Half measures certainly would not work, and might prove to be even more dangerous.

Faegan could easily understand Wigg’s concern, for such a thing had never been attempted. Their knowledge of this particular branch of the craft was still very much in its infancy. But these were extraordinary times, he had told Wigg, and they needed to make use of any advantage they could think of. Even one this tenuous. And they needed to do it quickly.

Faegan again put the violin beneath his chin and started to play, going over in his mind the few facts that he had become relatively sure of regarding the bird. The hatchling had not spoken, but the wizard believed it was able to. When Faegan had first produced the instrument and begun playing it, the bird’s red eyes had widened, and it shuffled back and forth as if in surprise. It had started to form a word but had then closed its beak. It was no doubt under orders to remain silent if captured, Faegan realized.

He was quite sure that the hatchlings were a product of the Vagaries, since they were not only used for destruction but also seemed to relish their work. He knew that the spell needed to conjure such beasts was very intricate indeed, and had most assuredly been given to Nicholas by the Heretics via Forestallment. This last point, he reasoned, was the worst of the problems.

As he played, the unfazed hatchling continued to stare hatefully at him from between the glowing bars of its cage.

Faegan heard the massive door open and knew without turning that it must be Wigg. He put aside his violin to lead his old friend to a chair.

After a very long sigh of resignation, Wigg spoke. “Are you sure there is no other way to accomplish your idea?” he asked. “This is so risky I don’t even know how to begin to broach my many concerns! Such a thing has never been tried before, and we still know so little about Forestallments! And it is her very life we are talking about, not just her mind. Are you sure there is no other way?”

“We have been over and over this,” Faegan answered gently. “If you have a better plan, I am ready to listen. But as we sit and do nothing, every moment that passes Nicholas grows stronger, and we weaker. I checked the Paragon again today, and more than half of its color is now gone. I’m sure that you, like me, have sensed the acute reduction in your powers. Not a very pleasant experience, is it? It is time, Wigg. Like it or not I feel we have to proceed, before we both become powerless. And as the stone weakens, so does my warp that holds the hatchling at bay, and it’s far too valuable to kill.” He smiled coyly, though he knew Wigg couldn’t see the expression. “Do you really want it running loose through the palace, Lead Wizard?”

Scowling, Wigg ignored Faegan’s sarcasm. “But do you really believe the strength of her blood will prevail?” he asked. Uncharacteristically, he wrung his hands. “I know the theory proves itself on paper, but there is still so much about Nicholas and his spells that we do not know, not to mention the Heretics . . .”

“I too have grave doubts,” Faegan said. “It is true that again exposing her mind to the Vagaries, especially after her vicious treatment by the Coven, may be the end of her. But I believe her Forestallment, coupled with the nearly unparalleled quality of her blood, will overcome. Provided she agrees I feel we must push forward. Did she accompany you here?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “She waits in the hall. Given the nature of the situation, I requested that she leave the baby with Martha. I have explained nothing of this to her. But if we are to do this, there is something I must insist upon. She must know everything involved—especially the reasons for this and the accompanying risks. Only then can I consent. May the Afterlife grant us success.”

“The Afterlife is precisely the problem, is it not, old friend?” Faegan asked, unknowingly echoing Wigg’s thoughts of the previous day. “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I love her too.”

Wigg nodded resignedly, tacitly giving his consent.

Faegan rolled himself to the door and opened it, then ushered Shailiha in.

This was her first time to see the hatchling, and on noticing it she took a step back, looking nervously from one wizard to the other.

“It cannot harm you,” Faegan said gently, motioning her to a chair.

“Is this the creature that Tristan brought to the Redoubt?” she asked, coiling up a little as she sat in a nearby chair.

“Yes,” Wigg said.

Shailiha stared at it a moment longer, then turned to the wizards. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What is it that you desire of me?”

In careful, measured tones, Faegan and Wigg began to explain their plan to her. At first she did not respond. But as they finally described the most important part of it, she shrank back farther into the chair. They told her that what she was about to do must be of her own free will, but that it was not just for the sake of her brother that she would be making the attempt, but also for the survival of her entire nation. And then they told her why it must be done. Upon hearing this, her eyes went wide. They went on to say what she must do should the process be successful.

“There is another fact you need to know,” Wigg said softly. “It is entirely possible that you could die in this attempt. We believe the spell used to conjure the hatchling will be very powerful indeed, having come directly from the Heretics themselves. Given your relative weakness from the Chimeran Agonies, we cannot be sure your blood will be able to stand the strain. But we feel its virtually unsurpassed quality will win out.”

Shailiha nodded her understanding.

“And one last thing,” Faegan added. “Perhaps the most difficult of all, in fact, given how much you love the prince. Should you be successful, no one outside of this room is to know what happened here. No one. No matter the circumstances. Especially Tristan. And for the good of us all, we will eventually be forced to tell him a lie. A lie that he must believe totally, and without hesitation. It will become imperative that you join with us in this. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said quietly, staring at the awful thing in the cage.

“Come to me, Princess,” Wigg said.

Shailiha walked to him. He felt for her hands and took them in his own. “What say you?” he asked. “Will you do this thing?”

She turned to look at the beast in the cage. The hatchling stared hatefully back at her with its grotesque, red eyes.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I owe you, Faegan, and Tristan my very existence. And I love you all more than my life. I also know that you mean only well in all of this. Therefore, I will try.”

“Very well,” Wigg replied, his voice cracking with emotion. He turned toward the other wizard. “Faegan, if you please,” he said.

“Of course.” Narrowing his eyes, Faegan encapsulated the bird’s body in an additional manifestation of the craft. At first the beast tried to struggle, but in the end it settled down, unable to move in any way.

Shailiha walked slowly toward the glowing cage. Stopping before it, she looked back to Faegan for a sign of support. Smiling slightly, he nodded to her.

Shailiha took a deep breath and tentatively slid one of her hands into the cage.

The hatchling was held immobile by Faegan’s warp, but as Shailiha’s trembling hand continued its dangerous journey toward the great bird, the hatchling’s eyes began to glow an even deeper, fiercer red.

Carefully, very carefully, the princess wrapped her fingers around the leathery, pointed top of the bird’s head. Almost immediately a change overtook her.

She began to perspire, and her entire body started to shake. She lowered her head like an animal, moving it back and forth as if in some kind of trance. When she finally lifted her face again, her eyes had rolled up high beneath her lids. Her teeth were bared in a kind of silent, almost vicious snarl, and her breathing was heavily labored, her chest heaving mightily. Faegan feared she might die. He watched in helpless frustration, desperately wondering whether they had done the right thing.

But then her sense of self and her breathing slowly returned to normal, and she finally removed her hand from the creature’s head. Still standing before it, she adopted a stance with her legs spread slightly, her arms folded across her chest, and glared directly into the thing’s bloodred eyes.

Neither bird nor woman flinched. It was as if the two of them had suddenly become locked within a place and time that somehow only they could inhabit. Everything about Shailiha now suggested an attitude of complete power and domination. Sensing the moment was right, Faegan terminated the warp holding the bird. Seeing the azure glow fade away, Shailiha spoke.

“Who is it that you serve?” she asked rather harshly.

“Only you, Mistress,” the hatchling answered dutifully, breaking its self-imposed silence for the first time since being captured.

The hatchling called her mistress! Faegan’s mind shouted out to him. But of course it would! The Forestallments in Shailiha’s blood are of Failee’s doing, and she would have wanted all of her endowed creatures to address the princess in that way! It makes perfect sense!

“And who are Nicholas, Ragnar, and Scrounge?” she asked, employing the second of the questions the wizards had instructed her to put to the bird.

“I know of no such beings,” the bird answered obediently. “My entire world is only of you, my mistress.”

We have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams! Faegan realized. Not only has her touching an endowed, winged creature of the craft enacted the Forestallment, just as it did with the fliers of the fields, but the superior quality of her blood has actually pushed out all of the hatchling’s memories of its original master. This bird will truly do our bidding.

“I shall ask you a question,” Shailiha continued, “and you shall endeavor to respond without the use of the spoken word, using only your thoughts to reveal the answer to my mind. Tell me, hatchling, what is my name and title?” The princess closed her eyes, waiting for a response.

And then suddenly there it was, resonating within her mind as clear as if the bird had spoken it with its tongue. Shailiha, fifth mistress of the Coven.

She turned, repeating the answer verbatim to the wizards.

And then she collapsed to the floor.

Faegan rushed to her and used the craft to lift her body into a chair.

“What is it?” Wigg shouted urgently. “What’s going on?”

“She collapsed,” Faegan answered.

The princess looked pale and drawn. Faegan lifted one of her eyelids, peering in. Seemingly satisfied, he closed it again. “I think she is going to be all right.”

Shailiha stirred, then opened her eyes and sat up a little straighter, getting her bearings. “Did we succeed?” she asked thickly. Her hair was matted against one side of her face from perspiration, and she weakly hooked some of it behind her ear. “Did I really do it?” she asked again. “I cannot completely remember . . .”

“Oh, yes,” Faegan answered her. “And to our wildest expectations. But there is still one thing I do not know. Are you able to communicate with the minds of all of the other hatchlings, or only this one before us?”

“Only this one,” she answered, looking back at the bird in the glowing cage. “Why is that, when I can communicate with all of the fliers if I choose to?”

Faegan paused for a moment, lost in the question. “Presumably because the magic sustaining the hatchlings is stronger,” he answered at last. “As such, your Forestallment, especially with your blood not having yet been trained, could only penetrate so far. Remember, we assume that this spell for Nicholas’ creatures came directly from the Heretics themselves. Given that premise, it is a true testament to your blood that you were able to accomplish as much as you did.”

Shailiha slowly stood, testing her legs, then walked gingerly to the cage. “I no longer fear it,” she said rather absently. “It is mine now, heart and soul.” Wigg stood, and Shailiha went to take him by the hand.

“Thank you, my child,” he said with shiny eyes, “for all that you have done here. But I think we should leave now. I want you to get some rest.”

The three of them walked to the door. Before going through, Shailiha suddenly stopped, turning back to the hatchling for the last time. She commandingly trained her eyes upon the beast.

“In my absence you are to obey these two men, and these two men only, just as you would obey me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered, lowering its head slightly in submission. Even the glowing sense of hatred that had once possessed its eyes was now gone.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, Faegan leaned toward Shailiha’s ear and whispered something to her.

The princess nodded and again addressed the bird. “There is one other order I have for you, and it is to be obeyed to the letter, as are all of my demands. Do you remember the Chosen One, the man without wings who brought you here?” The bird nodded. “Good,” Shailiha said. “Under no circumstances is he to become aware of your powers of speech. You are never to speak in his presence, nor to answer him should he ever ask you anything by which he might test you in this regard. And test you he will, mark my words. In addition, only the three people you see here before you are to know that you can speak. Should any others be present, anyone at all, you are to remain silent. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the bird answered. “It shall be as you order.”

“Well done.” Wigg smiled.

“Indeed,” Faegan added, winking. No longer having a reason to contain his delight, he levitated his chair and, cackling, whirled twice in a circle in the air before lowering himself back to solid ground. Wigg scowled. Shailiha smiled weakly.

And then the three of them, one wizard on each side of the exhausted princess, left the room, starting down the halls.

40

When Tristan finally regained consciousness, pain wracked his entire body, and he was weak and trembling. His breathing was labored, and he was covered with perspiration. Lying on his back in the snow, as he looked up all he could see were the leafless tops of the trees, swaying gently in the wind. And then he vaguely remembered being dragged toward the woods by Ox. He could feel as much as see the Minion warrior sitting nearby in the snow, carefully watching over him.

He tried to raise himself, but couldn’t help falling back to the ground. Immediately Ox was next to him, helping him to sit up. Then the vomiting came, and seemed to last forever. Finally feeling somewhat better, he looked over to the Minion.

“Thank you,” he said weakly. He smiled at the warrior.

“Ox only do what wizards say,” the warrior replied, an uncharacteristically worried look gracing his usually menacing face. “Ox again glad Chosen One lives.”

“You dragged me here, didn’t you?” Tristan asked.

“Ox bring here, so other Minions not see Chosen One sick. That bad for new lord of Minions.”

Tristan noticed a strange taste in his mouth, coming from something that seemed to be lodged between two of his teeth. He liberated it and spat what looked to be a tiny piece of tree bark into the palm of his hand. “What’s this?” he asked. “Did you do this, too?”

Ox picked up a small, wet length of tree branch. There were deep bite marks at its center. “Ox put this into Chosen One’s mouth, just as wizards say,” the Minion answered. “Keep from swallowing tongue, or Chosen One could die.” He smiled, almost sheepishly. “Chosen One almost bite Ox finger off.” He raised his eyebrows at the prince. “Ox thinking maybe wizards would have to put it back on, like foot.”

Another faint smile came to Tristan’s lips. “How long have I been out?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head. Ox looked up between the tree branches, finding the sun.

“It midday. You gone about five hours.”

Five hours, Tristan thought glumly. I have now had the second of my four convulsions. I can’t begin to imagine a third. Two more, and I will be a dead man.

Looking down at his right arm, he saw that the menacing black veins had lengthened even farther, extending into his hand. His arm felt far more stiff and sore than before. He sat there for some time saying nothing, quietly thinking to himself before trying to stand up.

With Ox’s help he finally came to his feet. He checked his weapons, also taking stock of where he was. Thankfully, the warrior had dragged him approximately twenty meters into the woods. Through a clear spot at the edge he could just make out the dark soil of the grave he had unearthed, and the heel tracks left in the snow. Choosing to say no more of it, Tristan began to exit the forest, Ox in tow. After walking silently past the grave, they headed for the Recluse.

The partially constructed foundation of the blue marble rose commandingly into the air, resting squarely atop the island in the center of the magnificent lake. But as Tristan and Ox approached the first of the two drawbridges, they could see no one. Nor were there any of the normal, busy sounds of construction work, or voices ringing out through the air that would accompany an undertaking as grand as the rebuilding of a castle. Sensing something was amiss, Tristan and Ox slowly stopped. It was then that they heard the sound. Cheering.

Turning, Tristan finally noticed a mound of earth to his right. It was approximately one hundred meters away, and covered with snow. It rose upward for about thirty meters, ran for some distance, and then descended to some depth. Looking at it, Tristan came to realize that it was a great bowl of some sort. The bowl was obviously man-made, and he was sure it had not existed at the time of Shailiha’s rescue.

Looking quizzically to Ox, he asked, “Do you know what this is? Why is there shouting coming from it?” The hollering and cheering seemed to come in waves, rising and then subsiding, over and over again.

“Was built after Chosen One leave first time,” Ox answered. He looked Tristan in the eyes, but it was clear he did not quite know how to proceed. “Is for Kachinaar.”

Tristan looked back at the mound. “What is a Kachinaar?”

“Is warrior’s vigil,” Ox said. “If one warrior accuses another, then Kachinaar held. If contest fails, then warrior guilty and killed, punishment already done. If contest succeeds, then innocent, warrior set free. Kluge use Kachinaar very much, sometimes in other ways. Traax use too.”

Tristan’s jaw went slack. “What happens during this Kachinaar?” he asked quickly.

“Kachinaar take many forms,” Ox said. “Best go look.”

Tristan had originally hoped to see Traax, the second in command, in a private setting. But on the other hand, confronting a great number of the Minions at once might prove more effective. Provided, of course, that they accepted his rule over them. And besides, there seemed to be no one at the construction site to speak with, anyway.

“All right,” he said resignedly. “But I do not want our appearances made known until I say so, do you understand?”

Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. “I live to serve,” he said quickly. Together they started up the side of the embankment. Finally reaching the top, they looked down.

Layered from top to bottom against the inner side of the earthen walls was row after row of blue marble seats filled with shouting and cheering Minion warriors. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was apparent to Tristan that many of them were quite drunk. The amphitheater was in the shape of an oval, rather than a circle, as he had first presumed. The floor in the center was made also of blue marble, presumably having been taken from the nearby construction site. Tristan ordered Ox to lie on his stomach behind the last row, then followed suit.

There were perhaps a dozen Minion warriors on the floor of the amphitheater, where they seemed to be playing some kind of violent, deranged game. Arranged into two teams, each was struggling mightily to gain and keep control of some type of ball. As one warrior would gain possession of it and try to make it to the opposite side, those from the other team would use any and all means—short of weapons, he noticed—to try and take it away. There seemed to be no other rules whatsoever. Blood lay pooled in many areas upon the slick marble floor, and the bodies of several of the warriors, apparently smashed senseless from their previous participation in the game, lay inert along the sides of the ring. Some of them, unconscious and their mouths open, were quite obviously missing teeth. Others of them were splayed out in very unnatural directions, their limbs obviously broken. It was then, during a split-second break in the action, that Tristan could finally see the “ball” clearly. It was the severed head of a fellow warrior.

Aghast, Tristan turned to Ox. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

Ox indicated an area segregated from the others. Small and square, it held a single warrior. He was seated in a marble chair, his hands, wings, and feet bound tightly with rope. He looked extremely worried.

“He accused,” Ox whispered back. “If team on right side take head across to opposite end three times first, then he guilty, and die. If team on left get head and take across other way three times first, then he innocent, and live.”

Tristan shook his head back and forth in utter disbelief. “This is insane!” he snarled. “Only a proper court can make a man guilty or innocent! Besides, I outlawed this kind of behavior before I left Parthalon! Why are they disobeying me?”

Ox looked back, an obvious expression of complete misunderstanding upon his face. “Pardon, but Chosen One wrong,” he said as courteously as he knew how. “Chosen One never outlaw Kachinaar. Ox know. Ox there that day in courtyard.” He looked back down to the bizarre game. “Is Minion way,” he added with finality, the pride in his warriorship showing through.

Tristan thought for a moment, his mind going back to that awful day when he had slain their previous leader, subsequently being anointed the new lord of the Minions. Ox is right, he finally realized. I only outlawed those things that I knew of at the time. He looked back down at the horrific game as the warriors continued to gleefully, recklessly maim each other.

“Why do they use the head of a warrior?” Tristan asked. “And where did it come from? Did they kill someone just to provide a head for this awful game?”

“If two warriors accused for same crime, and first one guilty in different Kachinaar, then head brought here for second. Is only time this place used. Kachinaar in theater special, and much enjoyed. Minions like.”

Tristan looked down again at the accused, sitting alone in the marble box. “If this man is found guilty, then how will he die?” he asked, playing along for the moment.

Ox pointed to another segregated area at the side of the amphitheater floor. “There,” he said. “If guilty, warrior go to that.”

Tristan’s eyes followed Ox’s thick arm.

Lashed beneath huge rope nets, a long, black creature was being kept under tight control. Huge, sleek, and deadly looking, it had a barbed, reptilian tail and a head and face that closely resembled a rat. Pink, obscene-looking gills lay just behind its head.

In the same area in which it was confined could be seen a rather large pile of what looked to be human bones, long since polished clean and glistening in the cold afternoon sun. Bits and tatters of what was once obviously the leather body armor of Minion warriors still somehow clung to many of them.

“What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” he whispered urgently.

“Swamp shrew,” Ox whispered back. “If warrior guilty, they push him down shrew throat.”

Tristan shook his head and closed his eyes. For as long as I know the Minions of Day and Night, they will continue to amaze me, he thought. Just as with the wizards.

He turned his attention back to the raucous game below, and to the plight of the warrior in the marble box. He knew he had to make a decision quickly, but he remained unsure of what to do.

Suddenly the warriors stood and cheered. A player in the game had finally been able to take the severed head deep enough into the opposite team’s territory, placing it triumphantly on the floor of the theater for what was apparently the third and final time. His teammates ran to leap happily upon him, literally burying him with their bodies and wings.

“Kachinaar over,” Ox said. Tristan held his breath, at first not wanting to ask.

“Is he—”

“Warrior innocent,” Ox answered, interrupting the prince. “Warrior live.”

Tristan let out a thankful sigh and tried to focus again on his now-more-pressing problem. “Ox,” he whispered, “are you strong enough to carry me in your arms when you fly?”

The huge Minion smiled, puffing out his chest. “Few that strong, but Ox able.”

Tristan bit his lower lip, thinking. It would definitely create a dramatic entrance, he thought. That is exactly what I need. And now would be the perfect time. It was then that he saw Traax.

Traax had left his seat and was walking toward the validated warrior, apparently to free him. Tristan took in Traax’s tall, muscular stature and the fact that he was one of the few Minions he had ever seen who was clean-shaven. Younger and more handsome than Kluge had been, Traax wore his long, dark hair tied in the back with a piece of black leather. The Minion commander drew his dreggan, and the familiar ring of its blade drifted through the theater. He expertly severed the Minion’s bonds with a few sure strokes, then took him into a congratulatory bear hug. The entire crowd leapt to their feet at once, arms waving in the air. Minion ale and wine slopped over many of the warriors’ heads and the amphitheater seats. The cheering was deafening.

“Ox,” he said quickly, “pick me up and fly me around the theater twice, then land us in the center, directly before Traax.”

“I live to serve,” the warrior said. Picking Tristan up, Ox snapped open his strong, leathery wings. Taking a few quick steps down the other side of the embankment, he launched himself into the air.

Tristan was mesmerized by his first experience of flight. The cold wind in his face was bracing, the sensation of freedom wonderfully intoxicating. Ox soared higher, his strong wings carrying them around the perimeter of the theater. Many of the Minions began to point into the air at them, shouting among themselves. Finally completing the two turns ordered by the prince, Ox swooped to the center of the amphitheater floor and landed gently. He let the prince down directly in front of Traax.

The entire theater went silent as Tristan and Traax stared at each other in an obvious contest of wills. No one moved; no one spoke. The only sound was the cold, swirling wind as it blew in and out of the great bowl.

Tristan stared calmly into Traax’s green eyes, not giving an inch.

He must speak to me first, thereby recognizing my authority over him, he remembered. Even Traax does not know how important this moment is. For if he will not honor my authority, I cannot order the Minions back to Eutracia, and all is finished for us.

The initial look of surprise in Traax’s eyes was quickly replaced by one of skepticism, as if he did not wish to relinquish command of his legions, no matter how briefly. His jaw hardened, one brow coming up questioningly, almost sarcastically. Every pair of Minion eyes was on Traax, waiting to see what he would do.

After several silent, excruciatingly tense moments, Traax relented, slowly going down on one knee. “I live to serve,” he said in a strong, clear voice.

Immediately the entire body of warriors in the theater also went to their knees. “I live to serve,” they said as one, the many voices seeming to shake the very coliseum in which they stood.

Tristan showed no outward signs of emotion, but his heart was leaping. He’d done it, he thought. But now that he had control, he had to learn to keep it.

“You may rise,” he shouted to the theater as a whole. Traax came to his feet. The other warriors did the same, continuing to stand at stiff attention.

“The Chosen One graces us with his presence,” Traax said, bowing slightly. Tristan thought there might be a hint of sarcasm in the Minion officer’s voice, but he brushed the concern away. “It is an honor,” Traax added, this time a bit more humbly. He then looked at Ox, and to the foot that had once been severed from the warrior’s body. “I see your foot is healed,” he mentioned. “I am glad the Chosen One’s wizards were successful.”

Bowing shortly, Ox clicked his heels.

“I have come for your report, as I said I would that day in the courtyard,” Tristan replied calmly, continuing to hold Traax’s eyes in his. “There are also urgent matters to discuss pertaining to Eutracia. Is there somewhere more private that we may speak? What I have to say is for your ears only.”

“Of course,” Traax said. “Follow me, my lord. But first may I request permission to return these warriors back to their duties of rebuilding the Recluse?”

Tristan had almost forgotten them, focused as he had been upon Traax. “Granted,” he said.

With a wave of his arm, Traax indicated the Minions were to leave. At once the several thousand warriors took to the air, flying back in the direction of the castle. “Now, if you will follow me,” Traax said.

Tristan and Ox followed him out the amphitheater and around the outer edge, finally stopping before a rather elaborate entrance of marble that had been constructed into the wall of the embankment. It was guarded on either side by very large, fully armed warriors. Opening the door, Traax beckoned Tristan and Ox within.

Once inside, Tristan was surprised. He had expected something rather stark, as was his overall impression regarding most things of the Minions. Instead the chambers here were light and airy, the marble of the palest indigo, with carpets on the floor and comfortable furniture placed tastefully about. A broad marble conference table with six chairs sat in the middle of the largest of several such rooms. Oil chandeliers gave the chamber a soft, inviting glow. It was not entirely unlike being in one of the smaller rooms of the Redoubt.

They each took a seat at the table. In an obvious gesture of respect, Traax removed his dreggan and placed it on the tabletop. Tristan and Ox replied in kind.

“Food and drink?” Traax asked.

“Yes,” Tristan answered, suddenly realizing how hungry and thirsty he was.

Traax slapped his hands, and almost immediately two Minion women appeared, coming to stand by the table. Tristan realized that these were the first Minion women he had ever seen.

They were quite beautiful.

They stood proudly, rather than adopting the meek, subservient postures he imagined they had been forced to maintain under Kluge’s command. It would be interesting to see how Minion society emerged, provided his orders remained in place, he thought.

“Food and wine,” Traax said to the women. “The grouse, I think. And be quick about it.” He then looked to Tristan, pursing his lips. “Please,” he finally added, in a softer, less commanding tone. As the women walked away, Tristan thought for a moment he could see slight smiles come to their lips. He had a hard time repressing one of his own, but he managed.

“They are strong, the Minion women,” Traax said thoughtfully. “Many of the warriors, especially those who have recently married as a result of your permission, seem to be even happier than before. Minion warriors prefer their women to be forceful, and sexually aggressive. Given their newfound freedoms, the females have responded in kind. Many of them have even made significant suggestions as to the rebuilding and decorating of the Recluse.” He spoke almost as if it were astounding that mere women could accomplish such intellectual acts. Then one corner of his mouth came up. “As I said, my lord, your changes have been interesting.”

“Please give me your report,” Tristan said. “I particularly wish to hear of your progress in the orders I gave you just before I left Parthalon. But be brief. There is much left for us to discuss.”

Traax nodded, quickly outlining for Tristan the progress that had so far been made.

When Traax had finished, Tristan asked, “What were the crimes of those who endured the Kachinaar? And why is this theater here?”

“The first warrior, the one whose head you saw, was accused of forcibly taking another man’s Gallipolai wife,” Traax said. “There was truly little doubt that he was guilty. His vigil failed, reinforcing not only the fact that other men’s women are no longer to be shared, but that the Gallipolai are no longer slaves.” Traax spoke as casually about this brutality as though he were discussing the weather.

“If two or more Kachinaars are to be held within days of each other, should the first accused be found guilty we also take his head, using it for the theater games,” he continued. “It was said the second fellow, his friend, also took the woman after the first one did. But his guilt was far less certain. In any event he survived his vigil, and is now free.” He paused for a moment, smiling.

“And to answer your second question, the theater was constructed of imperfect marble pieces left over from the site of the Recluse,” he went on. “There is still more work to be done upon it, such as decorative statues and the like. I ordered the stadium built so that if more than one accused was to suffer the Kachinaar at once, or if I deemed the crime to be important enough, far more of the Minions would be able to watch. It has become quite a tradition.” He smiled again, leaning in conspiratorially. “As you saw, we even keep a live shrew here, for just this very purpose. It tends to add a great deal of liveliness to things. Sometimes bets are taken on which day the shrew will vomit the bones back up.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, trying hard not to appear as disgusted as he felt. “Is there a name you have given to this place?” he asked.

“Of course,” Traax answered. “We call it the Proscenium of Indictment. Other places also serve as venues for the Kachinaar, of course, but the Proscenium is quickly becoming the favorite.”

And just what in the name of the Afterlife do I do about this now? Tristan wondered. Allowing this form of barbarism to exist here, under his aegis, was unthinkable. But he needed these warriors—every single one of them. Eliminating something so popular and that they were obviously so proud of, and doing so on his very first visit, might well cause too much ill will.

Still struggling with the decision, Tristan tried to think of what Wigg would tell him if he were here. Many had been the time, during their search for Shailiha and the Paragon, that the lead wizard had ordered him to forget the things he saw, no matter how vile, and to concentrate instead on the larger goal. Using the Minions to crush Scrounge’s hatchlings and somehow prevent Nicholas from empowering the Gates of Dawn had to take priority. He therefore decided to speak no more of the Proscenium or the Kachinaar for the time being. He would not condemn these traditions. But he would not give them his verbal approval, either. He decided to change the subject.

“And now for the true reason I have come,” he said, looking into Traax’s eyes. “I am ordering as many of the legions as you can possibly spare to Eutracia. Immediately. We have a host of new enemies, and it shall be the Minions’ task to destroy these monsters.” He folded his arms across his chest and sat back. Holding his breath, he waited for Traax’s response.

“It has been too long since we have seen action, my lord,” Traax said. Gripping the hilt of his dreggan, he held the shiny blade to the light of the chandeliers. “And it will be good for our swords to again taste blood, especially since we can no longer train to the death. Your enemies are ours.” He refocused his green eyes back on the Chosen One. “Tell me more,” he said eagerly.

At that moment the food came. Tristan became quiet, waiting for the women to depart. The Parthalonian grouse was excellent, perhaps the best bird he had ever tasted. He quickly washed down several helpings of both the seasoned grouse and the dark, rich bread of the Minions with several glasses of hearty red wine. In between bites he gave Traax his orders.

The reconstruction of the Recluse was to be put on indefinite hold, he said. Traax was to begin assembling his men—along with weapons, support staff, materiel, and foodstuffs—and placing it all near the entrance to Faegan’s portal. Also, the fleet anchored at Eyrie Point was to depart as soon as possible, carrying additional troops. Should there be any serious problems in the execution of his orders, a Minion messenger was to immediately come through the portal, informing him.

Tristan described the hatchlings and the scarabs, and Traax only smiled, his sense of anticipation growing. Tristan purposely did not mention Nicholas or the building of the Gates of Dawn. He would explain those things to Traax once the entire force had arrived in Eutracia and were at his disposal. Getting them there was the chief concern now, and he did not wish to confuse the issue for his second in command, or give him a possible reason to object.

Above all, he especially did not want Traax or any of the other Minions to become aware that the wizards were losing their powers.

“There are several other points you must adhere to strictly,” Tristan continued, remembering the things the wizards had insisted upon. “Mark my words well, for your life and the lives of your troops shall depend on it. Should you see any weakness or fading in the consistency of the vortex, it is paramount that no more warriors go through. Such an anomaly will mean either that the portal is about to close, or there is something wrong with its operation. If anyone goes through at that time they could die horribly, forever lost somewhere in between. They are to run through as fast as they know how and as many abreast as the portal allows, so as to add to our numbers on the other side as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Traax answered.

“You are also to leave a small skeleton force here, to continue hunting the shrews. I give you five days to organize all of this. Then you are to come to Eutracia, by way of the portal. You and I still have much to discuss, not the least of which is our plan of battle.”

Traax took a deep breath as he formulated his next thought. He took another sip of the wine. “The Chosen One understands, does he not, that the ocean voyage takes at least thirty days?”

“Yes,” Tristan said. “But there is little we can do about that. And in the meantime Minion troops should be pouring through the portal, especially if my wizards can find a way to enlarge it, or to hold it open longer.”

“And my lord understands the bargain of tenfold times four, the agreement made by the Coven to ensure a safe crossing?” Traax asked politely.

Tristan froze, not knowing what to say. At long last here it is, he thought frantically. He reminded himself that he must never show weakness or a lack of knowledge, especially at this stage. He needed to get the answer without revealing to the Minion that he did not know what it was. He turned to Ox. Having been part of the force that invaded Tammerland, the giant Minion must also know—yet in their great concern for their many other problems, they had not thought to ask him. Tristan saw a hint of concern creep into the corners of Ox’s large, dark eyes. This has to do with the craft, he realized. For nothing else of this world gives pause to a Minion warrior.

“I forced the Coven to reveal the secret of crossing before I killed them all,” Tristan finally said with hardness in his voice, hoping desperately that the Minion would accept the lie. “We must make allowances for the increased degree of difficulty, of course. I know you yourself have crossed, for you were upon the dais in Tammerland that day.” He paused, his jaw hardening. “The day my family and the Directorate of Wizards were all murdered.”

Traax took a long, deep breath, leveling a clearly remorseless gaze at Tristan. “I follow my orders to the letter,” he said sternly, quietly. “No matter who my lord may be at the time. Do you think my great numbers could not have crushed you and your wizard that day in the courtyard when you killed Kluge? But usurping one’s lord in unfair battle is not the Minion way. It is something you shall be quite glad of when we finally arrive again upon your shores.”

Tristan stiffened at the tone in Traax’s voice, but at the same time he knew the warrior was only telling the truth. Tristan was coming to have more than a modicum of respect for the intelligent, clean-shaven Minion sitting before him.

“Tell me your version of the crossing,” Tristan said, finally using his ploy. “I wish to see whether the Coven lied to me.”

Traax nodded, Tristan’s bluff having apparently worked for the moment. “At fifteen days into the voyage, the ships enter a ‘dead zone.’ By this I mean that there is suddenly no wind for the sails, and the sea becomes smooth as glass. The air is so cold that one can see his breath. Then a thick fog coalesces into the shape of two hands, gripping both the bow and stern of the ship, holding it in place. Voices come from faces in the water, demanding the forty dead bodies. We throw them over, and they are consumed. Only then do the Necrophagians, the Eaters of the Dead, allow us to pass.” He paused for a moment, thinking.

“We will, of course, require forty dead bodies. And, as you know, they must be fresh,” Traax added. “If my lord would allow it, I am sure we could easily arrange for a session of training to the death on board, just before entering the dead zone. This could easily result in the required number of fresh corpses.” He paused again, a look of concern growing on his face. “All of this assumes, of course, that the Necrophagians will honor the bargain despite the fact that the sorceresses are not aboard, much less still living.”

Tristan sat back, trying not to appear horrified by Traax’s story. Necrophagians . . . the Eaters of the Dead. He had to find a way to corroborate the bizarre tale—and the one person in this land he was so far willing to trust was Ox. He turned to the huge Minion by his side. “Is this the way you remember it?” he asked.

“Yes, Chosen One,” Ox said.

Tristan nodded. “Then either my wizards shall deal with the Necrophagians, or we shall not cross by sea. One way or another, we shall find a solution.”

Traax gave the prince a strange look.

“Is there something else?” Tristan asked him. “Something you don’t understand?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but this is something I must ask,” Traax replied. “Are you ill?”

Tristan stiffened. “Why do you ask?” he answered as casually as possible.

“The veins in your arm,” Traax said. “They look inflamed. Have you been injured?”

“A battle wound, nothing more,” Tristan lied. “My wizards have already begun the healing process. I shall be by your side when the time comes.”

He stood from the table, indicating that Ox and Traax should follow suit. Each of them replaced their dreggans into their scabbards. Tristan turned to Traax. “Do you understand your orders?”

Traax clicked the heels of his boots together. “Yes, my lord,” he answered quickly. Together the three of them walked outside, reentering the coliseum.

“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Traax asked. “Will you be staying the night?”

“No,” Tristan answered. “We must go back.” With a sense of finality, he looked at the stars. “I ordered my wizard to briefly open the portal each hour until my return. We shall walk to the place at which we first arrived. Our wait will not be long.”

“In that case I shall go to the Recluse, and begin informing the legions of the upcoming campaign,” Traax said. He smiled again. “They will be most happy to hear of it. I shall see you in Eutracia, in five days’ time.”

“Five days,” Tristan repeated. In a final gesture of good faith, he held out his right hand. Traax extended his, as well. With a strong slap, each man firmly grasped the inner side of the other’s forearm. The pact had been made. With that Traax again clicked his heels, then walked away.

Tristan and Ox left the hauntingly beautiful, moon-shadowed Proscenium. The fresh Parthalonian snow crunching beneath their feet, they returned to the spot in which they had arrived. In the near distance the partially rebuilt Recluse shone brightly from the many torches surrounding it, just as it had during the days of the Coven. Suddenly, from the area of the castle came the sound of great cheering and yelling.

His breath leaving his lungs in frosty clouds, Tristan looked to the stars, and to the three rose-colored moons that bathed the twinkling, snowy ground with their crimson hue. He gathered his coat around him and remained that way for some time, thinking of his many loved ones who had died at Minion hands. Ox stood silently by his side, as if the huge warrior had been doing so all of his life.

May the Afterlife grant me the peace to know that what I have done is right.

41

Wigg sat quietly at the rather large table. He had his doubts concerning what Faegan was about to do, but he had finally agreed to it. Faegan sat nearby in his chair on wheels. In his hands he held an oddly shaped glass beaker, its liquid contents glowing brightly with the power of the craft.

Tristan and Ox had not yet returned from Parthalon, but each of the wizards knew it was still too early to be concerned. Shailiha was sleeping safely in her bedroom. The rest of those who lived here in the Redoubt were quietly going about their duties.

The two wizards sat alone in the antechamber that protected the Well of the Redoubt. Several days before, they had removed the stone from around Faegan’s neck and placed it beneath the continually running waters of the Well, hoping that might help protect the stone. That act should also have caused everyone of the craft to lose their gifts, but to their amazement, that didn’t happen. Not only did they all keep their gifts, but the decay of the stone went on unabated.

Wigg and Faegan had just come from checking on the stone. The Paragon losing its color—and at a strangely accelerating rate. To an untrained eye, the loss of color in the Paragon would have appeared fairly constant. But not to someone as highly trained as Faegan. This had set the curious master wizard to thinking. As a result he had come to view the entire problem of the fading jewel in a potentially new light.

A murky light, he thought as he sat there in his chair, holding the odd beaker he had brought with him. But not one without possibilities in the darkness of our troubles.

Given his tenuous but hopeful new hypothesis, he had immediately gone to the Archives to do research. It had taken some time, but he eventually found the rather esoteric calculations he was looking for. Then had come several hours in one of the Redoubt laboratories, laboring to get the mixture just right.

Due to his reduced powers, it had taken him far longer to accomplish this than normal. The hard-won result was the glowing fluid he now held.

“Are you really sure that this is going to work?” Wigg asked, ever the skeptic.

“What’s wrong, Wigg?” Faegan retorted impishly. “Do you no longer trust my abilities?” His experience of being back in one of the laboratories again, even though difficult, had energized him. Just as it always did. Research, followed by the successful physical application of its results, were his favorite aspects of the craft.

“Let’s see,” he continued, feigning an air of ignorance. “First it was the Forestallments I had to convince you of. You fought back hard on that one. And then came the bond between Shailiha and the hatchling. You were highly skeptical about that one, too. But I was correct on both counts, I believe. Will you never be able to admit that I sometimes get things right?” His gray-green eyes twinkled, and he dangled the beaker tauntingly at Wigg, even though he knew his friend could not see him doing so. “Would you like to try for two out of three?”

Unwilling to join into the game, Wigg simply sighed. “Has Shawna the Short done her part in this foolishness?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Faegan said happily. “She informed me this very morning that she was quite finished. And she took great relish in it, I can assure you. It took her the past two evenings to finally accomplish her mission without raising suspicion. She has, of course, absolutely no idea why I would request something so bizarre. She has also been sworn to secrecy regarding her actions.” Faegan smiled. “She certainly loves a good mystery. Almost childish about it, in fact.”

She’s not the only one, Wigg thought. “Let’s get on with it,” he growled.

Closing his eyes, Faegan levitated Wigg in his chair. Then he levitated himself, chair and all, in the same fashion, and carefully removed the stopper from the beaker. He slowly poured the azure fluid out into a small, glowing puddle on the floor of the room.

His expression became more serious, and he closed his eyes in concentration. Almost immediately the fluid began to spread across the floor, finally progressing from wall to wall and corner to corner. Not one scintilla was left uncovered. And then, after several moments had passed, the fluid completely disappeared.

Faegan opened his eyes, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Time to go, Wigg,” he said softly. “Our work here is done.”

With that, the single door at the opposite side of the room swung open by itself and the two wizards floated from the room, coming to rest on the floor of the hallway outside.

The great mahogany door closed firmly upon its strange secret as the two ancient friends made their way back down the hallways of the Redoubt.

42

Tristan sat with Faegan, Wigg, and Shailiha behind closed doors in the Archives of the Redoubt. As usual, Morganna slept in the sling across Shailiha’s chest. It had taken the prince some time to relate his experiences in Parthalon.

The wizards’ expressions had become far graver when they heard the macabre tale of the Necrophagians.

“We simply cannot allow the armada to cross,” Faegan said. “The Necrophagians’ bargain was with the Coven, and the sorceresses are all dead. We have no way to know whether the bargain would still be honored, and we can’t risk losing all those warriors for nothing.” He thought for a moment. “We must send Ox back to Parthalon immediately, with written orders from Tristan to belay the sailing.” He stroked his blue cat as it contentedly purred in his lap. “It seems I shall just have to speed up my efforts to find a way of both widening the portal, and holding it open longer.” He sighed deeply. “But it shall not be easy.”

Tristan looked to Shailiha. She seemed more pale somehow, and weaker. “Are you all right?” he asked earnestly. “Did something happen to you while I was away?”

Knowing how much she cared for her brother and how difficult it was for her to lie to him, the two wizards held their breath, hoping against hope she would say the right thing. Shailiha stifled the urge to bite her lower lip, a dead giveaway whenever she was unsure of herself.

“I’m fine, little brother,” she said reassuringly. She reached out, gently touching the gold medallion that hung around his neck. “No need to worry. I think I’m just tired from all of the excitement.” She saw the wizards uncoil a little. Deftly changing the subject, she took up Tristan’s right hand. “Was it bad?” she asked, referring to his second convulsion.

“Yes, Shai,” he said quietly. “I have never experienced such pain in my life. My right arm is now somewhat weaker, and very sore. Had Ox not been with me, I might have swallowed my tongue and suffocated. I still can’t get used to the fact that a Minion has become one of my friends.” He turned to the wizards. “I don’t suppose there is any point in my asking whether you two are any closer to finding a cure?”

Faegan shook his head slowly. “But we do have something else for you,” Faegan added. “A surprise! Something that I believe will cheer you up.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” he asked skeptically.

“For the answer, you must follow us to the upper levels,” Faegan answered cryptically. Without waiting for Tristan’s response he began wheeling toward the door. “Shall we go?”

Tristan dutifully followed the two wizards and his sister out of the Redoubt and up into the broken, looted palace rooms above. He eventually found himself standing before the doors that once barred entrance to his mother’s private chambers.

“And just what is it that you all think is so interesting here?” he asked. One corner of his mouth came up.

“Why don’t you open the door and see for yourself?” Wigg asked him. The smile was one of the few Tristan had seen on the lead wizard’s face in weeks, and it only added to the deepening mystery. The prince took a breath and then turned the doorknob, walking purposefully into the once-sumptuous room.

Considering the fact that the wizards were involved, he could have witnessed any number of bizarre things in these rooms, and he knew it. But what stood before him now was the last thing he had ever expected. Especially here, in his mother’s chambers.

The hatchling he and Ox had captured stood in the center of the room on its strong rear legs. Seeing the bird was for some reason free of its wizard’s cage, Tristan began to reach for his dreggan. But then he saw that the bird was calm, and was regarding him with only mild interest.

Faegan cackled. “You won’t be needing your sword. I suggest you take another look.”

Tristan carefully examined the beast. Something about it was clearly different. And then, recognizing why, he immediately understood what was going on.

They’ve broken it, or trained it somehow! he realized.

The bird made no move to escape out the open balcony doors behind it. Tristan’s eyes immediately went to the odd-looking saddle and stirrup combination that had been cinched to the hatchling’s back, and then to the bridle and reins. His eyes widened with sudden realization.

They actually expect me to ride it! Ride through the sky!

He turned back to the three of them, his jaw slack, to see that they were all smiling from ear to ear. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Wigg replied. “But in all fairness we have some explaining to do.”

“An understatement, I’m sure,” Tristan muttered. He turned to his sister. “I assume you knew about this,” he added.

As she rocked the baby slightly, Shailiha could not keep from biting her lip. “I knew, but I really didn’t have anything to do with it,” she lied convincingly. “It was all the wizards’ idea.”

He regarded her narrowly for a moment, finally accepting her answer. “Can this thing talk?” he asked the wizards.

“Unfortunately not,” Wigg lied. “Even though it has human arms. There were apparently three generations of these birds. We believe this one to be second generation, rather than third.”

“Did you ever learn how it came to be separated from the others?” Tristan asked skeptically. “Could this be a trick of some kind? How do I know it won’t simply fly me back to the enemy?”

Understandable questions, especially given the fact that we are not being truthful with him, Faegan thought. “We considered that possibility, eventually dismissing it as illogical,” he replied. “You were just with Nicholas in the Caves, and he willingly set you free. Why would he send a single bird out, simply to take you back to him? If he had wished to keep you there, he could have easily done so. Besides,” he added, “the bird fought with all of its strength to keep from being captured, did it not?”

“Yes,” Tristan answered. He rubbed his sore arm, thinking. “But that still doesn’t explain how it came to be wandering around on its own.”

“Faegan and I believe that this bird was one of those that ransacked Ilendium,” Wigg suggested. “In the darkness and chaos that must have ensued, it is easy enough to imagine how one or more of them might have become lost.” He raised the usual eyebrow. “I suggest you start being more positive about all this, and stop looking a gift bird in the mouth, so to speak.”

Tristan turned back to the creature, beginning to think that this might be a blessing in disguise after all. “Where did the strange saddle and bridle come from?” he asked.

“You have Geldon to thank for those,” Wigg answered. “He took them from the palace stables, and modified them for use on the hatchling. As it turns out, among his many other talents he is quite a good leatherworker, as well.”

Being careful not to make any sudden moves, Tristan walked closer to the bird. He closely examined the saddle. The pommel had been enlarged, presumably to provide a better grip. The leather bands leading down to the stirrups had been widened. Leather belts, complete with buckles, had been stitched into them, three on either side.

“What are these extra belts for?” Tristan asked quizzically.

Shailiha smiled. “To keep you from falling off, of course. They go around your legs and buckle in the front, holding you in the saddle.” In truth she had been particularly worried about this, despite the fact that Tristan had always been one of the finest horsemen in the kingdom. Nonetheless, he fell from the bird at any significant altitude, death would be certain—Chosen One or not. It had therefore been she who had insisted on the additional straps.

Tristan simply stood there, not sure of what to say. It seems they have thought of everything. “But none of this explains how you were able to turn the hatchling to our side, or do it so quickly,” he insisted.

Faegan cleared his throat. “It seems that the bird’s ties to Nicholas were not so strong, after all. I reasoned that with so many hatchlings, even he surely cannot keep perfect control over them all, every second of every day. Assuming this to be true, I invoked a spell that allowed me to sense when his control was at its lowest point. That’s when I broke the bond, turning it to our side.” He made a nonchalant, throwaway gesture with one hand. “But all of that is wizards’ business, and you needn’t concern yourself with the whys or the hows of it all.” Watching the prince’s reaction carefully, he sensed that his lies had worked.

“And you really expect me to ride it?” Tristan asked. “What’s wrong with using Pilgrim, just as I always have?”

“You are about to lead the Minions into battle,” Wigg said sternly. “Have you somehow forgotten that they fly? Or that every single lord they have ever had has always been able to join them in the air? This shall be a new kind of battle for you, Tristan. One that takes place primarily in the air, just as Faegan’s prophecy decreed. In addition, this creature can give you greater speed, and the ability to see what is happening on the ground over great distances. Besides, it is our belief that the hatchlings can run as fast across the ground as any horse that ever lived. So what are you going to do, eh? Ride your hatchling into the skies to command the Minions properly, or plod around on the snowy, slippery ground atop Pilgrim, wondering what in the name of the Afterlife is really going on above you?”

Tristan glared at the wizard, finally understanding that Wigg was right. In truth the prince was thrilled at the prospect of riding a hatchling. But there were questions he wanted answered first. The wizards had been acting strangely lately, and he wanted to know why.

But it was clear by the imperious look on Wigg’s face that no more questions were going to be answered at the moment. Tristan turned to his sister. She had a curiously mischievous look in her eyes.

Grasping his medallion, she pulled his face close to hers and raised her eyebrows at him mockingly. “What’s the matter, little brother?” she teased. “Afraid Scrounge can do something you can’t? I hear he doesn’t even need a saddle.”

That was all it took. Taking the medallion from her grasp, Tristan walked to the hatchling. As if the bird knew his wishes, it kneeled down, allowing Tristan easier access to the stirrup. When he climbed aboard, the saddle felt good beneath him, almost as familiar as the one he always used on Pilgrim. He carefully cinched the straps around his thighs, buckling them tight, and finally took the reins. As if he had been doing it all his life, he expertly wheeled the bird around to face the others in the room.

“We’ll see about that,” he said softly. Shailiha held her breath.

Tristan turned the muscular bird toward the balcony, and the hatchling launched itself into the air.

Shailiha, Wigg, and Faegan went to the railing. The princess strained her eyes for as long as she could, as the strange bird carrying her twin brother became little more than a dark speck against the sky, finally vanishing altogether.

“Do you think he believed us?” she asked tentatively.

“That is hard to say,” Wigg answered, pursing his lips. “Tristan is both highly intelligent and very stubborn. But the important thing is that he is finally on the bird.” He turned his unseeing eyes toward the princess. “Your comment about Scrounge was the turning point. Well done. As to whether he believes us—well, who knows? But he must ride none other than that particular monstrosity of the craft into battle if we are to have any hope of succeeding in all of this.”

The three of them finally turned away from the balcony, retreating to the depths of the Redoubt.

43

You have done well, Nicholas, the young adept heard the Guild of the Heretics say. Their many voices came to him as one—both male and female, both strong and soft. It was as if a choir sang the most beautiful songs imaginable within the depths of his consciousness. His very blood was alive with their sound. And as he hovered in the depths of the Caves, taking in their words, he closed his eyes in ecstasy.

The Gates of Dawn shall soon be complete, they said. The Chosen One continues to grow more ill, and will soon come to you on bended knee. Complete the Gates as soon as possible, our son. At that time the Vagaries, the truly sublime side, will reign continually and without contest. And the Ones, our enemies of the craft, shall be locked within the firmament forever.

I shall, my parents, Nicholas told them. I shall.

Nicholas soared through the cold, clear sky and quickly approached the construction site. He hovered near the magnificent black-and-azure Gates.

The three massive structures had climbed even higher, and their graceful, more artistic aspects would soon be in evidence. Nicholas was pleased. In only two more weeks they would be finished, and he could then activate them, bringing his parents of above back to the earth.

He had just come from yet another blood-drawing session in the special room at Fledgling House. That was the slowest part of the process: He could only take a bit at a time from the children without killing them.

But he still had time. The Chosen One’s Minions were not yet here, and his wizards were already drastically weakened. His father of this earth was therefore in no position to challenge his hatchlings, much less stop the construction of the Gates. Soon, very soon now, the Chosen One would see the awesome power of his son’s creations for himself.

Nicholas flew higher to examine the new construction.

The blood of the children ran freshly from the seams between the great stones, dripping lazily down the sides of the stunning black-and-azure pillars and forming little endowed ponds around each of the legs.

Satisfied, Nicholas backed away, and closed his eyes.

Almost immediately the blood of the children began to turn azure. Steaming with heat and glowing brightly, it began to pull the massive stones closer together, their surfaces grating against one another as the joints slowly, agonizingly fused.

Excess blood ran down the sides of the Gates, leaving macabre, winding trails down the smooth edifices, adding crazily patterned streaks to those already shot deep throughout the stone.

Smiling, Nicholas flew down to hover near the base of one of the legs.

Ragnar stood there waiting, dressed in his fur robes, Wigg’s ceremonial dagger at his side. He bowed, then pulled the robe closer, warding off the cold.

“The bond between the most recently erected stones is now complete,” Nicholas said quietly. “Later this night I will harvest yet more of the children’s blood. I shall return with it at midnight to repeat the incantation for the pieces the consuls shall erect between now and then. In less than a fortnight, we shall be victorious.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered obediently. He placed two fingers into his ever-present vial of yellow fluid, then sucked on them. Almost immediately he felt warmer.

“Keep the consuls working,” Nicholas ordered quietly. “I will brook no slackness in this.”

Again Ragnar bowed, smiling.

Nicholas soared into the sky, his white robe and dark hair billowing about him, and disappeared.

44

The next two days passed in relative calm for Tristan. At first learning to control the movements of the bird and trying to stay in the saddle at the same time had been a challenge.

It was much like riding Pilgrim, he soon discovered, but more unpredictable. And far more dangerous. However, as time went on, he was becoming more and more used to the experience, finding it mesmerizing.

Not only could the bird climb swiftly, but it could also, given the proper commands, hover, seemingly indefinitely, or fold its wings to dive with great speed toward the ground. Tristan dove the bird often, from increasingly greater and greater heights. He would pull up at the last second, only to do it again. He came to love soaring through the white, humid fog of the clouds, only to emerge suddenly out the other side. He quickly came to realize what a wonderful place these clouds—or even the branches of a tree, for that matter—could be to hide from an enemy. And seeing Eutracia from this far up gave him a unique, awe-inspiring perspective on his nation that before he had only dreamed about.

He had also purposely landed the hatchling on a large, bare, snow-covered field to test the wizards’ other belief regarding the creature’s abilities. Sure enough, when finally made to understand, the bird ran across the snowy ground as fast and as surefooted as Pilgrim ever could have.

When he finally landed on the balcony of his late mother’s rooms on the afternoon of the second day, Geldon was there waiting. Tristan walked the bird into the chamber, then dismounted and began removing the saddle and bridle. Geldon closed the balcony doors.

“You have become very good in such a short time,” the hunchbacked dwarf said with a smile. “But there is now business to attend to. The wizards ask for us.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Did they say what it was about?”

“No,” the dwarf answered. “Only that it was important. We are both to go to the antechamber that lies outside the Well of the Redoubt. Now.”

Tristan took a deep breath, shaking off the cold. Then he removed his gray fox coat and slung it over one shoulder. “Very well,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let’s go.”

Inside the chamber, Wigg, Faegan, Shailiha, and Celeste were seated at the ornate table. Behind them, a fire danced merrily in the familiar, light blue fireplace. The prince and Geldon took seats. As always, Tristan found himself acutely aware of Celeste’s presence and the way the fire showed off the highlights in her long, red hair. She smiled at him. Shailiha, on the other hand, looked anxious. Morganna was not with her. But before he could ask her what was going on, the door opened again.

Joshua walked into the room, looked around briefly, and then took a seat at the far end of the table. His hazel eyes took in the group gathered there, then settled on the princess. He smiled.

Faegan cleared his throat. “Now that we are all present, there is something of importance to discuss,” he said sternly. Abruptly he raised one arm, and azure flashed from the ends of his fingers. A wizard’s cage immediately formed about the young consul.

Joshua looked up first in horror, then in fury. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked angrily. “Have you lost your mind?”

Faegan pursed his lips. “No, I think not,” he replied softly. He leveled his gray-green eyes at the younger man. “Tell us, if you would, how it is that you were able to circumvent the death enchantments, considering the fact that you have been practicing the Vagaries?”

Faegan’s question hit Tristan like a thunderbolt. What in the world is the wizard talking about?

Joshua turned to look at Wigg. “What is the meaning of this, Lead Wizard? Surely you cannot be a part of this madness! Tell Faegan that you know me well, and that I have done nothing wrong!”

Wigg sighed long and hard. “You know I cannot do that, Joshua,” he answered. “For you also know that it is not the truth. I may be blind, but there are still some things I am able to see clearly.” He paused for a moment. “And my eyes have finally been opened regarding you.”

“What is it you are accusing me of?” the consul asked frantically, refocusing his attention on Faegan. “I have the right to know!”

“Simply put, you are in league with Nicholas, and we can prove it,” Faegan answered, his face dark. He was literally shaking with anger. It was as if the formidable power he controlled was about to burst forth at any moment in some incredible use of the craft.

“I am not a traitor!” the consul protested. “You have no proof!”

“Oh, but we do,” Faegan countered. “You have been instrumental in helping Nicholas drain the power of the stone. I am now as sure of this as I am my own name. But still, the most interesting piece of the puzzle is how you were able to deny the death enchantments. As a consul of the Redoubt who has willingly taken them upon himself, performing such acts of the Vagaries as I accuse you of would normally result in instant death. So the question remains. Or, put another way, how is it that you continue to live?”

At this, Joshua seemed to calm somewhat. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, he lowered his eyes menacingly at the master wizard across from him. This was a Joshua that Tristan had never seen; it was as though something vile had just come over him.

“First show me your proof, cripple,” he shot back.

“Very well,” Faegan answered calmly. He turned to Shailiha. “Princess, if you please.”

As if in concentration, Shailiha lowered her eyes somewhat. And then, from the bookcase behind the table and directly across from the secret door leading into the Well of the Redoubt, came Caprice, Shailiha’s violet-and-yellow flier. She had apparently been hiding in the dark space that would have ordinarily been occupied by an unusually thick, tall volume. Pausing tentatively for a moment on the edge of the shelf, she launched herself into the air, coming to rest on Shailiha’s arm. From there, presumably at the princess’ silent order, the flier flew down to land on the center of the table, her wings opening and closing silently.

For what seemed to be an eternity, no one spoke.

Joshua looked hard at Wigg. There was venom in his eyes. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he snarled. “Do you really expect me to accept the absurd accusations of some perverted creature of the craft? Especially one without the power of speech, who can communicate only with a woman who has just been supposedly cured of the Chimeran Agonies? No, gentlemen—I’m afraid you’ll have to do much better than that.”

“It’s over, Joshua,” Wigg said softly. “The flier, or should I say the princess, told us everything. You have been helping Nicholas drain the power of the stone. In fact, you have probably been doing so since the process first started. We had long wondered why the rate of decay varied so much from one day to the next—almost as if there were more than one force at work. After you, Faegan, and I placed the stone in the Well, Wigg and I placed the flier here, to determine whether anyone would enter the Well of the Redoubt without authorization. From her hidden perch in the bookcase, Caprice saw you. When you left she informed Shailiha, who in turn informed us. Faegan then immediately came here to check. The rate of decay had been increased, and the only changed variable was your presence.”

“Even if all this were somehow true, it isn’t enough, and you both know it,” Joshua protested. “For all I know this is something the two of you made up—an elaborate hoax of some kind, designed to force me from the Brotherhood.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I have never, in my entire life, been to the Well of the Redoubt alone. The only time I have ever been there is with you.”

This seemed to be exactly what Faegan had been waiting for. “Really?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “We thought you might say something like that.” He turned to the prince. “Tristan,” he said, “please remove the consul’s right boot.”

Tristan stared at the old wizard in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Remove the consul’s right boot, and place it on the table in front of me,” Faegan answered calmly. “I have engineered the warp so that you might reach through it without harm. Except for his right foot, I will momentarily immobilize him so that he cannot resist you.”

Still nonplussed, Tristan nonetheless did as he was asked.

“Thank you,” Faegan said as Tristan walked back to his seat. “Now then,” the wizard went on. “Everyone please observe.”

At once the chandeliers in the room began to dim, until finally the only light came from the bars of the cage holding Joshua. In the eerie glow, Faegan turned his wheelchair toward the center of the room, then raised his arm. A glowing broom appeared and hovered silently in the darkness. Then it began to sweep the floor, until its sparkling, glowing bristles had covered it all. With that, Faegan caused the broom to vanish and the lights to come back up. Tristan looked down at the floor, amazed.

A set of very clear boot prints, glowing with the power of the craft, led to the secret wall panel guarding the Well of the Redoubt, and back again.

“Tristan,” Wigg said. “Go to the boot prints, and look closely at the right heel. Tell us what you see.”

The prince rose, and went to study one of the prints. In the center of the glowing heel mark was a dark letter “J.” He bent down, just to be sure, then turned back to the table and reported what he saw.

“Now,” Faegan said, “if you would also be so kind as to turn over Joshua’s boot.”

Tristan walked to the table and turned over the boot. In the center of the heel had been carved the letter “J.” The exact duplicate of the one upon the floor, it stared back silently at him, a clear testament to what had transpired here.

Speechless, Tristan turned to Faegan. “How?” he asked. “How was this done?”

“A little-known use of the craft,” Faegan replied, turning his chair around and staring directly into the eyes of the consul. “I created an elixir that when spread across the floor subsequently vanishes, but can later reveal the tracks of anyone who walks upon it. Because only his boot prints appear in that area, only Joshua has entered and exited the Well of the Redoubt since I poured the elixir onto the floor. As for the mark on the heel, well, ‘J’ obviously stands for ‘Joshua.’ It was carved there by Shawna the Short. She slipped into his chambers while he was asleep, and did the job for me.” Faegan smiled knowingly into the consul’s face.

“But suppose others had gone there, even for innocent reasons?” Celeste asked from the other side of the table. “Or he had used an accomplice? How would you know who they were?”

Faegan grinned impishly. “Because Shawna did everyone’s boots and shoes.”

Reaching down, Tristan quickly removed his right knee boot and carefully examined the heel. Sure enough, a small “T” had been carved into it. He shook his head. As he put the boot back on, he looked over at the fuming consul in the glowing wizard’s cage. And just what will become of him now?

“What made you suspect him?” Shailiha asked.

“First of all,” Wigg answered, “there was the fact that he has been the only consul to ever make it back to the Redoubt alive. Think about it. Didn’t that ever strike you as strange, given the fact that there were roughly three thousand of them out there? Surely if he could escape the hatchlings and make it to safety, so could at least a few of the others. It is our belief that Joshua traveled from squad to squad as Nicholas’ agent, helping the hatchlings to capture the consuls. We had often wondered how the birds could find the squads so easily, and why it was that the consuls’ powers were completely useless against them. It just made no sense. In both cases we believe Joshua used a superior spell given to him by Nicholas, perhaps even placed into his blood by way of Forestallment. A simple blood signature will tell us that. His emaciated condition and dislocated shoulder were a nice touch, as well. A small price to pay for authenticity and sympathy, wouldn’t you say? And so he came to us, at Nicholas’ orders, to tell us his sad story, infiltrate the Redoubt, and begin helping to drain the Paragon.” Wigg paused, collecting his thoughts.

“And then there was the fact that Joshua would not let Geldon unearth Nicholas’ grave in Parthalon, or at least talked him out of it,” he continued. He looked in the general direction of the dwarf, giving him a short, compassionate smile. “Geldon wanted to bring the body here for you, Tristan, so that you might bury it in the grave site of your parents. He thought that as long as he was there, he would do you a kindness, saving you at least that part of the grief. But Joshua couldn’t allow that, because there was no body to bring back, was there? And finally there was his suggestion that we use Ox as your bodyguard. An idea Faegan and I eventually embraced, ordering Tristan to accept. Fiendishly clever, I’ll give the consul that much. We never told you that it had been Joshua’s idea, but it was.”

“I still don’t understand,” Tristan said. “What has Ox got to do with all of this? Is he a traitor, too?”

“No,” Wigg said, shaking his head. “Ox’s heart is pure, and he would gladly die for you. Nicholas wants you protected, for he still hopes that you will join him in his madness. The poison he ordered placed into your system by Scrounge, as he told you himself, provides the ultimate incentive to do so. Things are starting to make more sense, but I’m afraid there are still far more pieces to the puzzle.”

Tristan stared at the consul, stunned that he could be a traitor. “But what about placing the stone in the Well, and you retaining your powers?” he asked. “How could Nicholas do that?”

“No doubt via one or more of the Forestallments placed into his blood by the Heretics,” Wigg answered. “Perhaps even the same Forestallment that allows our ‘friend’ Joshua to help Nicholas accelerate the decay of the Paragon. As I said, a simple test of the consul’s blood signature will reveal much. For if he is innocent, his signature will contain no Forestallments. Isn’t that right, Joshua?”

The consul stayed silent, his lips drawn into a thin line, his eyes seething with hate.

“Assuming Joshua was our culprit, we needed to be able to prove it without a doubt,” Faegan continued. “I assumed he needed to be near the stone to help with its decay. He was occasionally in my presence as I wore it, but not always. By having him help us place the stone in the Well of the Redoubt, we gave him the opportunity—and the temptation. Wigg and I replaced the Paragon around my neck this morning, after Shailiha informed us of Caprice’s observations.”

“But we still have questions, Joshua,” Wigg said. “Questions that you shall answer—one way or another. How was it that Nicholas was able to defeat your death enchantments? And, even more importantly, is there a way by which we can return the power to the stone?”

Joshua produced an evil, twisted smile.

“Very clever, Wigg.” He nodded. “Yes, I have always been his, right from the moment he first revealed his mind to me, even while he was still a child. Even then his power and knowledge of the craft dwarfed anything you and the cripple have ever seen. But why, you are no doubt wondering. Why is it that a trusted consul would do such a thing? I’ll tell you why, you pompous old man. Because Nicholas promised me the one thing you and your vaunted Directorate would never share with any of us who wear the dark blue robes: power. And with that a complete understanding of the craft, especially the darker side. The adept has promised me things that you could never, in your exclusive, infantile practice of the Vigors, ever conceive of. And I wanted them. Oh, yes, Lead Wizard, I wanted them badly.” The wicked smile again contorted his face.

“And there is something else,” he hissed, so quietly his words were almost inaudible. “There are a great many more of the Brotherhood of Consuls just like me—brothers who went over to Nicholas’ cause willingly. A greater number of us than you could ever imagine. The master removed their tattoos so that they could never be identified.” He paused to stare menacingly at Tristan. “But your son didn’t tell you any of that, did he, Chosen One? No. For you see, there is still far more to all of this than any of you can imagine. But you shall never understand it all, for very soon now shall come the Confluence, and you shall all be quite dead.”

Wigg looked as if he had seen a ghost. Darkness passed across his face like a thunderstorm across the sky, and tears welled up in each of his useless eyes. But Faegan seemed less daunted by what he had just heard. Quickly wheeling his chair closer, he faced the consul directly.

“You said ‘the Confluence.’ What do you mean by that?” he demanded urgently.

“It makes no difference whether you are told, for you cannot possibly stop it now, anyway,” Joshua gloated. “The Confluence is the combination of four separate, but equally necessary elements. First comes the azure blood of the Chosen One, which my master already possesses. Second: a sufficient quantity of the blood of endowed children—blood that is gifted, but still malleable. He now has that, too. Third, waters from the Caves of the Paragon. And finally the power of the Paragon, transferred into the willing, azure blood of just one individual—an individual who is completely devoted to the teachings of the Heretics. The individual the Chosen One himself so conveniently took from the womb of the sorceress Succiu and left behind in Parthalon. As I said, it is the Confluence. Through the unique combination of these elements, the Guild of the Heretics will be allowed to return to the earth, to rule once more.”

Suddenly he smiled again. It was a more knowing and somehow more decisive smile—as if his mind was suddenly made up about something.

“But I digress,” he said, almost casually. “I shall not address your first questions—those of the death enchantments and the power of the stone. Those, I’m afraid, you must decipher for yourself. But there is still one thing of the highest importance that I have yet to mention. It would be quite impolite of me not to do so.”

“And that is?” Faegan asked, leaning forward.

“That death itself is not the end, nor is it even the problem,” Joshua answered cryptically. “That it is, truly, only the beginning. Something the master, in his infinite wisdom, will soon demonstrate to you.”

With that, the consul smiled calmly. Then his eyes began to roll up into his head. Reaching into his robes, he produced a long stiletto with a strange-looking, very tiny hook just visible at the end of the blade. Faegan’s eyes widened in realization and he raised his right arm, but even for the master wizard there was not enough time.

Joshua inserted the strange blade deep into his right ear. As blood gushed out, he slammed it in even farther, then gave the blade a sudden, forceful pull. Tristan heard a moist, muffled crack.

The consul was dead before his face hit the bars of his cage.

After everyone’s shock subsided and they verified that Joshua was truly dead, Tristan dragged the body outside the room to be disposed of later, then came back to the somber gathering.

“Why would the consuls revolt?” he asked. “I thought they were bound, heart and soul, to the Brotherhood and the exclusive practice of the Vigors. And how is it that they have somehow been able to circumvent the death enchantments?”

Wigg had been deeply affected by the news of the consul’s betrayal, and tears ran blatantly down his cheeks. Celeste placed an affectionate hand over his, and the lead wizard closed his ancient fingers around it. He seemed unable to speak.

Faegan, however, having had no such long-term relationship with the Brotherhood, remained more pragmatic. “For the same reasons Joshua mentioned, although I believe I can name a few more,” he said quietly. “First, the nation was destroyed by the Minions. The royal family, with the exception of the Chosen Ones, is dead. As is the entire Directorate, save for Wigg. So to whom do the consuls now owe their allegiance, eh? From their perspective, it is apparently up for grabs. For the first time in over three centuries, there is clearly a power vacuum in Eutracia. Second, Nicholas supposedly offers them far greater power than the Directorate would have ever dreamed of doing. This would be a very tempting proposition, especially in light of the fact that there is now no Directorate to punish them for their actions. They may even consider Wigg to be a traitor to the nation, just as the populace at large considers you, Tristan, to be the willing murderer of your father, the king. And then there is the most compelling reason of all.” Faegan sat back in his chair, his face grave.

“And that is?” Celeste asked, her sapphire eyes alive with curiosity.

“The promise of the time enchantments, granting them eternal protection from both disease and old age, and the concurrent circumvention of the death enchantments, finally freeing them to do literally anything they choose,” Faegan said glumly. “A very tempting package for those already partially trained, and still possessing an overriding curiosity about the craft. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Again the wizard paused, measuring his words. “We must therefore assume, at least for the time being, that the Brotherhood of Consuls is now in revolt.” Like the peals of a death knell, his words hung heavy and deep over the table.

“But Joshua has been exposed, and is dead,” Tristan countered, trying to find a gleam of hope. “Surely that is a good thing.”

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But we are not much better off than before. All we have gained is the fact that the Paragon will not decay so rapidly.”

Shailiha leaned forward, placing her arms on the table. “Joshua talked about the ‘Confluence.’ What is that?”

“The Confluence is mentioned in the Preface to the Tome,” Faegan explained, “and refers to the spell allowing the ‘rebirth,’ if you will, of those who have departed to the Afterlife. It is the concurrent gathering of usually disparate powers that will allow Nicholas to perform his version of the craft, thereby empowering the Gates and the blood of the Heretics locked within them.”

“And what happens then?” Tristan asked.

“It is written in the Tome that the Gates shall literally split open the heavens, releasing the Guild of the Heretics from their bondage in the firmament. The spirits of the Heretics shall then appear, descending from the heavens to come flying through the Gates, passing by their reactivated blood. They will then bond with it, taking on their original, human forms.”

“But if the Heretics can be released, then why are the Ones not released, as well?” Tristan asked.

“Because their blood is not in the marble of the Gates,” Wigg answered. “And is therefore not a part of the Confluence.”

Tristan looked around the table at the dark, defeated faces. Sighing sadly, he turned again to Faegan. “Tell me,” he asked, “why are they called ‘The Gates of Dawn’?”

“The Preface of the Tome states that the activation of the Gates is to take place precisely at dawn,” Faegan answered. “That is the only answer that we have.”

And with that, the room went silent.

45

Tristan stood in the middle of a snowy field some distance north of the royal palace, watching the many individual fires as they roared high into the evening sky. From their hot orange-and-red flames came a sickening odor that brought forth his memories of the destruction of Tammerland. It was the distinctive, unmistakable foulness of burning flesh.

The funeral pyres rose high into the sky, their many levels littered with the mangled and torn corpses of Minion warriors. Tristan had given permission for the pyres to be used, and as their lord he knew he needed to be present at the burnings, to pay his respects to the dead.

There had been many such nights already, and he knew there would be more. For although Faegan had been able to widen the portal, it had not functioned entirely as planned.

It had taken the ancient wizard many hours of study in the Archives to come up with a workable calculation for the enlargement of the vortex, but doing so had drained his mind terribly. Added to this was the fact that his powers were by now very much in decline.

Despite Joshua’s death two weeks earlier, the Paragon was still being drained, albeit at a constant rate. The stone was now almost colorless, and Tristan could easily see that what they had so feared was surely near—a world without magic. Or rather, he reminded himself, a world in which all of the magic had been taken into only one person, intent upon using it to commit an unspeakable act.

Tristan had never seen the usually impish and powerful Faegan so drawn and exhausted, and the prince worried for him. But still the ancient one sat defiantly in his chair each day in the cold, snowy field, holding the portal open for as long as his powers would allow.

The portal had let thousands of Minion warriors through, but with Faegan’s successes had also come problems.

Just as his powers now waxed and waned, so did the effectiveness of the vortex. This meant that many of the Minions trying to come through from the other side died horribly in the attempt.

Each time the vortex collapsed, some dead bodies, or what was left of them, made it through, while others did not, forever lost in the netherworld of the craft.

Blood lay everywhere upon the snowy field. The screaming and wailing that could be heard coming from inside the whirling maelstrom was terrifying—despite the fact that these warriors were Minions, and the bravest fighters Tristan had ever seen. Sadly, the prince estimated they were losing about one of every six. Their already bad odds against Nicholas’ hatchlings were growing worse by the moment.

What’s more, Tristan was worried about the wizards. It wasn’t just the continual loss of their powers that bothered him. They had become unusually secretive and quiet. Whenever Faegan was not operating his portal, he and Wigg shut themselves off behind closed doors. Even Shailiha seemed to be more withdrawn.

Tristan gazed along either side of the banks lining the Sippora River. From his position on higher ground, he could easily see the thousands of red Minion war tents that had sprung up. Torches twinkled gracefully within the gigantic encampment, the campfires before most of the temporary dwellings causing the surrounding, melting snow to gently give up the colors of the rainbow. In the firelight Tristan could make out hundreds of pairs of wings as the warriors landed and took off, the patrols ordered by Traax continually checking for any signs to the north that the enemy was on the move. The entire scene somehow seemed peaceful and idyllic, convincingly belying the true reasons for its existence.

The warriors were eager for the battle to be joined, and yet they waited, as more of the winged fighters poured through the vortex every day. At Traax’s suggestion the prince had billeted the officers in the empty palace. It had at first unnerved Tristan to see them walking briskly through the halls, setting up their quarters in the various rooms as if they owned them. These were some of the same warriors who had killed both his family and the Directorate of Wizards. And now, impossibly, they were here once more, this time occupying the palace to protect it, rather than destroy it.

Traax, Wigg, Faegan, and Ox waited with Tristan, watching the corpses burn. Traax had come to Eutracia, luckily without harm, on the fifth day, just as Tristan had ordered him. The Minion turned to his lord.

“Why do these hatchlings and scarabs not attack us now?” he asked Tristan. “Their hesitation makes no sense. Every day we grow stronger. Surely they must know that. Even more effective would have been a powerful, continuous attack upon us just as we started to exit the portal, only ten Minions at a time. Given enough opposing forces, even we could have been picked off in this way. So why do they wait?”

“There are several answers to your question,” Wigg replied, raising the usual eyebrow. “First and foremost, the Gates of Dawn are clearly Nicholas’ first priority, and he wishes them to remain protected by his servants until just before he activates them. Then, and only then, will he send his creatures against us. Second, he knows we shall be heavily outnumbered, and feels victory is already in his grasp. Sadly, in this he is probably also right.”

Wigg paused for a moment, uncomfortable with telling the Minion second in command so much. But Tristan had told Traax everything the previous night. Considering the fact they would probably die in battle together, the prince had decided there should be no secrets between them.

“And lastly,” he continued, “is the fact that as each day goes by Tristan becomes more ill. In Nicholas’ twisted world, that means the longer he waits, the better the odds are of Tristan joining him in this madness. In his own way, he is still protecting the Chosen One. But that will end when the Gates are finished and he finally realizes that his father has refused him. Then he will launch his attack, for at that point he will have little to lose.”

“There will probably be only one battle,” Faegan interjected, the look on his face both exhausted and grave. “Given the way we are outnumbered, they will do their best to finish us off in a single, powerful stroke, and be done with it.” He turned to Tristan and Traax to see that each of their faces had become hard in the flickering light of the pyres.

“You must do your best to keep them at bay,” he continued. “Even though, in the end, it probably won’t matter. But you must give us all the time you can. Even with Joshua’s death the Paragon continues to decay, and our powers will soon be gone. You must remember that this means the time enchantments protecting Wigg, myself, and Celeste will most certainly vanish, and we will quite literally fall into piles of dust, to be blown away on the winds of the Season of Crystal. If and when that happens, your fighting force will become the only remaining chance of stopping the Guild of the Heretics from returning to the world of the living and employing the Vagaries to rule forever.”

Tristan looked down to his right hip, to the new, bizarre-looking weapon he now carried there—the device with which Joshua had killed himself. Curious of all things martial, Tristan had carefully removed it from the dead consul’s ear, examined it closely, and then wiped it clean, asking the wizards if he might keep it. They had quietly agreed.

The weapon was appropriately called a brain hook, and although the prince had never heard of one before, it apparently had quite a long history with the wizards, having been standard issue for them during the Sorceresses’ War, when the Coven was becoming increasingly fond of taking wizards captive to turn them into blood stalkers. This small and easily hidden weapon could be deadly at close quarters, but it had originally been intended as an instrument of swift suicide.

Tristan had decided long ago that he would not suffer through the entirety of his fourth, final convulsion. He had no way of conjuring a trance to numb the pain and slow the onset of shock as Faegan had explained Joshua had done—as indicated by the rolling back of the consul’s eyes into their sockets—but when the time came, he was determined to use the brain hook as best he could, ending his life cleanly. He looked down at the simple weapon tucked beneath his belt. May the Afterlife give me the strength to do it right, he thought. He took his eyes away from the brain hook and again regarded the flames of the funeral pyres.

Traax took a step forward, anger and frustration clearly showing upon his face. “For a Minion warrior to die in battle is expected, even welcomed,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes locked upon the pyres. “It is the very reason for which we are born. But to die like this, defenseless . . . Such a thing simply should not be.”

Many such things should not exist right now, my friend, Tristan thought.

But they do.