The Fifth Sorceress

5

She smiled as the bullwhip snapped through the morning air. As second mistress of the Coven, she could have used her powers to punish him, but doing the physical work herself was always so much more pleasurable. She was an expert at this by now, and could easily lay the tight leather of the black woven whip anywhere she wished upon his naked back. Indeed, the design she was creating in his flesh was already beginning to take shape. As the whip whistled through the air, several drops of his blood splattered randomly across the room, some of it landing upon the hand that held the whip.

She touched the point of her outstretched tongue to the blood on her wrist and, smiling, closed her mouth.

The slave had not satisfied her needs, and for this they always paid. This particular young man had done her the indignity of not even becoming erect, and to her mind had therefore humiliated her. But then he had made the ultimate mistake: He had laughed at her.

Succiu, second mistress of the Coven, stood naked in the luxurious quarters of her bedroom in the Recluse, her breasts rising and falling with the exertion of her labors. When the slave had mocked her, her anger had immediately crossed over into the realm of hysteria. But despite the strength of her emotions, her aim with the whip had so far been perfect. So anxious was she to punish the slave that she had neither dressed nor taken the man to the Recluse dungeon as was usually her custom. Now, in examining the lines of blood across his back, she could see that her labors were only partially complete. Five more lashes would do it.

Suddenly the naked slave groaned and his body went slack in the iron manacles that circled his wrists and led to the elaborate ceiling via the chains. He hung there, his head lying to one side as if he were dead. She threw an errant handful of jet-black waist-long hair over one shoulder and cast her exotic, almond-shaped eyes down at the dwarfed hunchback that was squatting on the floor at her feet. He looked up at her like an obedient dog on a leash.

“Check him, Geldon,” she said simply as she slowly drew the length of the whip back to her and began coiling it into a circle. “This one is too strong to be dead yet.” Her voice, controlled and smooth as silk, had a sensual, smoky quality to it.

For the thousandth time the dwarf extended his pudgy fingers to touch the shiny iron collar that ran around his neck, and to feel the jeweled chain that ran from it to the iron ring embedded in the marble floor. No one had to remind him of how many of these rings his mistress had ordered installed in the various floors of the Recluse so that she could take her personal slave wherever she pleased and imprison him in plain view of the others. She tilted her head and silently commanded the iron ring embedded in the marble floor to open itself, allowing the dwarf to free the chain. Geldon dutifully picked up the ornate chain and walked across the room to face the slave.

“He lives, Mistress,” he said respectfully. “His chest rises and falls.” He was careful not to say too much and further anger his Mistress.

“Good,” she said casually, her eyes on both the slave and the dwarf at the same time. “Awaken him. I am not finished with my artwork, and we wouldn’t want him to miss the experience.”

The dwarfed hunchback shuffled to his mistress’s bath and retrieved a bucket of cold water. Standing on a stool, he poured the water over the head of the slave, saving a small portion of it. Then, as the slave began to regain consciousness, he held the man’s head back by the hair and without warning poured the rest of the water into the slave’s throat and lungs, choking him. His mistress liked it better that way. Coughing and gagging, the blond man in the chains twisted and convulsed in his shackles as he tried to expel the water and fill his lungs with air, a pink mixture of blood and water spraying violently across the room from his mouth. Finally, the focus began to reappear in his eyes and he once again hung more upright, his bloody toes only inches off the marble floor.

The second mistress of the Coven walked around to face him. She had chosen him from the Stables this morning not just because he was a particularly handsome Parthalonian, but because of the insolent look in his eyes. She had thought that the kind of fire she had seen there might finally provide her with a specimen who could ultimately satisfy her rather exotic tastes. But in the end, this one had proven an even greater disappointment than the others. She ordered Geldon back to his place near the ring in the floor and narrowed her eyes, causing the iron circle to close through the last loop in the dwarf’s chain, once again securing him there.

Grasping the handle of her whip, she placed the end of it beneath the slave’s chin and raised his face up to hers. She was pleased to see the hatred and fire burning there as hot as ever.

“Sorceress bitch!” he shrieked as loud as he could. But his voice came out only as a whimper of ragged breath. “I shall never service you.” He spat blood from his mouth onto her face and chest.

Completely unperturbed, she looked down at his groin. “With performance such as this, I daresay you are right.” She laughed. Suddenly her expression hardened as she put less than an inch between their faces, this time speaking between clenched teeth. “You have no doubt seen the scars upon the backs of the others in the Stables who have displeased me in this way?” She touched a finger to one of his blood spots that had splattered upon her left breast, and again touched the finger to the tip of her waiting tongue. “Soon you will look just the same as they do, Stefan,” she said coyly, crisscrossing the handle of the whip on his right cheek in a miniature version of the design that she had begun to imprint forever on his back. “I do my best work upon your back instead of your face so that I will not have to look at your ugly scars the next time you lay atop of me.” The handle of the whip continued its maddening course across his cheek. “Consider yourself lucky.”

From somewhere deep within him, the slave managed a smile. “I already do, you repulsive whore. Better to be scarred for life for not having serviced you than to have lain with one of the bitches who have enslaved us.” Somehow he actually found the strength and courage to laugh at her again. “Someday we shall kill you all,” he sneered. His breath had become even more ragged as he turned and twisted helplessly in the manacles.

“If you are talking about your comrades beyond the confines of these walls, you would do better to turn your mind to other things,” she said, apparently quite sure of herself. “Like pleasing me.” The handle of the whip began to undulate back and forth suggestively around his genitals.

Stefan collected as much blood and saliva in his mouth as he possibly could and sprayed it into the sorceress’s face.

“Very well, then,” Succiu said happily.

The second mistress of the Coven once again walked around to the back of the slave, and for a moment admired her handiwork. Then she viciously executed the last five strokes of the whip as hard as she could, finally on the last stroke using her powers to treble the strength in her arm. As she placed the whip so unerringly upon his back she could feel the distant, overpowering ecstasy of the Vagaries begin to rise in her veins, just as the First Mistress had told her it would over three centuries ago when her training in the darker arts had begun. And now she was a true sorceress, almost as powerful as her mistress, and the rapture she felt in her blood and her loins as she punished the slave drove her on even harder. Once again the slave groaned and slipped into unconsciousness.

The man’s blood was now running freely down to his buttocks from the five perfect triangles that she had cut into his back with the whip. The triangles that together made up the beloved five-pointed star, the Pentangle.

The symbol of the Coven.

“I am done with this one,” she said casually to the seated dwarf. Without looking, she pointed a lazy finger to the ring in the floor, and once again it opened. “Take him back to the Stables with the others. But first, draw my bath. This one has made rather a mess of me.” She walked over to the great canopied four-poster bed and slipped a silk robe over her tall form, apparently not caring that the various spots of blood on her naked body were blotting through here and there.

“Yes, Mistress,” the dwarf gurgled, as he trudged into the huge bathroom. She returned to stand before the hanging body of the unconscious slave and carefully scrutinized him the way a butterfly collector might examine a new specimen. This one was strong, she thought. As strong as one of common blood could be. Because of being trapped here in this miserable land it has been more than three hundred years since I have lain with a man of endowed blood. But that is about to change.

“Your bath is ready, Mistress,” Geldon pronounced as he reentered the room.

“Good,” Succiu said quietly, as she continued to examine the slave. “Time to wake him up.”

Geldon winced, knowing what was expected of him. Walking back into his mistress’s bath, he collected a handful of sea salt, then returned to stand once again upon the stool, this time directly behind the slave. This was the part he hated the most. Looking up to Succiu, he waited for her curt nod. Then he dutifully opened his hands and quickly rubbed the white grains into the many gaping slashes that had been carved into the man’s back by Succiu’s whip.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

The slave named Stefan was immediately brought back to consciousness, and he twisted and turned in his manacles, his eyes bulging from his head as he screamed insanely at the top of his lungs. When the screaming finally stopped, the whimpering began. And then the whimpering finally stopped, and the crying began. Succiu shook her head disparagingly and once again stepped before the slave, placing a sickeningly affectionate hand to one of his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. The slave named Stefan recoiled spasmodically at her touch.

“There now, isn’t that better?” she cooed, smiling crookedly into his eyes. “We want those scars to heal just right so that you will remember your little lesson here today, don’t we?” She turned her attention to the dwarf. “We wouldn’t want him to develop a nasty infection, now would we, Geldon? If that were to happen, he might never be able to come back.”

“No, we wouldn’t want an infection, Mistress,” the dwarf repeated obediently.

She looked hard into the slave’s eyes. “I think you should thank Geldon for the kindness he has just shown you, don’t you agree?”

With a final effort, he raised his face to hers. “No, bitch,” he breathed. The final, almost quiet statement of defiance had taken everything the man had. He fainted again, going limp in the manacles.

Succiu’s eyes once again hardened as she began to walk toward her bath. “Take him away from here. Back to the Stables with the other weaklings of his kind who also have no endowed blood. And then come back here quickly and clean all of this up. My bedroom is a disgrace.” Stopping at her bed, she narrowed her eyes and caused a pink silk sheet to float into the air and land on the floor beneath the dangling, bloody toes of the inert slave.

“Wrap him up in that,” she said sarcastically. “It wouldn’t do to have a mess down the hallways, now would it?” She tilted her head slightly, and the manacles sprang open, sending the slave crashing to the marble floor. “And after you have cleaned this room, wait outside the door for me. You are to accompany me to a meeting this afternoon.” She turned her back on him. “Just don’t be loitering about in here when I come out of my bath.”

“Yes, Mistress, I mean no, Mistress,” the short one murmured. “I shan’t be here when you come out.”

She rather disinterestedly watched him drag the bloody body out of the room and close the huge doors behind him. Smiling to herself, she then luxuriously turned and, stretching her lithe body like an alley cat, walked to her bath.

After inserting one toe into the water, she knew that the dwarf had gotten the temperature just right. Very hot. She slowly lowered herself the rest of the way in before realizing she was still wearing the bloody silk robe. Smiling, she closed her eyes and made it vanish. No matter. She could conjure a hundred more just like it if she chose to.

Looking to her left, she gestured with a long fingernail to open the stained-glass windows to her bathroom. She had to admit that the Parthalonian countryside was every bit as beautiful as Eutracia had been 327 years ago, before their forced exile. But Parthalon was different. The people the sorceresses had found here had been little more than ignorant peasants, and the Coven had taken great pains to ensure that it stayed that way. There had been neither a tradition of royalty nor a standing army here, such as had been inflicted upon Eutracia by the so-called Directorate of Wizards. Her eyes narrowed. The mere thought of those wizards made her heart beat faster with hate.

Enslaving Parthalon had actually been very easy, she remembered, especially in light of the fact that there had been no presence of endowed blood here. Their defenses had been feeble at best. Thousands had died all manner of hideous and imaginative deaths, but before too long the people had bowed to the four mistresses as their rulers. It had actually been rather amusing. Most of the people had been terrified of the thing called magic, having never seen it before, and they had stayed that way to this day, cloaked in a blind fear that the Coven had no intention of removing.

But the absence of endowed blood had proven to be a sword that could cut both ways. Although the entire country had easily come under the Coven’s control, there were no men of endowed blood here with whom to procreate. None of mistresses would ever dream of conceiving a child with one of these churlish cretins. And so the quest for the birth of a special female child of endowed blood from someone among the four of them had been lain aside as impossible, and the Coven had tried a different approach. It would take centuries, they knew, but it was the only way. And now, over three hundred years later, they were so close to completing their goal—as long as everything happened exactly as planned, and at the appropriate time.

Suddenly an interesting thought came to her. Time. Such an invincible enemy, such an indispensable ally. Even time itself we can now manipulate, just as it also manipulates us. She laid her head back against the cool marble of the huge tub and closed her eyes, lost in her thoughts.

Their slaves had been taken at random from the population as needed—for forced labor, or for other… uses. Indeed, the name “the Stables” had been her idea for the area of the Recluse where they kept those particular male and female slaves. And only beautiful ones. They did not serve in the traditional roles that one would expect of a palace. No, the ones like Stefan all served the Coven as sexual entertainment. Except for the First Mistress, she thought. Again the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. This had been her idea, and there must be hundreds of them of both sexes in the Stables by now, with three of the four mistresses making great use of the privilege. As a precaution they were tended to by deaf mutes only, and thus there could be no knowledge among the populace of the Stable slaves’ existence or purpose.

But what the populace knew or didn’t know really was of no importance. All of the more traditional servants and workers in the Recluse were slaves who had been taken from the countryside. The huge Recluse itself, the fortress home of the Coven, had been built with slave labor from Parthalon. When it was completed, all the workers had been put to death so that the inner layout of the castle remained a secret. With the exception of her personal slave, Geldon, once a native of Parthalon was taken into the Recluse there was only one way for him or her to leave. Dead.

As she carefully washed the blood from beneath her nails, her thoughts turned to those days and nights over three centuries ago that she and her sisters had endured trying to cross the Sea of Whispers. She smiled at the brilliant bargain the first sorceress of the Coven had made to ensure their safe passage when the four of them had at last discovered the hideous reason the sea had never been crossed. At the same time she blessed the First Mistress’ mastery of the Vagaries, without the knowledge of which that same bargain could never have been struck. And soon, very soon, they were to cross the Sea of Whispers again for the first time in over three hundred years. They had to return to Eutracia at last because the one they had left behind, although useful, did not possess the blood quality necessary to become the fifth mistress—the one that they had needed so badly and for so long in order to complete their plans.

And then the wizards who had banished them would pay. She reveled in the thought.

After leaving her bath and brushing her long, dark hair, she walked naked through her quarters to the huge closets that held her wardrobe. Opening the doors, she quickly decided upon red for today. This afternoon’s upcoming meeting was of the greatest importance, and this magnificent gown had long been her favorite. As she dressed, she turned her attention toward the room. Geldon had returned and cleaned it as she had ordered, and was no doubt waiting at the other side of the doors for her to appear. He was the perfect servant, and not for the first time she smiled at her luck in finding him.

It had been during one of her earliest visits to the Ghetto of the Shunned.

From the first the Coven had needed a place to confine certain unwanted members of the population, even after the country had been successfully overwhelmed. The problem had been solved very simply by selecting a rather large city just south of the Recluse, conjuring a very high and inescapable wall around it, and then killing all of the citizens inside, whether they had been useful or not. There simply had been no need to sort them all out, and so the Coven exterminated them by means of a plague. This conveniently left the mistresses with vacant living quarters large enough to hold approximately two hundred thousand souls.

Then the crippled, the sick, the retarded, the criminal, and everyone else that the Coven deemed simply undesirable were forced into the Ghetto and left to fend for themselves. The results were inevitable: crime, filth, disease, and inbreeding. From the very beginning, relegation to the Ghetto had been an irreversible death sentence. And it had indeed proven itself to be a powerful tool for controlling the actions of the population, especially until provisions for a standing army had been conceived. The simple threat of life in the Ghetto usually made grown men tremble in their boots.

Although the other Sisters strictly avoided the Ghetto as not worth their time, Succiu visited there often, actually enjoying the change from her wonderful gowns into rags and walking the Ghetto at night in the light of the three same red moons that had illuminated her homeland. She enjoyed seeing the poverty and the desperation, enjoyed anonymously witnessing the occasional rape or murder. Guarded by her powers, she walked among the Ghetto’s inhabitants without fear, occasionally killing at random simply to sharpen her skills.

She probably would have missed Geldon altogether had it not been for the sound of shattering glass. All of the storefronts in the Ghetto had long since been looted, and Succiu couldn’t imagine that there was any glass left to break.

Curious, she turned a corner into yet another dark street. Looking up and down it, she finally noticed a bit of movement. The feet of a child in rather odd boots were all that could be seen sticking out of a smashed storefront window, toes down and wriggling, as though the child were scrambling after something. Curious, she reached out and grabbed the child’s collar, launching him backward into the mud and glass that covered the street. What she had mistaken for a child she now saw was a dwarf, wincing in pain at having fallen on the hump between his shoulders. She casually placed one of her boots at the base of his throat.

“What were you doing?” she demanded.

He spat upon her leg, defiant. She increased the pressure of the boot on his throat, not really caring whether he lived or died. She could have used her powers to kill him a hundred different ways, but for the moment she was enjoying herself.

“Just one more chance,” she said calmly.

“Cat,” was the only word he could muster.

She lightened the pressure on his throat. “What do you mean, ‘cat’?”

“You know what I mean.” He panted. “There’s no food here anymore. I’m hungry. We all are. Cats be good eatin’. One of ’em ran into the store here. Make three meals out of a cat, I can, especially if it’s a big tomcat. Now, thanks to a street whore of the Ghetto, I’m still hungry!”

“Eating cats are you, little man?” she gloated, maintaining the pressure on his throat. “My last meal was highland pheasant with raptor’s eggs.”

“Not just a whore, but a lying whore,” he snarled. “That be only outside food, and only for the rich, at that!”

She released her foot. “Get up.”

He was perhaps all of three and a half feet tall, with dark hair, filthy clothes, and pudgy, greasy fingers. But she sensed a hidden intelligence in him. A perfect nocturnal creature of the Ghetto, he would be able to come and go virtually unnoticed. Such a person could be useful.

“What was your crime?” she asked.

“Robbery. I stole some bread for my family. We were starving. But they’re all dead now.”

The twisted mental image of a dwarfed hunchback trying to hide a loaf of bread that was the size of his arm brought a smile to her face. Growing even more curious, Succiu circled the dwarf as she examined him. The first finger of her left hand toyed with her bottom lip as the seed of an idea came to her.

“How would you like to leave this place? For services rendered, of course?”

“No street whore of the Ghetto has the power of freedom,” he said sarcastically.

Succiu was beginning to feel that some instruction was in order.

“That’s no way to speak to a mistress of the Coven,” she said quietly, pointing a finger at the dwarf.

“Mistress of the Coven, my arse!” He laughed. One of his fingers came up in an obscene gesture.

She had noticed the lantern hook earlier, long since looted of its oil lamp. It was fastened to the shop wall just to the left of the broken door. It looked sturdy enough, and if it was not, she would make it so.

Deliberately, almost gently, she levitated the dwarf up and back through the air toward the shop, and neatly hung him upon the hook through the back of his muddy coat. She turned her exotic head this way and that, examining him as if he were some kind of prize she had just won at a Eutracian province fair. Still defiant and not understanding the gravity of his situation, he wiggled all four limbs at once as if trying to obtain some form of purchase in the humid night air. Finally, he became still. But she could see that it was a stillness born of defiance.

“Bitch!” he spat venomously.

“Still don’t believe me, little man?” she asked. “I would have thought this small demonstration might have convinced you.”

“No cheap magic trick will convince me you’ve a true sorceress’ power.” He glared. “Besides, the mistresses of the Coven all live in a grand castle. Everybody knows that. No, you’re a street whore. Better looking than the others here, I grant you, and a whore with more tricks up her skirt than most, but a cheap street whore just the same.”

A smile came to her lips, exposing her perfect, white teeth to the moonlight. “What is your name, little man?” she asked, arms akimbo.

“Geldon.”

“Well, Geldon, it seems I have taken an interest in you. And, as I have said, I am a mistress of the Coven. But no matter. If you do not accept my offer, you will perish. Simple. And the secret that I sometimes walk the Ghetto by night will die with you.” She laughed at the irony. “Such a little man with such a big secret!”

He tried to spit at her again, but was unable to reach her. “For the last time, bitch, leave me be, leave me!” he screamed fruitlessly. “Go find some other poor fool to rent your crotch to!”

At last, she decided.

With her arms spread to the stars, her back arched, and her eyes closed, she began the incantation:

Two shafts of bright blue light shot from her hands, joined, and impaled the dangling dwarf to the wall. Immediately he began to tremble. The second mistress of the Coven was executing a Blood Pox. For the first time, true terror began to escape from the dwarf’s beady eyes as his little body shuddered, then began to shake more violently. Sweat streamed from his face and hands, and his clothing actually began to wrinkle from the heat as the temperature of his blood rose.

“Agree to my request soon, or I will take you past the point of no return,” Succiu hissed, watching her handiwork. “It is not a pretty sight.” She laughed. “But by then, of course, you will already be blind.” Still, the dwarf refused to speak. As he shook more violently against the clapboards of the building, Succiu continued to raise the temperature of his blood, the shaft of blue light becoming more intense in the dark night. She could swear she was beginning to see the toes of his boots starting to curl.

A stream of urine began to run down the inside of his left leg, then to his boot, and finally to the ground, forming a stinking, steaming, pinkish puddle beneath him. Then he started to scream. His body convulsed against the wall.

“I agree,” he said faintly.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” She laughed. “Address me correctly!”

“I agree, Mistress!” he screamed, his eyes rolling back in his head. She noticed a trickle of blood from one ear running down the side of his squat neck.

Immediately the shaft of blue light vanished, and Geldon crashed to the wooden sidewalk. Succiu stepped neatly around the pools of perspiration, urine, and blood, and stood over the scarcely breathing dwarf. With a smile, she bent down gracefully, touched a finger to the blood on the left side of his face just below the ear, and placed a drop of it on her tongue.

From that moment on, he was hers.

Taking him back to the Recluse, she had protected him with time enchantments and healed him to make him more useful. With two exceptions. She left his hunched back. And she left him impotent and sterile—results of the extreme blood temperature. Once he was well enough, she began using him to do her hunting for her. Hunting the Parthalonian countryside for the slaves that now made up the population of the Stables. And she had purposely left him broken. Teasing him with the possibility of a cure ensured that he would remain faithful.

She had instructed the Recluse maidservants to clean him, clothe him, and give him quarters. The First Mistress, upon seeing Geldon, had ordered him from the castle and rebuked Succiu for having brought him into their midst without permission. She found the hunchbacked dwarf disgusting to look at, not to mention an inferior life form, being a male of unendowed blood. But when Succiu had outlined her plans for using the dwarf to help her populate the Stables, Failee had relented, provided that Geldon was to be controlled and not left to wander the magnificent hallways of the Recluse at his own discretion. Succiu had gladly agreed and initiated the idea of the rings, thereby both humiliating the dwarf and condemning him to a life of servitude wearing the hated collar.

Smiling into the mirror as she admired herself in the stunning red gown, she knew that she would soon be gone from this place. Then she would have no need for the dwarf, and she could kill him.

After a final look of approval at her reflection, she walked to the door. Opening it, she reached down and picked up the end of the jeweled leash that the dutiful dwarf was holding up to her in both palms. Then she led the way down the hall, the dwarf waddling as best he could in order to keep up.

As Failee ascended the circular stone staircase, her mind raced. Moisture dripped from the dark stone walls, occasionally hissing as it fell into the wall torches. If the entire Coven was not present at the appointed hour, she would see to it that they were punished with some mild form of the Vagaries.

It would be her pleasure.

Eventually she reached the top of the staircase and stood before the great double mahogany doors. The Pentangle had been inlaid into each of the doors in brass, and magic was required to enter. These were the doors to the Coven’s Chamber, the highest and most private area of the Recluse.

As First Mistress of the Coven she had purposely decided to be late, to keep the other mistresses waiting. She uncurled one of her long fingers toward the doors and commanded them to open. To further illustrate the point of her leadership, she levitated herself and slowly glided into the room, finally coming to a stop in front of her throne and gently hovering there in dominance of the others already seated.

She was relieved to see that the other mistresses of the Coven were dutifully in attendance, each one in her prescribed throne. One throne was placed at each point of the oddly shaped five-cornered table. Two thrones remained blatantly empty. One was Failee’s, into which she gracefully lowered herself. The other throne had been empty for centuries. No one had sat in it since the first day it had been brought to this room, over three hundred years ago.

Ironically, the darkness of the meeting’s agenda was completely offset by the light and airy beauty of the room. The walls and floor were of the finest blanched white marble. Paintings and sculptures in a variety of styles and colors were strategically placed about. One entire wall of the great room had been given over to leaded stained-glass windows that were now shut, and highly patterned rugs lay here and there upon the marble floor. Several gold oil lamp chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving the room a soft, golden touch as twilight slowly advanced with the coming of night.

Without speaking, she looked in turn into each of the faces of her Sisters, the other mistresses who had been with her so long and had gone through so much. To her immediate right in a stunning red gown sat Succiu, second mistress of the Coven. On Succiu’s right was Vona. Her straight, red hair did little to detract from the intensity of her blue eyes. An emerald representation of the Pentangle hung around her neck on a gold chain. The last was Zabarra, the youngest of them but one of the most powerful. She was also one of the most sarcastic. Her green eyes smiled at Failee as she played with the end of one of her blond ringlets.

Failee continued to gaze at the three other women. They appeared to be younger than she, since the time enchantments had come to her later in life. She smiled herself knowingly. The wizards, too, had been older at the time they had discovered the time enchantments. Like me, they appear mature, she thought. And always will.

But the three before her she had chosen as her most trusted followers not only because of their power but also because of their relative youth and vitality—vitality that would be forever preserved by the time enchantments. The fact that they were younger and less experienced did not concern her, since she knew she would have all of eternity to train them. And she did not envy their eternal youth and beauty. After all, she thought, they shall never possess the power that I do.

“You’re late,” Vona said almost casually, her face a curious mixture of courtesy and impertinence. “Has it now to become the custom to keep other Sisters waiting for the beginning of such an important meeting?”

“Your tone tells me that perhaps you need a visit to the Stables, Vona,” Failee said easily, but her hazel eyes stared commandingly into Vona’s deep-blue ones. She tossed back heavy, dark hair that was shot through with streaks of premature gray. “After all, they are there for your unlimited enjoyment, are they not?”

Failee could see the anger begin to rise in Vona’s face, but before the redhead could answer she was interrupted by a different voice. A male voice.

“Good evening, Mistress,” Geldon gurgled as he trudged out from behind Succiu’s throne.

Succiu slapped the dwarf across the face with the back of her hand. He went down hard upon the marble floor, his cheek bleeding from the cut put there by the ornate gemstone ring that Succiu always wore on the third finger of her left hand. Failee saw Geldon’s eyes blaze red for a moment before slowly returning to their usual look of controlled servitude.

“How dare you speak to the First Mistress without being spoken to first!” Succiu hissed, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Perhaps I should simply take you back to that awful place where I found you.” She threw one side of her long black hair over her shoulder as if in contempt of his very presence. Geldon slowly rose back up to his feet.

“Even though you insist upon being around that gruesome creature, at least you are keeping it on a leash,” Zabarra said, shaking her head, her eyes to the ceiling. The tip of her right index finger remained lost inside the end of one of her ringlets as she spoke. “We are fully aware that he does all of the scouting for us, but must you always bring him here, as well?”

“Take care, Sister,” Vona cautioned. “One day he will turn on you.” Succiu laughed impulsively. “Really, Vona?” she retorted. “And just how would he accomplish that? After all, he’s only a man. And a little, mortal, emasculated one at that.”

“Enough of this,” Failee snapped, once more in command of the meeting. “Our guest should by now be waiting outside the door. Zabarra, please bring in Commander Kluge.”

Zabarra went to the double doors and opened them, letting a tall man into the room. He walked slowly to the front of the table and stood quietly. His name was Kluge, and he was the commander of the Minions of Day and Night, the personal army of the Coven.

Unkempt but clean black hair streaked with gray fell past his shoulders. The dark, neatly trimmed mustache and goatee surrounded a firm mouth, and intelligent eyes, piercingly dark to the point of almost being black, seemed never to miss a thing. He was a tall, muscular man, almost handsome, except for the whitish scar that ran from the outside corner of his left eye, down his cheek, and into the small forest of his goatee. The energy and strength apparent in him were always kept under tight control, yet it always seemed as if simply looking at him could somehow cause one harm.

Upon his promotion to commander, Failee had given him permission to wear black. The sleeveless, black leather tunic revealed strong, scarred chest and arm muscles. Silver-trimmed forearm gauntlets, also black, ended at the first knuckle of each hand. Just above the first knuckle of each finger were spiked, silver finger rings, designed for stabbing and slashing at close quarters. Black leather boots trimmed in silver and a shiny winged helmet with horizontal eye slits held under the left arm completed the picture.

The curved, sheathed sword at his side was the mainstay of the Minion warrior. The sword, called a dreggan, looked like an ordinary sword, but at the touch of a lever built into the hilt, the blade would extend with great force up to another foot. During running swordplay, in which proper distancing was crucial, a Minion could surprise his opponent with the sudden appearance of an extra foot of swinging, flashing steel that had not been there before; or he could place the dreggan against the opponent’s body and suddenly impale him with no apparent effort. A blood groove always ran down the blade’s shiny, silver edge. It was fabled to be so sharp that when a silk scarf had once been thrown into the air in jest, it had been neatly halved by a well-turned dreggan before it hit the ground.

But the last of Kluge’s weapons was the one that Failee found the most intriguing.

The returning wheel.

Hanging from Kluge’s right hip was a silver hub, from which protruded flat, curved blades, equally distanced apart. When properly thrown, the returning wheel could slice through a victim cleanly and then return in a large circle to its owner. To be in the midst of a battle amid a flurry of returning wheels brought obvious danger not only to the enemy, but also to the Minions themselves. The proper use of a returning wheel took years to perfect, and Kluge was an expert. Failee glanced at the glove that Kluge wore over his right hand. The palm of the black leather glove was padded with lead, which allowed the returning wheel to be safely plucked back out of the air upon its return. The pad of Kluge’s glove had long since been permanently stained with blood.

The other mistresses were also watching Kluge as he stood quietly at attention, waiting to be addressed. Succiu’s eyes in particular roamed his face and body. She licked her lips, slowly.

Yet the most amazing of Kluge’s attributes were barely visible, rising only slightly above each of his shoulders from the rear. Failee herself had been responsible for this anomaly. As a master of the Vagaries, she had worked for over a decade to produce just the right combination of blood mix from other creatures with incantations of her own to create this particular attribute, making sure it was both inheritable and completely functional. Since then, each member of the Minions of Day and Night had been born with the same amazing feature. Wings. Not the feathered wings of birds. Not light, fluffy, and hollow of bone. Instead, these dark, leathery wings were strong enough to break an enemy’s back. Open, each wing stretched half again as far as an outstretched arm. After a few quick paces, a Minion warrior could leap into the air and fly, covering great distances. Given enough portable food and water, Minion warriors could remain aloft uninterrupted for up to two days and two nights.

Early on it had become obvious to the Coven that trying to conscript and train an army of the male weaklings of this strange land would be impossible. And so they had decided to use a different method to ensure themselves of warriors who would someday be worthy of their plans.

They would breed them.

It had begun with the abduction of several handpicked men and women of the populace. They had been forced to mate continuously under the supervision of Failee and an occasionally voyeuristic Succiu, to begin the growth of what would become a population of well-trained male warriors. Failee eliminated the problem of inbreeding through incantations of her own design. Any child with a deformity or ailment was immediately put to the sword. Females were used for breeding only, relegated to the brothels inside the various Minion fortifications that had begun to dot the countryside. Women who were infertile or past their childbearing years were assigned other duties, such as cooking, learning to make weapons, or serving as midwives in the birthing houses.

To better control the female population within the fortifications, the women’s wings were clipped and their feet bound. To produce the largest number of warriors in the shortest amount of time the Coven had cast time enchantments of acceleration and deceleration upon them, forcing the boys and girls to reach puberty faster than normal, and the adults to age more slowly than normal, thus widening the window of opportunity for breeding. The results had surpassed even Failee’s expectations.

The man who now stood before the Coven was their selection to command it all. The only authority he recognized was the Coven itself.

“Commander Kluge, you may approach,” Failee said gently.

Kluge immediately bent to one knee, his head bowed. “I live to serve,” came the short, deep-voiced reply. He stood and stepped nearer the table, where he once more waited to be spoken to.

“Please inform us of the status of your command, Commander,” Failee said. “Leave out nothing. The time of your proving will shortly be upon us.”

Kluge placed the highly polished helmet on the floor and folded his hands in front of himself, gathering his thoughts.

“Yes, Mistress. The current number of men under arms stands at one hundred fifty thousand, seven hundred and ten. Additionally, as you know, this now increases daily at a rate of approximately two hundred, due to the great effectiveness of the time enchantments. Births are upward of about double that amount, less of course the execution of the newborn undesirables and death from natural causes.” Always the political animal, he paused, carefully glancing at each of the mistresses in turn, making sure he was addressing them as a group. As usual, however, his eyes seemed to linger a bit longer upon Succiu than the others.

“Foot soldiers, approximately sixty thousand. Elite assassins, twenty thousand. Captains of ocean-going warships, one thousand. Warship warriors, fifty thousand. Officers, eight thousand. Archers, two thousand. The remaining number of troops are divided into the usual support staff—cooks, blacksmiths, armorers, healers, and so on.

“As for the status of the Minion population including females for breeding, the current situation is good. There is very little disease and virtually no crime. The brothels have many new additions, and the visitation rate by the troops is as high as I have ever seen it. As a result, the birthrate is high. The construction of additional birthing houses with the usual complements of midwives and nursery guardians may be in order if this continues, but I must also add that if there are any problems at all, these are good ones to have.

“Training of the warriors continues relentlessly. Those injured in training and no longer capable of battle are housed in separate quarters, and used for siring purposes only. This serves two purposes. First, it is a reward for their service. And second, it prevents the number of males available for breeding from continuing to dwindle. We have lost far more warriors than usual in recent months—warriors who would have normally sired children. These losses are due to the vastly increased training to the death that I have seen fit to order in preparation for our mission. But I feel that the results have been worth the losses. The current male/ female ratio is approximately even, making for a total Minion population of just over three hundred thousand. Officers of importance have, at your request, been secretly briefed that they are about to engage in a campaign, although they are unaware, as am I, of the specific nature of the confrontation.” He turned and addressed Failee specifically. “All is ready.”

Failee rose from her throne and glided to the largest of the stained-glass windows. As she pointed a finger, the double windows gently opened outward. She took a breath of the sweet Parthalonian early-evening air, gazing west into the sunset toward her homeland of Eutracia, out toward the Sea of Whispers that separated the two lands. The northern coastline of Parthalon was just visible from here, one reason the Coven had selected this area for the Recluse: so that they could never forget the centuries-ago war, the loss of so many of their Sisters at the hands of the wizards, and the desperate search to find a way across the supposedly uncrossable sea. They had washed ashore like peasants in a land no Eutracian knew existed, much less had ever set eyes on. The burning desire to return and reclaim their power set fire to her soul each time she viewed this ocean. Only four mistresses remained from the hundreds she had loved, lost, and left behind. Soon, my dead Sisters, she thought. So many shall pay. Pay for the sins of their ancestors.

It was the Season of New Life in Parthalon, and the beautiful countryside was blooming. The three red moons rose in the sky here each evening, just as they had in Eutracia. The bugaylea trees were just coming to full color, their leaves turning gracefully in the wind. A gorgeous squadron of black—and-yellow honeybees, growing in this land to the size of a man’s hand, flew by noisily just below the open window. But her sorceress’ heart yearned for Eutracia.

Her mind turned briefly to the man standing behind her. How could such a blunt instrument as Kluge ever understand the full motives behind this undertaking? She gently smiled to herself, knowing that it didn’t matter, that his loyalty and the performance of the warriors and the warships were all the mistresses required of him. Indeed, she thought, the subtleties of the ultimate prize would be totally lost on Kluge. He lived only for war. Had she herself not bred him to be so?

She had seen Succiu’s eyes roam over Kluge’s body, and she knew why. Smiling, the memories of so long ago began to fill the corners of her mind.

As she continued to stare out at the Parthalonian countryside, one memory in particular came back to her, one that she had taken the luxury of revisiting often during these last, important days. Her mind began to drift happily back to over three hundred years ago, during the war in Eutracia when she had first taken the knowledge of the Vagaries from the wizards.

It had been in Florian’s Glade, a city recently taken by the Coven. The captured wizard had been brought to her as a delightful surprise, and she had ordered him to be bound to a chair in the center of the town square in preparation of her interrogation of him.

But this one was strong, she knew, and she therefore decided first to try another way to convince him to give up his secrets rather than simply trying to force the knowledge from him. She smiled to herself, luxuriating in the irony of the moment and the solution that had so conveniently offered itself up.

For the Coven already had his daughter.

As Vona dragged the young girl forward to face her father in his simple but unforgiving prison in the sun, Failee gave him one brief, awful chance to save his only child. She stared down into his amazingly potent eyes and issued her stark, excruciating demand.

“Give all of your knowledge to me,” she said quite simply, “or you shall witness your only child, your beautiful daughter of endowed blood, perish before your eyes.”

At first the wizard was dumbstruck to see before him the daughter he had thought dead for so long, and the tears that began to form in the corners of his eyes ran down his cheeks and into the thirsty dirt of the courtyard. But strangely, he did not speak. He lowered his head in defeat.

But then his countenance hardened, as he became certain of the path he must take regardless of his personal feelings. He looked the First Mistress in the eyes, trying at the same time to avoid the eyes of his only child.

“No,” he said simply. He spat as hard as he could into Failee’s face, his heart tearing in two, knowing that he had just condemned his daughter to death.

Upon a short nod from Failee, Vona immediately grabbed the now-screaming girl by the hair and dragged her into a nearby house. The begging and shrieking were horrifying, and seemed to go on and on forever as if the sorceress was taking her time with her grisly task, enjoying her work. The wizard, powerless against the combined talents of the Coven, struggled pitifully in his chair, trying to escape while the unthinkable happened. And then all went quiet as Vona walked back out into the center of the square with a bloody dagger in one hand and a lock of his daughter’s blond hair in the other.

She threw it into his face, laughing.

At that point the torture had started. And the Vigors and Vagaries that were so painfully ripped from the wizard’s mind became an essential part of the powers of the Coven. As Failee’s torture of the wizard progressed, her powers and understanding of the craft grew, and she willingly passed on the basic tenets of the darker side of the craft to her Sisters, the three females of endowed blood whom she had chosen to be her closest allies and to help her rule Eutracia after they had taken the kingdom.

She could still remember the moment when she finally broke through his mind and found what it was she had been searching for.

You have done it, her heart cried out. You have broken the most powerful of them all! And then she had smiled at him yet again, and had spoken the words intended to pierce his heart like daggers.

“You are now completely mine,” she said softly, almost reverently, to the wizard as he sat there in his chair of torture, unable to move.

And for the next several months she had walked unfettered through his mind, his power, his very soul, learning and taking, committing psychic rape and delving into what she was sure was every part of his subliminal being, and his talents.

In addition she had also found the incantation that she had now so long held to her breast. The one that would, very soon, prove to be so invaluable to their mission.

And then, surprisingly, the acute, unfulfilled desires had come. One day, while struggling to understand one of the more arcane passages of the Vagaries, she and the others had all felt the unexpected stirring of their loins. The hugely sexual, needful longings had been intensified by an insanely irresistible desire to inflict those same sexual needs upon others.

Of both genders.

And with the resultant acts of depravity had come to Failee the shocking, absolute certainty that it was, indeed, these blissful feelings of ecstasy that truly helped augment their power. That the quality of their blood and, therefore, their ability to employ the Vagaries became stronger each time they indulged themselves in yet greater forms of sexual wickedness. And that to fulfill completely her potential as a true mistress of the Vagaries she must gladly obey that dark side of the craft, and willingly surrender to the depravities it was calling upon her and her sisters to perform. Failee had therefore encouraged such predilections, this sickness of the soul and of the body. Encouraged them, in fact, to such an extent that the construction of the Stables had been a necessity, rather than an indulgence.

Strangely, perhaps because the First Mistress was the most powerful of the Coven, the greater her understanding of the Vagaries became, the more her own sexual longings had begun to lessen and finally to dissipate, leaving her with only a pure, unadulterated need for the perfection of the craft. Her sexual needs had been replaced by a calmness, an inner peace, that she now knew only a true adept of the Vagaries could attain. But she continued to encourage the carnal activities of the others, hoping that one day they, too, would ascend to her level of superiority.

But in the end the sorceresses had lost. Lost the war that they had tried so hard to fight and win. And only because it had been the bastard wizards who had first found the stone and the Tome.

Reluctantly she turned from the window, glided back to her throne, and sat down. No one else in the room had spoken or moved. Failee’s personal reveries were legendary, and her silence could be deafening. Kluge, the commander of the Minions, stood patiently waiting for her to speak, as did the others. Her mind finally came out of the past and began to concentrate upon the present.

“Of most importance, Commander, is the condition and state of the warships. Tell us, what is their battle status?”

“The vessels of which you speak have come under the highest scrutiny of all, Mistress,” he assured her. His eyes flicked briefly to the others at the table. “They have been checked, sailed, and checked again. One thousand strong. Each captain has been handpicked and rigorously trained. As per your orders, the captains have been given the best of Minion quarters, food, wine, and females for recreation. The holds of each vessel are filled to capacity with the appropriate weapons, and each of the captains has spent time familiarizing himself with the capricious nature of the maritime winds. Water and provisions for the journey have been set aside, and will be loaded when I am given a sailing date. We have also taken the liberty of fashioning a death’s head to the prow of each ship, which has heightened morale even further. Each man is anxious for the campaign to begin.”

“What are your casualty estimates?” she asked. She knew that it was an unfair question, given the fact that Kluge had not been fully informed of the nature of the mission. Nonetheless she wanted him to answer first, to see if his numbers came close to those of her own.

“The officers corps and I estimate losses of at least twenty thousand, given the as-yet-unknown nature of the resistance. However, as you are aware, those losses will not be of equal proportion throughout the ranks. The highest proportion of deaths will occur among the Elite Assassins, since they are always the first to attack. Those wounded beyond help shall be put to the sword. Any remaining wounded still suitable for breeding shall be brought home, as per your orders. The balance of the casualties we expect to be rather evenly divided among the other types of warriors. Even though we have the element of surprise and the prizes that we seek shall be, as you have informed me, all in one place, due to the nature of the timing the entire Eutracian Guard shall be present. And although the Guard has not fought an actual battle in over three hundred years, they, too, as you have informed me, train relentlessly.” He paused briefly, as if unsure of his next sentence. Finally, it came. “Mistress, may I ask a question of you?”

“Speak.”

“If I may, I have two questions. First, how is it that my ladies know so much of the kingdom of Eutracia after such a great amount of time has passed? In fact, how can we be sure that the kingdom even continues to exist?” He waited to let the question sink in.

“And the second?”

He once again uncharacteristically paused. The asking of the second question, if phrased improperly, would seem to question both the wisdom and the authority of the Coven, a position in which he had no desire to find himself. Although he knew of his great value to the women in this room, he also knew with equal certainty that any one of them could kill him as easily as she could draw her next breath, and some of them would not hesitate to do so.

He lowered his gaze to an intersection of blocks in the white marble floor, searching his mind for the correct words. He must be careful in this, he knew. He raised his head, doing his best to divide his two dark eyes among the eight others that were so keenly regarding him.

“Please understand, Mistress,” he began, “my question is as much from my officers corps as from myself,” he said. “It is just that they press me constantly for an answer, and I—”

“Enough!” Failee interrupted. She lowered her eyes and slowly shook her head back and forth. Although usually controlled, she was running out of patience and had little time for a commander who could not come to the point. Time, above all, was now the Coven’s most precious commodity.

“Ask your question or lose your tongue,” she said almost gently. Succiu’s mouth turned upward into a smirk.

Recognizing her tone, Kluge dropped again to one knee and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Mistress, but what is the prize we seek?” It was only now that he raised his head and looked into Failee’s eyes. Gratefully, he saw her face relax slightly, the beginnings of a small smile coming to her lips. He stood.

Without answering, Failee’s right hand emerged from her robe and reached across the table to draw closer to herself several arcane objects. A square, jeweled box with the sign of the Pentangle upon its lid was first. This was followed by a tall crystal goblet. Lastly, she picked up and placed before herself a large amphora, also made of crystal. The amphora was filled with water. Oddly, he realized he had not remembered seeing any of these objects until Failee had reached for them.

The First Mistress slowly filled the goblet from the amphora, watching the water pour out and down. Once the goblet was filled, the amphora once again vanished from the table. The other mistresses sat quietly watching, as if in reverence.

Failee raised her right arm, pointing her index finger straight down toward the center of the thick, dark table. Immediately the table began to separate, splitting down the center. The two sections of the table turned hauntingly toward the wall, until they joined again in the shape of a long rectangle. Each of the thrones, including the empty one, also moved, carrying each sorceress around the newly formed table until they were all on one side, facing the same direction. The empty throne was in the center. Geldon, Succiu’s slave, was located at the far end of the table, still sitting on the floor, chained to the same spot.

For a moment Kluge imagined that he must be losing his wits, for the seated mistresses were facing a wall of the chamber that he did not remember being there before. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the room. Unlike the other walls, which were of blanched marble, this one was made of the most highly polished black marble he had ever seen. When he looked upon it, the black depths seemed endless. In addition he noticed that the room was beginning to further darken as the oil lamp chandeliers dimmed, no doubt yet another act of Failee’s.

Failee turned in her throne to address Kluge, who was still standing in the same place, behind the table. She waved her hand, beckoning him forward. “Commander, come to the end of the table,” she ordered. Kluge obeyed, walking in the half-light to stand next to Zabarra’s throne. Zabarra, her finger still toying with a blond ringlet, bowed her head slightly, acknowledging his presence.

Failee smiled, spreading her hands upon the table before her. “As to your questions, Commander, the proof of our supposed knowledge of Eutracia will soon come to you in the form of a demonstration. You see, there is one in Eutracia who is still loyal to us. What that person sees, I can also see. What that person hears, I can also hear.”

Kluge couldn’t help but notice that her mood had changed. She almost seemed lost in her own thoughts.

“As to your second question—that is, what prize we seek—well, I do believe that you are in for somewhat of a surprise. The prize, or should I say prizes, shall also be illustrated to you shortly by way of a demonstration. But, to be polite, the true answer is that we seek only three things. First, a woman. Second, a gemstone. And third, a chalice of water.”

Kluge was stunned. Twenty thousand estimated casualties and a campaign of this magnitude to accomplish a mere kidnapping and the theft of a gemstone? Were they insane? Any woman they desired, for any reason whatsoever, could easily be taken from the Parthalonian citizenry. And gemstones? Although he had not seen it done, he had to believe that any one of the Sisters could conjure up gemstones of any quantity and quality imaginable. He could feel his face turning red, but couldn’t decide whether it came from rage or embarrassment.

To his mind now came the worst question of all. What to tell his troops? During the preparations for this campaign he had overheard the excited talk in the barracks of plunder, gold, the conquest of foreign lands, and the taking by force of women without wings. Some fool had even begun a rumor that the surviving warriors of the supposed occupation force would be allowed to divide the conquered lands and claim them as their own. Had Kluge known who it was, he would have killed him himself. How could he ever explain to his troops the concept of returning with nothing more than these few meager demands of the Coven? And he couldn’t even begin to understand the need for a simple chalice. He took a deep breath and held himself steady, barely able to control himself while he waited, knowing that all eyes were upon him.

Succiu, in particular, had been watching Kluge, understanding and enjoying his frustration. She had seen the muscles of his left hand contract around the hilt of his sword and watched his lips press together as the muscles in his jaw clenched. As her eyes roamed over him, the tip of her tongue gently searched out one corner of her mouth, and she languidly crossed her long legs beneath her gown. Vona would not be the only one to have a visitor from the Stables this evening.

Failee lifted the lid of the box on the table. Removing a pinch of finely ground violet powder, she dropped it into the crystal goblet. Although the fluid in the goblet did not change color, it began to roll and undulate, as though a storm were tossing a small, self-contained ocean. A dense gray fog rose from the goblet, cascading over the rim and then farther downward, to collect upon the table.

Vona, Succiu, and Zabarra stood and approached Failee as she laid her arms along the length of the armrests of her throne and let her hands dangle over the intricately carved raven’s claws at each end. As Kluge watched, Vona and Succiu each produced two small leather belts, while Zabarra picked up the fogging goblet and watched attentively. Kluge couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched Succiu and Vona use the belts to secure Failee’s ankles to the throne legs and her wrists to the raven’s claws. They finished their work and waited dutifully.

“I am ready,” Failee said firmly, gazing at the black marble wall before them. Obediently, Zabarra raised the goblet to Failee’s lips. She drank timidly at first, taking only a small sip, as if apprehensive. Kluge had never known Failee to be afraid of anything, but this situation was apparently different. She then took another, larger swallow from the offered cup, this time seeming to much more enjoy both the flavor and the experience. Zabarra then placed the goblet on the table next to the box and went back to her throne, as did the other two.

The room became very cold. It had become more difficult to breathe, as though the air had become thinner, and all about the room came shimmering cascades of light moving to and fro, seemingly at their own will.

Failee’s head was bowed slightly forward, her eyelids covering the upper half of each of the hazel irises. Still she was focused intently upon the black marble wall. Strands of her dark, gray-streaked hair were now matted to her forehead with perspiration, despite the coldness of the room. Even in the dim light, Kluge could plainly see the vein in her left temple begin to throb. She was straining both hands and feet against the belts that held her to the throne, and it was apparent that she was fighting something. But what? As her sworn protector, he felt compelled to reach out and free her from her bonds, but he restrained himself, fearing that any interference at this point might only invite his own death. A drop of the crimson liquid that had somehow lingered in the corner of Failee’s mouth broke free and began to snake crazily downward toward her chin. Except for the ragged breathing of the First Mistress, the room was bathed in total silence.

Just then there came another sound. Kluge heard a strange scraping noise, like stone against stone, and looked to the domed ceiling of the chamber to see one of the ceiling stones moving by itself, down and over, creating a hole to the sky directly over Failee’s head.

Failee raised her head back up, still concentrating on the black wall, once again calm and in control. She delicately licked the crimson fluid from her chin. She began to smile.

Without warning a rectangular shaft of blue light shot down out of the sky, making a loud grating sound, as if it were scratching the very air through which it passed. It shot directly downward to the top of Failee’s head. The effect was immediate.

Her eyes were changing.

Kluge watched in a combination of fascination and horror as the irises and pupils of Failee’s eyes began to become translucent and then disappear altogether, leaving only the whites of her eyes. Then, slowly, the white began to change to black, the same endless black as the wall. Kluge began to break into perspiration, and his breathing quickened.

But more was to come.

Small pinpricks of light began to emanate from her eyes, like stars in a dark night sky, but they were too close together and far too numerous to count. The pinpricks of light began to join into one, and then the single band of white light began to move toward the black marble wall.

Failee finally spoke, apparently once again in full control of her faculties. She let out a throaty laugh. “And now, Commander, the answer to your first question. I believe you asked me how we could have such absolute knowledge of Eutracia after the passing of over three hundred years. An understandable request. But first, Sisters, please remove my bonds.”

The three other mistresses rose from their thrones and began removing the belts that held Failee. She remained stone-still, the light from her eyes continuously moving with almost agonizing slowness to the black marble wall, the ever-present shaft of blue light still shining down on the top of her head. When the light from her eyes had traversed approximately half of the distance to the wall it stopped, hovering in midair. Vona, Zabarra, and Succiu returned to their thrones.

Kluge noticed that both the goblet and the small square box had vanished from the table.

Failee raised her arms, palms up, as if in supplication, her eyes un-moving. “Commander,” she said in a low but commanding voice, “I present to you the palace at Tammerland, capital city of the kingdom of Eutracia.”

Immediately the shaft of brilliant light from Failee’s eyes screamed through the air, covering the remaining distance to the black wall in a bare second. When it reached the black marble, it became an impossible mixture of liquid and light, rolling and surging out in every direction, covering the wall in a golden glow. There came a great crashing noise, similar to but not exactly like thunder. The light from Failee’s eyes disappeared, and the wall was bathed in the most excruciatingly bright white light he had ever experienced. Instinctively he raised his hands to cover his eyes. When he finally sensed the light was gone, he slowly lowered his hands and found himself standing before the most amazing image he had ever seen.

It was like looking through a different pair of eyes and into a different life. Or, to be more precise, other lives. He was watching and hearing, in life-sized dimensions, scenes being played out as they were happening—hundreds of leagues away, across the Sea of Whispers in the kingdom of Eutracia. He stood transfixed.

The room he was looking at was larger than he had ever seen, so huge that although it was filled with hundreds of people it seemed almost empty. Even his visits to the Recluse had not prepared him for such splendor. The great square hall was covered by a domed ceiling of stained glass through which light cascaded in a dizzying array of colors; the floor was a vast sea of black—and-white checkerboard marble squares. Giant variegated marble columns, so thick around that it would take ten men holding hands to surround just one, flanked the entire length of two of the opposing walls from ceiling to floor. Scores of golden chandeliers and standing candelabras waited to be lit. Several large indoor fountains playfully shot streams of water into the air to tumble back into surrounding pools of fish of every color and description. A grand dais at one end of the hall identified this not only as a large gathering and meeting room, but as a throne room, as well. And a musicians’ pit on the left of the dais held about twenty well-dressed men and women tuning and practicing their various instruments, many of which he had never seen before, creating a riotous cacophony of sounds.

In the center of the raised dais sat two ornate thrones, one larger than the other—presumably meant for the rulers. To their right was a neat row of six smaller, less ornate thrones, each with a name handsomely engraved upon the top of the back. The names were so clear that he could read them easily: Wigg, Tretiak, Egloff, Slike, Killius, and Maaddar. Advisors to the king and queen, he assumed.

A ruby-red velvet runner ran from the steps of the dais and down the center of the entire length of the great hall. Sofas, tables, and chairs of every description and color were placed strategically about the room for the comfort of the occupants, and scores of floor-to-ceiling windows opened inward to welcome the warm Eutracian sunlight and breezes.

Occasionally the entire scene would go completely black for a split second and then instantly return. The effect was unnerving until Kluge realized that he was looking through another person’s eyes, and that the person must be blinking. Indeed, the viewer was now turning his head, as if in search of something in particular. Occasionally the entire scene would move dizzyingly up and down as the viewer nodded to other people in the room. Whoever the mistresses’ confederate was, he was certainly well received at the Eutracian court. However, whatever conversations were passing between them were drowned out by the practicing musicians.

The experience of looking into another world in this way was going to take some getting used to. But no matter how disorienting the effect might be, Kluge’s eyes remained glued to the wall. He was privy to a preview of his upcoming battleground, a secret look at his soon-to-be enemies. The experience was invaluable. The knuckles of his left hand were white with anticipation as he gripped the hilt of his dreggan. The people moving about the room were fascinating. Dozens of women seemed to be decorating the great hall as if in preparation for some upcoming event. There were flowers, tapestries, potpourri, and garlands. Kitchen staff of every conceivable duty were milling about a great, long dining table, so long in fact that he could not see the end of it, with too many chairs to count. They were fussing over the crystal, china, centerpieces, and seating arrangements. Occasionally they would dart in and out of the hall through large double doors in a nearby wall, presumably leading to the kitchens. A great banquet must be in preparation, he thought. The image was so clear and close he could almost smell the food. In addition, crowds of well-dressed citizens and noblemen with their ladies had begun to pour into the room. The entire scene was happy, festive, and anticipatory. But in anticipation of what? his restless mind wondered.

As the viewer turned to pan the scene for them, Kluge began to pick out entertainers of every description practicing their particular disciplines in small, scattered clusters around the room. Harlequins pranced, jumped, and told what appeared to be jokes and riddles. Jugglers were tossing all manner of objects between themselves. Magicians were randomly making things appear and disappear, and acrobats bounded across the floor. He noticed with particular interest a troop of scantily clad female dancers practicing for each other, exuding stark sexuality at every turn. His eyes narrowed. It had long been forbidden for the Minions to take a woman without wings: It was considered a waste of their valuable seed when they could be producing more male infants for the Minions. The prospect of a woman without dark, leathery wings excited him, as he knew it would also excite his troops. He silently hoped that when the battle was over, the Coven would allow the Minions to indulge in a different kind of conquest.

But it was the soldiers who interested him the most. There were at least one hundred of them in the hall, and from their bearing and uniforms he assumed them to be some contingent of the royal bodyguard, assuming that there was one, and therefore the best the realm had to offer. They milled about the great room with controlled detachment, their eyes missing nothing. He looked them over when he had the chance and decided that these were men who would be chivalrous in battle. Good, he thought. That means more of them will die.

He saw black-pleated capes and silver breastplates with designs upon them. Each of their highly decorated baldrics held scabbards, each of the scabbards holding gleaming sword hilts, most of the swords accompanied by silver battle axes and daggers hanging from the waist. Each man looked fit and ready. Very pretty, Kluge thought to himself. He smiled, feeling ready for battle, anxious to give his dreggan another taste of blood. Eutracian blood. He wondered idly when the last time was that a Eutracian soldier had seen battle. And with so many of the Guard in the room, where, then, was their commander?

The sounds coming from the hall were becoming increasingly distracting. As if she had read his mind, Failee pushed her right palm toward the image; the sound stopped, while the scene continued.

“It is almost time for our friends to enter,” she said carefully. A strange smile began to twist along the length of her mouth in anticipation. “I have made it quiet so as to inform you of your battle orders, Commander. Listen well.” As if addressing no one in particular, she added, “Time to move toward the door.”

The viewer in the hall began to move toward a grand entranceway just to the right of the dais. Within moments, two liveried attendants, one on each side of the large doors, simultaneously began mouthing announcements, striking golden pikes against the floor to command the attention of the crowd. Momentarily, the double doors opened and the crowd hushed.

“Pay close attention, Commander,” Failee whispered. It was the most quiet yet at the same time the most commanding order she had ever given him. “All of the people you are about to see, save one, are to die by your hand personally.”

A group of about ten men and women entered the room, causing the liveried servants to bow and the crowd in the great hall to draw forward. At first the view was partially obscured by the throng, but as they parted to allow the small company access to the hall he could begin to take his time examining each of them, as an attacking animal might take stock of its prey. He could quickly see that they were an interesting group.

A man and woman, each of about sixty years, walked by the viewer and down the length of the velvet runner. The man turned and lowered his head in acknowledgment of the viewer, smiling in recognition. His bearing was unmistakably regal, and Kluge could tell that this man was used to being in command. Iron-gray hair and eyes complemented a beard of the same color, helping to make up an intelligent face. His rather heavyset body was clothed in robes and trimmed with the beautiful fur of an animal with which Kluge was not familiar.

But of greater interest to the commander was the jewel the man wore around his neck on a gold chain, hanging down to his breastbone. It was unlike any other stone that Kluge had ever seen. He was familiar with prisms and enjoyed their power of refracting sunlight, but this one was different. The square-cut gemstone not only refracted the light but actually shredded it into a kaleidoscope of color, ever shimmering. It was about the size of a robin’s egg, and moved back and forth with the motion of the heavyset man’s body. The effect was mesmerizing.

The woman next to him, despite her advancing age, was very beautiful. She was dressed in a full-length gown of deep blue; her pearl necklace and earrings perfectly matched the off-white lace at the cuffs and bodice of her gown. Blond hair with hints of gray curled down to frame each side of the compassionate, attractive face. She had come so close to the viewer that Kluge had been easily able to pick out the gentle crow’s feet at the outer corners of her expressive blue eyes. She carried her rather full but still attractive figure gracefully, balancing her extended fingertips upon the back of the fur-robed man’s outstretched hand as they moved through the crowd. They turned a corner into a forest of people and were gone.

Failee finally broke the silence. “Those two pretenders who just went by are Nicholas the First, king of Eutracia, and Morganna, his queen, both of the House of Galland. They are to die.” Her voice had lowered as the words seemed to drip like acid from her tongue. She looked into Kluge’s eyes and added, “Kill them any way you desire. They are yours to do with as you please.” Kluge lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment.

Looking back at the Eutracian scene, Kluge noticed some pushing and shoving among the persons in the rows nearest the edges of the pathway. For some distance down its length, young women of every description, most of them holding fans, were trying to get as close as possible to the entourage. In some cases they were unsuccessful, but in most instances were allowed by the Guard to come to the front of the crowd as though it was the usual custom. As he turned his attention to the next person to walk down the runner, he understood why.

The handsome man following the king and queen was tall and moved smoothly, with a naturally athletic gait. Thick black hair formed a comma down over the left eye, the rest rather haphazardly pushed back and worn long. Below the finely drawn dark eyebrows, smiling dark-blue eyes moved naturally among the crowd, pausing occasionally to make note of this person or that. High cheekbones lay above slightly hollow cheeks, and a straight nose lay just above a sensuous mouth. Taken as a whole, the effect was piratical. He was slim and muscular, with a rather wide chest descending into narrow hips, which in turn blended smoothly into long, powerful legs. In his face could be seen some resemblance to the king and queen. Kluge guessed his age to be at least thirty years.

But despite the man’s good looks, it was his clothes that stood out.

The knee-high black boots were muddy, as were the tight red-stained trousers. Blood, perhaps, Kluge mused. The black leather vest was much like the one Kluge wore, except the well-aged leather was dry and cracked in some places, and spotted with mud. At first glance the man looked more like an assassin of the royal court than a member of it. But if he was an assassin, then why was he without a weapon? Then, as the man turned the corner, Kluge saw the ingenious weapons that lay across the man’s back. A black leather sling, much like an arrow quiver but shorter and wider, lay along the man’s right shoulder blade, holding almost a dozen silver, flat-bladed throwing knives in a row. The handles of the blades did not quite reach each up to the top of the shoulder, and thus had not been visible from the front. Indeed, if the man had chosen to wear a cape they would not have been visible at all. He looked incredibly out of place in the hall, as though he had arrived late and had no time to change his dress, or simply didn’t care how he looked. Kluge thought that it was a little bit of both. As he continued to move into the room, women curtsied and smiled, trying to attract his attention as their multicolored fans twitched back and forth hurriedly, like a flock of hummingbirds’ wings.

“Prince Tristan the First of the House of Galland,” Failee said indifferently. “Son of Nicholas and Morganna. It is said that he is highly intelligent, yet takes seriously neither his station nor his duties in life. He has made no secret of the fact that he has no desire to be king. To us he is relatively unimportant. Yet, for reasons which I shall not concern you with, it is extremely important that he die.” The corners of Kluge’s mouth turned up slightly, pleased that the prince would presumably present a greater threat to his skills than would his parents. He always enjoyed a challenge.

He cast a pair of jealous eyes toward Succiu, for the express purpose of determining her reaction to the prince. Her eyes were locked upon Tristan, and as she toyed with the ends of her long, black hair, her tongue was intently circling her lips. She is intrigued by this royal whelp, Kluge thought angrily. It’s the quality of his endowed blood that attracts her. Blood that I do not, and never will, possess. He turned his attention back to the prince. One more reason to take great pleasure in killing him.

Following Prince Tristan came another man and woman together, her arm linked happily through his. The man was unusually large and about the same age as Tristan, with brown hair cut very short and slightly thinning at the temples. As though it had been grown in compensation, a very thick brown beard covered his face. Like King Nicholas, he was also dressed in robes of fur. The overall effect was somewhat reminiscent of the wild bears that Kluge was fond of hunting in the outer reaches of Parthalon. With a warrior’s eye Kluge knew that this man would be able to move his large bulk easily, perhaps even gracefully. He had a military bearing about him.

The woman next to him, presumably his wife, was a perfect mixture of Queen Morganna and Prince Tristan—tall and blond, like the queen, but with Tristan’s high cheekbones and sensuous mouth. Kluge suddenly grasped the fact that she was the prince’s twin. She had lustrous, hazel eyes, and a strong jawline. This one had courage, he thought, and would not be afraid to speak her mind simply because she was a woman. She seemed to smile almost perpetually in a genuine way, showing perfect, white teeth. But of greater interest to Kluge was the cut of her ornate red gown.

She was pregnant.

As an ambitious young officer rising through the ranks of the Minions, Kluge had spent a great deal of time overseeing the birthing houses of the various Minion fortifications. That experience had taught him to estimate the chronology of a pregnancy. He guessed this woman’s unborn child to be somewhat less than six moons.

As the man and woman were slowly engulfed in the adoring crowd and slipped from view, Failee spoke again. “Princess Shailiha, also of the House of Galland, daughter of Nicholas and Morganna, twin sister to Tristan. Accompanied by her husband Frederick, of the House of Steinarr. He is commander of all of the Royal Guard, and now a member of the royal family by marriage. It is said that he personally trained Tristan in the combative arts. He, also, is to die.” She paused, as if enjoying herself. “The princess, however, requires greater explanation.”

An even more icy demeanor came over each of the mistresses, an expression that smacked of extreme anticipation, as if something or someone for which they had been waiting all of their lives were about to arrive.

Kluge looked back at the unfolding scene to see a small company of elderly, gray-haired men enter the hall and solemnly walk down the red runner. They neither smiled nor acknowledged the crowd in any way. Each wore the same simple, gray hooded robe, and walked with hands folded before him. Some had beards and some did not, but they all sported identical braided tails of gray hair that fell from the back of their heads to the center of their backs.

Upon the appearance of these six, the mistresses had become visibly angry. Failee’s hands were balled up into fists, her knuckles white. In a barely audible whisper, she recited the names of the men as they passed with a hatred that to Kluge spoke volumes.

“Wigg, Tretiak, Egloff, Slike, Maaddar, and Killius. The Directorate of Wizards, advisors to King Nicholas. Together with the king they rule the infestation that Eutracia has become.” She paused. “Kill all of them. But be warned, their deaths will not come easily.” She raised a long, painted fingernail before Kluge’s face. “They must be dealt with first, and swiftly. We shall explain how. Given enough time to react, these six grandfatherly looking old men will give both you and your Minions more trouble than the entire Eutracian Guard. If your timing is imprecise, you will, before they are finished with you, wish that you had never been born.”

Wizards. Bane to the Coven. The male counterparts to sorceresses. The diseased balance of power that had kept the more gifted female gender, and therefore the more powerful side of magic, from ruling completely, as was its proper destiny. This much Kluge knew from private conversations with Succiu. He also knew, painfully, that a sorceress not only would not, but indeed could not ever fall in love with a male of unendowed blood. The type of blood I and all the Minions of Day and Night possess, he ruefully reminded himself. And if the Minions cannot be so blessed, than we shall spill the so-called endowed blood of the wizards from one end of the palace to the other.

He stared at the wizards, seated on their thrones, and burned each one into his memory. Since it appeared that the mistresses had known these wizards personally, the wizards must also have discovered the use of time enchantments in order to have survived this long. There was obviously a history between these two groups of mystics. A very bad one indeed to have fueled such hatred for over three hundred years. The so-called “brilliant” wizards of Eutracia. He wondered how clever they would consider themselves to be if they knew that they were being watched at this very moment. This campaign is not about the conquest of new lands as much as it is about the settling of old debts, he realized. And now, for me, it is also about the destruction of male endowed blood. Once again he looked to Succiu. Especially the blood of the prince, he thought bitterly.

As the entire scene moved back and forth before his eyes, Failee spoke. “Commander,” she said carefully, “now that you have been introduced to the people of importance, we shall explain your task to you in detail.” She stopped, as though trying to make a decision. “Due to the importance of the hour, I grant you the right to speak fully, and at any time.” She slowly turned, looking for a reaction from her Sisters. But Kluge knew Failee well enough to know that it wouldn’t matter—her mind was made up.

“The scene you are now watching illustrates the final preparations for the abdication ceremony of Nicholas the First. This great hall also serves as the throne room. Curious situation, isn’t it? In Eutracia, abdication is a celebration, not a crisis of the regime.” She looked at Kluge. “When you are finished, not only will there be a genuine crisis of the regime, but we shall have turned the abdication ceremony into an abduction ceremony.” Zabarra and Vona smiled, delighted with their mistress’ play on words.

“The abdication ceremony always takes place upon the thirtieth birthday of the male heir to the throne. It is concluded with a great banquet and ball. The tradition has been the same since the time of our exile. Nicholas’ father, however, was not king before him. The king who preceded Nicholas had no sons, his wife the queen being barren. Therefore, as tradition demands, a commoner of endowed blood was selected to become king. In this case, the Directorate chose Nicholas. Although of very highly endowed blood, as is his wife, they are still, to us, just filthy peasants.” She paused, letting her words sink in.

“As I was saying, the abdication ceremony occurs upon the prince’s thirtieth birthday, simultaneously removing the king from power and installing his son as the new sovereign, whereupon the retiring king may choose to join the Directorate and begin training as a wizard. At that time he would also become protected by time enchantments. Nicholas is the first king of endowed blood ever in the history of Eutracia to decide to do so. He has also preordained Tristan’s fate by declaring that Tristan, upon the thirtieth birthday of his son, shall also join the Directorate under the same circumstances. We are aware of the unique reasons for this, but it is of no concern to you. Present at the abdication ceremony shall be the entire royal family, the Directorate of Wizards, the entire Eutracian Royal Guard both inside and outside of the palace for protection, and various important citizens, including each of the dukes of the various provinces and their wives.” She sneered contemptuously. “They also enjoy the disgusting habit of inviting, by lottery, two thousand common citizens of the population to join in the celebration. How egalitarian of them.” She paused. “Take your enjoyment upon the citizens any way you choose. Just be sure the wizards are all disposed of first, then the royal family. Except Shailiha, of course.

“We leave the logistics of the attack to you,” she continued. “It should be simple, actually. Not only will you have overwhelming numbers but the element of complete surprise, as well. We leave it to you to find the most efficient way into the palace. With the exception of Shailiha, kill everyone of the royal house. Leave no stragglers.”

Kluge smiled to himself. From the first viewing of the throne room his military mind had already grasped the best way in. As far as he was concerned, taking prisoners of war, military or civilian, had never been an option.

“I already know how to enter, Mistress,” he replied. “It will be extremely effective.”

“Good,” Failee said. She looked at Vona. “Have you brought the documents?”

Vona stood and handed Kluge a leather satchel with the Pentangle embroidered on the top. She smiled knowingly. “Inside you will find complete plans of the palace, and maps of the Eutracian countryside. We trust that they are completely accurate.”

Kluge could only imagine two sources for such information. First, the Sisters’ collective memories, the strength of which he trusted absolutely. And second, their confederate at the Eutracian court.

Vona returned to her throne. Failee unexpectedly stood, stretched her muscles, and went to stand before the Eutracian scene, folding her arms over her breasts. Kluge realized that once the mental link to her confederate at court had been accomplished, Failee was able to move about the room at will, the blue light from above following her, something that frankly surprised him. And why not? Today had been full of nothing if not surprises. He was once again able to catch occasional glimpses of the royal family moving through the crowd, inspecting the arrangements for the upcoming ceremony. A flash of the princess’ red gown reminded him of his orders.

“I assume, Mistress, that since part of my quest is for a woman, that the woman in question is the princess…” He let the statement hang in the air.

Failee looked at him. “Yes, Commander, you are correct. The orders regarding her are explicit. The princess is to be abducted and brought to Parthalon. But hear me well. Of the utmost importance is the order that not a drop of her blood is to be spilled, nor is she is to be harmed in any way. Also, make sure that your warriors have had their fill of Eutracian women in any manner they desire. I insist their needs be satisfied before Shailiha boards the officers’ warship to return to Parthalon. They are to have nothing to do with her.”

Curious, Kluge continued with his questions. “Obviously, Mistress, you know of her pregnancy. Is there any particular significance in this of which I should be informed?”

“A delightful surprise to us all,” Failee said, her head turning as she tried to keep her eyes on Shailiha. “The princess’ pregnancy only makes her presence even more rewarding. In a few moons’ time she is to have a daughter. That baby girl is special, and is also to become ours.”

She plucked a grape from a bowl of fruit that had suddenly appeared on the table out of nowhere. Tilting her head, she began to skin the grape with a long, painted fingernail. Behind her, the scene on the wall began to shift. They were once more looking at the dais. As the viewer in the hall walked closer to the thrones, Kluge saw the rectangular marble altar that sat before them. The white marble was intricately carved, and the top was covered with a violet runner, made of velvet, reaching to the floor at either end. In the center of the runner sat a golden chalice.

“And now to the second prize which we seek,” Failee said simply. “I distinctly remember you admiring the gemstone that hung around the neck of King Nicholas. Did you notice its unusual effect on the light? How it seemed to shimmer as if it has a life of its own. Well, in fact, Commander, it does. It has been known for centuries as the Paragon of Eutracia, and if you fail to do your job correctly, it will kill you and everyone else in the great hall in the twinkle of an eye. You are to recover the stone. You are also to recover and return the chalice that you see before you, taking care not to spill so much as one drop of its water any more than you would spill a drop of the blood of Shailiha. Shailiha, the Paragon, the chalice, and the water in it are all of equal importance. If you cannot return here with each of them intact, do not come home at all. Trust me when I say that it would be far more preferable to fall on your own dreggan in disgrace in an alien land than to return to us a failure in any way.” She walked back to Kluge and stood next to him. Turning to face his profile, she delicately plopped the peeled grape into her mouth. “Under no circumstances shall you or anyone under your command touch or drink any of the water from the chalice, no matter how appetizing it may seem. And appetizing it shall be.” Kluge turned his eyes to the crooked smile upon her face. “For one of unendowed blood to touch or drink the water of the Caves of the Paragon is a sure invitation to an agonizing death.”

Kluge stood there silently, trying to fathom the reasons behind his bizarre battle orders. The Princess Shailiha, her unborn child, this so-called Paragon of Eutracia, and a simple gold chalice filled with indescribable red water. How was he supposed to recover all of the fluid without spilling so much as a drop? Would the mistresses even know if he tried to replace it? And he ached for the loss of the plunder of Eutracia. From the splendor of the scene before him, this surely was a kingdom of riches to be had. But despite his avarice, he would perform as he was told. He was, after all, the commander of the Minions. And his loyalty, like that of his warriors, had been unfailingly bred into him.

Zabarra rose from her throne and stood before the viewing wall, ever toying with one of her blond ringlets. “If I may interrupt, Sisters,” she said, more to Failee than the group as a whole. “It is now time the commander learned how to retrieve the Paragon from King Nicholas.” She smiled, drawing a line across her throat with a long fingernail. “After all, separating the Paragon from Nicholas is not as simple as separating Nicholas from his head. And although his head is expendable, the Paragon is not.” She glanced at Failee, and her expression grew more serious. “May I continue?”

For the first time today, Kluge noticed that Failee had begun to look tired. In fact, it was the first time in his life he ever remembered seeing her so. He assumed that the maintenance of the mental link to her confederate at the Eutracian court was heavily taxing her powers. Now she walked to her throne and sat down. “You may continue,” she said simply.

“First there is an issue of which my other two Sisters and I feel it is imperative to speak,” Zabarra said. She looked quickly to both Succiu and Vona before continuing. Then she looked directly into Failee’s eyes.

“We must once again voice our protest over your instructions to our confederate in Eutracia to recall and set free certain of the blood stalkers and screaming harpies,” she said firmly. “Although we realize that we probably will not change your opinion in this matter, we nonetheless feel that your decision was unwise. There seems, at least to the three of us, no reason for these actions that can further our cause. To provoke the Directorate in this way only raises the possibility of showing our hand and far outweighs any damage, no matter how well deserved, that can be caused to the wizards. We respectfully request that you withdraw your decision and use them to ravage the land after the attack.”

Kluge was stunned. Blood stalkers and screaming harpies? He had no idea what she was talking about. But even more surprising was the fact that the other three sorceresses were challenging a decision of Failee’s.

The First Mistress turned her hazel eyes upon Zabarra and was obviously trying hard to control her temper. She looked at the other two women and then back at Zabarra. “They are to pay,” she said, trembling with anger, her voice a mere whisper. “And I have decided that it does no harm to toy with them a bit, and kill a few of them beforehand. That is my final decision, and there will be nothing more said of it.” She leaned forward, putting her hands flat upon the table, her normally beautiful face contorted into a contemptuous sneer. “Now, are you going to continue briefing the commander, or shall I be forced to demonstrate to the three of you a rather unpleasant use of the Vagaries?”

As though the conversation had never taken place at all, Zabarra positioned herself between the table and the viewing wall. She bent over slightly, exposing the ample cleavage above the bodice of her ornate, rust-colored gown. Kluge refused to let his eyes drift down. Zabarra had always been dangerous, he reminded himself, because she loved to play games, and he knew from previous experience that her mood could change drastically in the blink of an eye. He gazed into her green eyes without smiling, tacitly telling her that he was not amused.

She straightened with a pout. “You wish to be all business today,” she said to him in mock disappointment. “Very well. Since that is how you prefer it, then listen carefully, for I shall only instruct you in this once.” She turned and pointed to the gold chalice that rested upon the marble altar.

“This is known as the Chalice of the Abdication Ceremony,” she began, “and has no great significance other than that during the ceremony it is always the traditional resting place of the water from the Caves of the Paragon. The Paragon of Eutracia, as Sister Failee has explained to you, indeed has a life of its own. But, as is true of any life, it must be nurtured and sustained. While it is worn around the neck of a person with endowed blood, it harvests strength from that person, and returns that strength back to the wearer many times over. That is why the wizards of the Directorate do not allow one of their own to wear it, because it would engender an unheard-of amount of power in one of endowed blood who had also been trained in the craft. But a person of endowed blood who has not been trained in the craft cannot amplify his power with the stone, because there is no knowledge of magic to strengthen.

“It is impossible, even for a sorceress, to kill anyone while they are wearing the stone. In addition it is quite impossible to remove it from his person. Only the bearer of the Paragon has the power to lift the gold chain and the stone over his head.”

She placed her hands flat upon the table, bending over and placing her face very close to his. He could smell the jasmine in her hair. “So you see, my dear commander, things are not as simple as they may have first appeared.” She reached out and squeezed his right biceps. Hard. Despite Kluge’s own unusual strength, her grip hurt, serving to remind him of the amazing amount of purely physical strength that any one of these women could produce. “I’m afraid that when it comes to the Paragon, these big, strong muscles of yours are not the answer. In this case, the brute force you pride yourself on simply is of no use.” She released her iron grip on his arm and backed away, apparently pleased with her sarcasm.

Kluge decided it was time to speak. He had questions that he must have the answers to if he was to be completely successful in this madness. “Then, pray tell, Mistress, how indeed do we remove the stone from the king?” he asked courteously.

She slowly shook her head, again in a manner that could easily be taken as insulting. “I knew your mind couldn’t possibly come to this conclusion on its own,” she said nastily. “If no one can remove the stone from Nicholas, then the good and cooperative King Nicholas shall have to give it to us himself.” As she emphasized the last words of her sentence, she bounced the end of her index finger off the point of Kluge’s nose several times, as if she were reprimanding a misbehaving child.

Then her tone became more grave. “During the ceremony Nicholas will remove the Paragon himself and hand it to Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate.” She fairly spat out the last words of the sentence. “As I said, the Paragon has a life of its own, and therefore requires sustenance from its host. As a result, when it is removed from its wearer, it immediately begins to die.” She waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. “Once again, however, I shall not waste my time trying to educate you with things that are so far beyond your ken.”

“Cannot Nicholas simply place the Paragon around Tristan’s neck, and therefore let it take its sustenance from its new wearer?” Kluge asked.

Zabarra turned upon him angrily, having temporarily forgotten that Failee had given him permission to speak at will. She stopped herself, reining in her emotions. One corner of Kluge’s mouth turned upward into an almost imperceptible smile.

Zabarra simply sighed. “If you knew anything at all, you would also know that what you suggest is quite impossible. Simply put, because the

Paragon has been with Nicholas for so long, it requires a brief amount of time to ready itself before joining with a new host. Time to return to a ‘virgin’ state, if you will.”

Kluge scratched the back of his neck, lost in thought. He was now genuinely interested in the puzzle that lay before him. “Then how is it, Mistress, that the Paragon does not die in the interim without a host?” he asked.

Zabarra pointed to the chalice. “The Paragon is placed in the chalice and covered with the water of the Caves. The water and the Paragon have a special bond. It was very long ago when the life-giving properties of the Caves were first discovered, and since that time they have been coveted by many.” Her gaze seemed to drift away temporarily to another place, another time. Quietly, sadly, she added, “Wars have been fought over it.” Regaining her composure, she said, “The water in the chalice sustains the Paragon, and the same water can go on doing so for only a certain amount of time without being replenished. When the water has changed from red to clear, the Paragon is once again ready and can be placed around the neck of the new king.”

Her green eyes leveled an even harsher gaze upon Kluge. “This shall be the time of your attack—precisely when the Paragon is placed in the chalice, and the royal family and the Directorate of Wizards are at their most vulnerable. When the stone is immersed in the water the wizards are completely without their powers, as are we. This is why you and your troops have been chosen to take initial control of the situation in our stead. However, if you act either too soon, before the Paragon is immersed, or too late, after the Paragon is retrieved, you won’t have to worry about the Royal Guard.” She raised an eyebrow to make her point. “The Directorate will once again be in full possession of their abilities, and you and your grotesque Minions will die. Horribly.”

Kluge ignored the implied insult and turned his head imperceptibly toward Succiu. Oddly, he noticed what appeared to be a look of concern. Such a look upon her usually mischievous face was rare. He had at first felt that his battle orders were complete, but after seeing her expression he wondered if there was even more yet to come.

As if on cue, Zabarra returned to her throne and Failee once again stood. She walked to the front of the marble viewing wall, and for a time watched the images of happy people busily preparing for a celebration. Then she faced the entire group.

“Commander,” she began earnestly, “Mistress Succiu is to accompany you on your mission.”

Kluge’s head snapped involuntarily toward Succiu in disbelief, trying to read her face for clues. He once again found that of concern, but for whom? As a sorceress, she couldn’t possibly be concerned for her own welfare. Succiu, he knew all too well, was far too powerful and vicious for that. But it did explain something that had been troubling him.

Several months ago the Coven had ordered the construction of a very special warship. Instead of being built for battle it had been built for luxury and speed, and included two amazingly beautiful staterooms. One of these staterooms had no windows, and its outer door could be bolted only from the outside. He now knew that this particular stateroom was meant for Shailiha. Apparently, the other was to become the private quarters of Succiu. The two rooms had a connecting door, lockable only from Succiu’s side.

Failee folded her arms over her breasts. “After your initial mission is complete, you are to stay in Eutracia for two more suns. During this time, the Minions are to lay waste to as much of the population as possible. Your warriors may take whatever pleasure they desire from the females. Just make sure they are not negligent regarding their overall orders. You are also to kill all livestock and burn any and all available structures and crops to the ground, save the palace itself. We may eventually have a use for it. In short, you are to destroy as much of Eutracia as possible. But understand this well. It is imperative that you spend no more than two suns’ time in doing so. Upon the morning of the third sun, you are to return home.” Failee’s face looked as hard as stone.

She turned back to the scene on the wall before speaking. “Basically, your orders are simple, and can be summed up in two sentences: Remove the Paragon, the princess, the chalice, and the water as instructed. And, excepting Princess Shailiha and our ally at court, if it moves, kill it.”

Questions were still scratching at the back of Kluge’s mind, and since they had not been addressed, he felt it necessary to ask.

“Mistress,” he began quietly, “if I may, I have several more questions.”

Vona’s red hair rippled across her shoulder as she turned to face Kluge. “You have too many questions for my taste,” she said harshly. “Just take your flying gargoyles and go do your job.”

Failee seemed to be more forgiving. “What are they, Commander?” she asked.

“First, if I may know the reason that Mistress Succiu is to accompany us?” He thought he might choke just getting the words out. “And second, without knowing the identity of your confederate at the Eutracian court, how am I to ensure his safety from my warriors? And, forgive me, Mistress, but we have often heard it said throughout Parthalon that the Sea of Whispers is uncrossable, that no voyage of any duration has ever returned home. How then are we to ensure our safe passage over and back?” He once again cast his eyes down the entire length of the table to make sure he had not slighted any of them.

“You have answered your second and third questions with your first, Commander,” Failee said easily. “Mistress Succiu will be able to point out our friend at court, because she is familiar with our confederate’s most recent countenance.”

Kluge’s head was spinning. Most recent countenance? What does that mean? He decided it was better not to ask. Failee used her long fingernails to surgically remove another red grape from the bowl of fruit and delicately placed it into her mouth, unpeeled this time.

“And as far as crossing the Sea of Whispers is concerned, the Coven has done it once before. And done it in a way that will ensure our continued success at our leisure. Mistress Succiu is familiar with the means to cross. You have simply to follow her orders. But there is yet one more reason for the second mistress to accompany you.”

A glance at Succiu’s face showed him that her usually malevolent smile had returned. Whatever her duties in Eutracia were to be, he could tell she was looking forward to them.

For the first time Kluge realized that the mistresses had never referred to their ally at court by any gender. He was left wondering whether it was a man or a woman. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. It was apparently unimportant to his orders.

Finally, Failee seemed to be satisfied. With an unexpected wave of her arms, the scene at the Eutracian court vanished, and the limitless depths of the black marble wall returned. The blue shaft of light through the ceiling also vanished, and the ceiling stone that had been suspended in the air for so long now began to scratch its way back into place.

Kluge watched as the rectangular table morphed back into its original five-pointed shape, the thrones moving back to their original positions. He looked at Failee. She seemed somehow refreshed. Except for the mild fatigue on her face, it was as if none of it had ever happened. Picking up the packet of maps, he walked over to the spot where he had lain his helmet and picked it up, once again holding it beneath his left arm and standing at attention.

The sorceresses were looking at him as if they expected him to speak. But there was no reason for him to. His most important questions had been answered. His mission was abundantly clear, and he would carry it out as effectively and as ruthlessly as possible. And after seeing Succiu’s reaction when the prince of Eutracia had walked by, he recognized that the mission had now taken on an unmistakably personal flavor, as well.

Failee stood and walked up to him, holding his eyes steady in the hazel irises of her own.

“Commander,” she said quietly, “give me your sword.”

Kluge grasped the hilt of his dreggan and drew it from its scabbard, the curved blade making its unusual signature sound in the air. The blade’s song hung for a long time in the stillness of the chamber and then finally faded away, as if it had a life of its own that was not anxious to be extinguished. The chamber then became as silent as death.

Upon taking possession of his sword, Failee took a step closer. She studied his face for a moment.

“Kneel,” she said softly, menacingly.

He immediately went down on one knee, lowering his head.

Without hesitation, Failee snatched a handful of the long, gray-streaked hair at the back of his head and snapped his face back as if his neck had been a dry tree branch, placing the tip of the dreggan hard at the base of his throat. A drop of his blood formed at the point of the blade and ran into the shallow trough of the blood groove, beginning a slow but inexorable journey toward the hilt. Succiu licked her lips.

“I bred you for this myself, Kluge,” Failee hissed, her eyes narrowed. It was the first time in his life she had ever called him by his name instead of his rank. “You are mine to do with as I wish.” She frowned darkly. “Do you understand your orders?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Had she been a mortal he could easily have killed her with a single blow, despite the blade at his throat. But not a sorceress, and certainly not Failee. There was something even more frightening about her than the sword she held to his throat. Looking up into her manic, hazel eyes, he wondered once again if she was mad.

She used her power to treble the strength in her arm, stretching Kluge’s neck backward almost to the breaking point. Her eyes went wide.

“In just over a week you sail for Eutracia,” she whispered.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered hoarsely. “The Minions of Day and Night shall prevail.”

The pain in his neck was excruciating, but he knew he must not flinch. If this was a test of his nerve, so be it. He had come too far to be proven unworthy of his mission. He watched her thumb slowly cover the blade release lever in the hilt of the dreggan. If she pressed the lever now, the point of the dreggan’s blade would enter beneath his jaw and violently exit through the top of his skull. He held fast, holding her deep, mystical eyes on his.

Failee twisted his hair even tighter and moved the dreggan imperceptibly forward. “The Minions shall prevail?” she asked. Her eyes were crazed and seemed to look right through him. “See that they do, Commander,” she whispered. “See that they do.”