The Fifth Sorceress

12

For the next three days they kept to the main road leading north from the city. The dirt road was choked with refugees.

When they left the city, Tristan had noticed an equal if not greater-sized group heading south. They want to live anywhere but Tammerland, he reflected. And I can’t say that I blame them. Most of the ones on the north road were probably trying to reach either Ilendium or Tanglewood, the two largest cities north of Tammerland. He ruefully wondered how many of them would still want to live in Ephyra if they knew the truth about its “duchess.” Those heading south would be trying to reach either Florian’s Glade or the coastal city of Warwick Watch.

The going was agonizingly slow, since the road was so crowded. It was seldom that they could gallop their horses, and the travel was made even more tedious because their conversation was so limited. A single slip of the tongue could reveal everything, and they could not chance that, so they talked little. Wigg kept his wizard’s tail tucked down into his robe, and Tristan had removed the dreggan, covered it with a cape of the Royal Guard, and tied it across the back of his saddle. The robe that Wigg insisted he still wear was scratchy and hot, and the road dust irritated their noses and throats as they went along. It seemed that from everywhere came the sounds of wailing and lament from their fellow travelers, who had lost so much and were still no doubt in shock.

Each night they made camp far enough away from the road that they could talk about what to do next. Tristan enjoyed sleeping in the grass under the stars, but the old wizard complained about wanting a bed and a hot meal. It was decided that they would try to spend the next night at an inn two days south of the fork in this road. The northern branch went to Ilendium, the eastern branch to Malvina Watch. But after that there would be no road to take them were they needed to go, Wigg said, and they would have to strike out over the countryside. If there wasn’t enough food for the journey, then Tristan would hunt it. He smiled one of his now-rare smiles at the thought of the old one eating rabbit over a campfire spit instead of being served roast duckling in the castle.

It was early evening of the fourth day when they found themselves standing before the inn. The Rogue’s Roost was one of the largest hostels in the country, situated as it was on the main thoroughfare between the northern cities and Tammerland. They gave their horses to the stable boy and paid him well after he told them that the stable, like the inn itself, was very full. Tristan demanded extra oats and a good brushing for both horses.

The prince, carrying the concealed dreggan and the remainder of their food in the leather bags, was about to enter the inn when Wigg grabbed him by the arm, holding him back. “Be careful,” the old one said. “The Royal Guard is no more, and this place has long been known as a favorite spot for drunkards and thieves to lay over and rest, even when the Guard was active. Speak little, and let me do the talking when it comes to getting a room. We must stay as low-profile as possible.” Saying no more, the old one opened the door to the inn and beckoned the prince through.

The lobby, if one could call it that, was very large and served as a combination of tavern, meeting place, and eatery. Along one wall a large fireplace stood, its orange glow dancing about in the dim half-light of the room. The floor was full of tables, most of them filled with men of varying description, almost all of whom seemed sullen and distrustful. Many of them looked up quickly at the two robed figures who had just entered the room, and did not take their eyes off them for what seemed to be a very long time. Some of the men were drunk, and others were playing at cards or board games. The only women Tristan could see in the room were several barmaids who did their best to keep up with the loud, abusive demands of the patrons. Occasionally the men would grab at the women, and sometimes it was all the girls could do to break away from their advances. Any men who were staying here with their wives were probably keeping them upstairs, locked in their rooms, Tristan thought. He didn’t know how long he could watch without doing something. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he followed the wizard to the desk at the far end of the room, knowing that Wigg was silently screaming at him to use self-restraint—something he was in very short supply of.

The innkeeper was a fat, greasy man with little pig’s eyes. He looked up sullenly at the two of them as if they didn’t matter.

“A room, with two beds,” Wigg said politely, “and food and drink for tonight and tomorrow morning.”

“We’re full,” the pig-man said. “Go away.”

Wigg produced the bag of kisa and threw several of them on the countertop. As expected, the ring of the gold coins bought a measure of silence from the room.

“Inns are never full when the price is right,” Wigg said casually. “How much?”

Pig-man cracked a slight smile, and Tristan guessed that the fellow had never seen that many gold coins in one place in his life.

“Who are you?” The innkeeper grunted. “You don’t look like the usual type I get in here.”

“We’re refugees,” Wigg said in a friendly tone, “just like everybody else. And we need a place to stay.” He opened the bag a little wider.

“Six kisa,” Pig-man said quickly. “The meal tonight is fresh mutton with vegetables.” He turned and reached under the countertop, producing a key. “The room at the top of the stairs. When you come back down I will send one of the maids to your table.”

Wigg produced three more kisa and placed them on the counter-top. As they were turning to go up the stairs, Pig-man spoke again. “I have other things to sell that you may want,” he said lewdly as he quickly scooped up the coins. “Such as?” Wigg asked.

“The road from Tammerland is long and hot, and there are few diversions. Two men such as yourselves could possibly welcome some entertainment.” The little pig eyes looked sure that more kisa would be coming their way tonight. He spread his hands flat upon the counter and smiled.

Tristan knew exactly what the man was talking about. “You sell the barmaids, don’t you?” he asked, no small amount of anger in his voice. “Indeed I do”—Pig-man leered—“whether they want to be sold or not. Refugees from the city, nice and fresh, they are. Since all the trouble in Tammerland, there’s nowhere for them to go from here, and no way to get there on their own. Law of supply and demand, I say. They’re mine to do with as I please. For just a few more kisa each you can have your pick, and be assured that they will be sent to your room.” He leaned forward to the point that Tristan could smell the ale on his stale breath. “And if they don’t do everything you want, I’ll see to it that they are whipped, good and proper.”

To Wigg’s horror, Tristan reached over the counter, grabbed the innkeeper’s dirty shirt, and pulled him halfway across the countertop. The wounds of his family’s deaths were still too fresh, and he was reacting without thinking. “Don’t you know that’s illegal?” the prince snarled. “You could get into a lot of trouble for this.”

Unperturbed, Pig-man looked squarely into the prince’s eyes. “There are no laws anymore, boy,” he said, pleased with himself. “Since the trouble down in Tammerland, I hear the Royal Guard are all dead, and the Directorate and even the royal family, too. So who’s going to stop me, huh? Now, do you want the women or not?”

“No,” Tristan said simply. He pushed the innkeeper back behind the dirty counter and grabbed the key.

After depositing the food and Tristan’s dreggan in their room, they went back downstairs and took a small table in one corner, as far away from the others as possible, so that they might talk. Wigg was beside himself with fury.

“That was a very foolish thing to do,” the old one said curtly. “If you keep drawing attention to us this way, we will never get to Shadowood.”

Tristan looked across the room at the innkeeper, wishing he had done more, but he knew that the old one was right. “I just can’t stand back and let all of this happen,” he said angrily. “I already feel responsible for it all, and watching our people suffer in so many ways only makes it worse.”

Wigg was about to respond when suddenly he lowered his head and cleared his throat, tilting his face slightly. Tristan looked up to see one of the barmaids approaching.

He found himself looking up into the face of one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was tall and shapely, with expressive green eyes and long, curling red hair that caught highlights from the fireplace. She wore a simple peasant’s dress, over which was a torn and stained apron. In her hands she held a tray of empty tankards. She looked to be about twenty-five years old.

And she was scared to death.

Clumsily, she asked, “What would you like to drink? I’m afraid that there is only wine or ale, but the red wine is fairly good, if you like that kind of thing.” She stood there nervously, not seeming to know what to say next, as if she had never done this work before. She awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she waited. The fear was apparent in her eyes, and despite the wizard’s warnings Tristan found himself wanting to know more.

“Red wine will be fine,” he said gently. “What is your name?”

“Lillith, of the House of Alvin,” she said quietly, as though she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to know. “My father was a friend of the king, before he died. Both of my parents and my brother were slaughtered in the massacre at Tammerland, and I left the city in a panic, trying to get to relatives in Ephyra.” She gave a quick, scared little look toward the innkeeper before continuing. “I only arrived yesterday.” She looked at each of them in turn, with a fear that Tristan had seen far too much of in recent days. She lowered her head, and a tear started to come. “Why do you ask?” She paused for a moment, biting her lower lip. “Are you going to buy me for tonight?” Her expression was one of genuine terror. “Is that why you need to know my name?”

“No, my child,” Wigg said gently. “No harm will come to you from us.”

She seemed to relax a little.

“Why don’t you leave?” Tristan asked.

“How?” she said, crying a little bit. “I came here just as you did, with very little, trying to escape all the madness of my home, looking only for a room. And when he saw me, he took all of my money and clothes, and gave me these to wear. He watches us all day, and locks us up at night. He said that I was now his to do with as he wished, that I had to work for him, and that he would sell me if he chose to.” She shook her head in pain. “And he said this morning that if no one bought me tonight, he would take me himself, to break me in.”

Suddenly, from across the room, a particularly dirty one of the drunkards called out to her. “You little Tammerland bitch!” he shouted. “If you don’t bring me my ale soon, instead of me paying you, you will be paying me!” He made a circle between his left index finger and thumb, and lasciviously ran his other index finger back and forth inside of it. He laughed while several of his friends slapped him on the back.

In a flash, she was gone.

Tristan put his face in his hands. “Have we really come to this?” he asked.

“Yes, we have, Tristan,” the old one said. “And you must accept the fact that such things are now the way of our world, and that if you try to intervene in each problem that you see, we will actually end up helping no one. You must think of your sister. First, last, and always.”

Tristan knew that the old one was trying to turn the subject away from the plight of Lillith the barmaid. And it worked. Tristan found himself once again preoccupied with Shailiha.

He looked into the Lead Wizard’s eyes as they stared out at him from under the hood of his robe. “How is it that I have never heard of a place called Shadowood?” he asked simply.

Wigg took a long breath in through his nose and looked around the room before responding. “No one outside of the Directorate, not even your father, knew of Shadowood,” he began in a low voice.

He paused as he saw Lillith returning with two glasses of red wine. She placed the glasses on the table and looked briefly into Tristan’s eyes. Watching her walk away, the prince found it hard to drag his mind back to what Wigg was saying.

“Shadowood was created by the wizards, Faegan included, near the end of the war, at the time when we thought that all might be lost—-just before we found the Paragon. It was created as a peaceful hiding place for the wizards, if necessary, so that male endowed blood would not become extinct. It is surrounded on all sides by a great canyon; the easterly side is very close to the Sea of Whispers.” The old wizard pursed his lips. “I was greatly disturbed to hear Succiu make mention of it. That can only mean that the Coven has somehow discovered its existence.” He sat back in his chair.

Tristan took a sip of the wine, thinking. “But there is no such canyon,” he said. “I’m sure I would have heard of it if there had been.”

“Oh, the canyon exists, all right,” the old one said, smiling, “and was one of our greatest achievements. Truth be known, it cannot be seen. Still, it exists.”

“I thought you said that until that day upon the dais, invisibility had never been achieved.”

“It hadn’t. This is different.”

“What so you mean?”

Wigg sighed. There is so much to teach him, he thought. And I am the only one left in the entire nation who can do it. “It can be seen only by those of highly trained endowed blood. And just having the right blood and being trained in the craft does not mean that one can automatically see it. One must be trained in how to see it. Even you and you sister, despite your blood quality, would not be able to see it until you were taught to. That is not the same thing as invisibility. True invisibility is a much harder concept to achieve.”

Tristan wasn’t sure he understood the subtlety, but he was too interested in his next question to debate the point. “So what happens if an untrained person, or even one of unendowed blood comes upon it? What do they see?”

“They see exactly what we planned to have them see: a forest.”

Tristan scratched his head as he took another sip of wine. Then he looked up at the old wizard. “And what happens if they continue to walk into this so-called forest?”

“Once they have walked far enough, when they put their next foot down upon what they think will be firm ground, they fall to their death.” Wigg spoke as if none of this bothered him at all. “Anyone behind them who was watching simply thinks that the person ahead of them has somehow been swallowed up by the earth.” A small smile crossed his face. “A human being suddenly sucked up by the earth, his horses and oxen not suffering the same fate, tends to add to the legend and keep people away, as you might well imagine.”

Tristan was aghast. “Are you saying that innocent people can die by simply going there, just so you can protect a piece of ground?”

“Try not to be too harsh on us,” the old one said, meeting the prince’s stare. “We were virtually sure at that time that we would lose the war, and this was the best spell that we could invoke. Remember, we had not yet discovered the Paragon, and knew far less about the craft than we do now. The canyon around Shadowood seemed to be a good answer, since if the Coven had indeed won and enslaved the nation as they intended, then anyone who came our way was a potential enemy.”

“So how do we get across?”

“There is a bridge, of course.”

Tristan shook his head. This was all starting to sound like a bad dream. “A bridge? A simple bridge? Why don’t we just fly across on some of your blue lightning bolts?” he asked sarcastically.

Despite the jab, Wigg was glad to see the prince’s true personality beginning to return. Although he would have never told him so, Wigg had actually begun to miss Tristan’s flippant remarks. Nonetheless, he gave the prince a rather deprecating look and was about to respond in kind when Lillith returned with their dinner. She put large plates of steaming mutton down before each of them, and a bowl of vegetables between them. When Tristan reached for his wineglass, his hand touched hers, and he looked up into her green eyes. She looked down, frightened, and quickly walked away. Tristan followed her with his eyes.

Wigg took a forkful of the mutton, placed it in his mouth, and chewed without speaking. Reaching for a sip of wine, he added drily, “It isn’t that simple. The bridge has a guard. At least it did three hundred years ago. And if Faegan lives there, I would be willing to bet that the guard is still in place.”

Tristan dug into his meat, suddenly surprised at how hungry he had become. Without looking up he asked, “So do we have to fight this guard to get across? I suppose he is some great, lumbering, three-hundred-year-old brute of a man.”

Wigg pursed his lips and sighed. “The guard is a gnome,” he said simply.

Tristan’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “A gnome’?” he asked. “What in the name of the Afterlife is a gnome?”

“To put it simply, a gnome is a little person. They tend to live to be very old, and are fiercely loyal to those whom they serve. I’m not surprised you never heard of them. In fact, I’m glad of it. That means they are all still in Shadowood.” He served himself some vegetables.

“I don’t understand.”

Wigg smiled. “There’s no way that you could. Gnomes have been in Eutracia for as long as we have. But before the war, some men found it to be great sport to hunt them down and kill them, and sometimes take the opportunity to rape their women. These poachers came to be known as gnome hunters. This was all before the creation of the monarchy and the Royal Guard. Because of the gnome hunters it took the wizards a long time to finally earn the gnomes’ trust, and to enlist their help in our cause against the Coven. In return for guarding Shadowood, they were given the benefits of time enchantments and a safe place in which to live, free of the hunters. Ironically, the only wizard to live there now is Faegan, presumably the one who aided the Coven during the war.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, spellbound. Shadowood, Faegan, a giant canyon that cannot be seen, and a bridge guarded by something called a gnome. He shook his head. “Is there anything else?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Oh, yes,” the wizard said between bites. “The gnome might not let us cross.”

“Why not? You’re the Lead Wizard, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Wigg said testily, brushing away the comment with his free hand as if it were a nuisance. “But even the Lead Wizard must prove his identity before being given permission to cross the bridge. Another safeguard.”

“And just how do we manage that?”

“Actually,” Wigg said, “for me it is extremely simple. You see, I have been specially trained to see it—another safeguard against the Coven. But as for you, with no training in the craft whatsoever, well, that will be a different matter. We will cross that bridge when we come to it, as they say.”

Tristan decided to change the subject. “Wigg, what is a wiktor?”

Wigg sighed and took another sip of his wine. “I truly do not know. But I am certainly glad that you killed it.”

“But it said that it had been awakened to come after me here, in a foreign land. Where, then, did it come from?”

“I don’t know. Presumably from wherever the sorceresses were.”

“The deaths of both the harpy and the wiktor were followed by thunder and lightning such as I have never seen,” Tristan recalled. “I cannot remember such a thing ever happening on a clear day or night, and yet now, in such a short time, I have seen it twice. They must be related, but how?”

And I had not seen it myself for over three hundred years, Wigg thought. “Do you remember that day in the woods when I showed you what the Vigors and the Vagaries actually looked like—the two glowing, revolving orbs?” he asked.

“Of course,” the prince answered. He would never forget that sight, no matter how long he lived. When he had first seen those orbs, they had made an indelible impression on his soul, as well as sending his endowed blood screaming through his veins. And now, after learning so much about himself from the wizard, he felt he was closer to knowing why.

Wigg took another forkful of the mutton. “Do you remember the darkness of the Vagaries—how the light shot back and forth inside the orb as if it were straining to break free of its prison? Well, the sorceresses practice the Vagaries, and the creatures they control—such as the stalker, harpy, and wiktor—are most certainly results of their incantations. Therefore, these creatures are all very closely associated with that discipline. I believe that the sorceresses and their servants are in fact so intertwined with the discipline of the Vagaries that when one or more of them dies it creates a tiny rent in the fabric of the Vagaries, in the actual substance of the orb itself, and therefore allows a diminutive amount of light and energy to escape, resulting in the disturbances we see in the skies.” He pursed his lips for a moment, thinking.

“Just imagine,” he said slowly, “the amount of power and destruction that would occur should a truly large rent in the Vagaries ever be opened. The result would be catastrophic. And still I believe it would be nothing compared to the uncontrolled, improper combination of both the Vigors and Vagaries together, should they ever be sufficiently ruptured at the same time.” He sat back in his chair for a moment. “Another of the more famous wizards’ conundrums, Tristan. The fact that the craft is infinitely powerful. Just as it is also infinitely fragile.”

The prince’s mind was once again taken back to the day he killed the wiktor. “Before it died, the wiktor said that we would meet again, even though it knew it was soon to be dead. Why would it say such a thing?”

Wigg smiled quietly into Tristan’s eyes. “Because there is truly a difference between being killed and being dead,” he said quietly. And the practice of the Vagaries shall lead to the madness of other, lower worlds. He could near the text of the Vigors repeating it to him as if he had read it only yesterday.

Wigg was about to speak again when Lillith returned to their table. She gave Tristan a kind but still frightened look as she began to clear away the dishes. Tristan was about to speak to her when, seemingly from nowhere, two dirty, hairy arms snaked around her waist from behind. She jumped, dropping the dishes on the floor, breaking them. Tristan immediately stood up to see the man standing directly behind her, holding her firmly in a bear hug, wetly lick the side of her face as she tried to pull away.

“The innkeeper told me that no one has bought you yet,” he said, smelling her hair and moving one of his dirty, gnarled hands closer to her breasts. “I told him I didn’t care how much it cost. Tonight you’re mine.”

Tristan’s reaction was immediate. To Wigg’s horror, the prince stood up and tore off his robe. He quickly stepped behind the man, pulled one of his dirks from his quiver, and reached around to put an arm around the man’s throat. With the other arm he placed the blade squarely between the man’s legs. Tristan raised the blade a fraction until he could hear the knife begin to cut through the man’s trousers. Lillith’s attacker froze. The room became deathly quiet.

“She’s already spoken for,” Tristan whispered into the man’s ear from behind. “And unless you want me to cut them off and have her feed them to her next customer, I suggest you let her go.” He raised the blade yet another fraction, and he could feel the knife’s edge resting against the roundness of the man’s left testicle.

The man let her go, and she slumped forward. Wigg caught her as she fell, and helped her into Tristan’s chair. Tristan turned the man around to face him. He had a sunken, sallow face and long hair, and was missing several of his teeth.

Tristan looked him dead in the eyes and raised his dirk up to the man’s face. “Go away,” he said softly.

“No. She’s mine.” The man stood there, defiant, despite the knife in his face.

In a flash, Tristan moved the blade even closer to his face, placing its tip against the man’s lower eyelid. A small sliver of blood started to walk the length of the blade.

“If you don’t leave now, the least you will lose is your eye,” Tristan growled. He could feel the endowed blood in his veins running even faster now, as if begging him to avenge so many of the wrongs he had seen. Just give me one more reason, he snarled silently. He looked down at the man’s groin. “And if you continue to resist me, you will lose it all, I promise you.”

As quickly as he had appeared, the man turned and ran out of the room.

Without giving Wigg the chance to speak to him, Tristan marched across the room, the dirk still in his hand, and looked into Pig-man’s eyes. He pointed to Lillith. “I choose her,” he said to the innkeeper. “How much?” The look on his face was not to be denied.

Even so, the innkeeper decided to play his usual game. He licked his lips with greed. “Let’s see,” he began sarcastically. “Considering the fact that you are intent on driving away my customers, and, as far as I know, she is still a virgin, I think the price will be very high, indeed.” He spread his hands wide and flat upon the surface of the countertop, taking his time with his thoughts.

Tristan had endured enough.

In the twinkle of an eye, the prince raised the dirk high above his head, and without even looking brought it down into the countertop with all of his strength—exactly between the first and second fingers of Pig-man’s right hand.

“I said how much, you bastard?”

“S-s-six kisa,” the innkeeper stammered, pulling his hand away from the dirk.

Tristan reached into his trousers and pulled out ten. He threw them on the counter with a loud clang. No one in the room moved.

Leaving the knife embedded into the counter, he reached out and pulled Pig-man across the counter to him. He then took up the knife and held it before the innkeeper’s face.

“The four extra are for another room,” he said into the little eyes. He dropped Pig-man on the bar and walked around to join him. “Which is your best room?”

The innkeeper held up a key on a gold chain. Tristan took it in his hand and walked back to the table.

Wigg sat there staring at him as if he were from another world, angry beyond belief. The girl named Lillith sat in Tristan’s chair, stunned and more than a little frightened. “Does this mean I must go upstairs with you now?” she asked, obviously trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

“No,” Tristan whispered urgently. “This means that we are leaving, just as soon as we can get upstairs, collect our things, and go out one of the windows. I rented the extra room only for appearances. You wanted to get out of here, didn’t you? Well, here’s your chance.” Aghast, she looked at him as if he were out of his mind.

Wigg stood and looked Tristan in the face. “Are you mad?” he asked in a low voice. “I agree that after that little scene of yours we will certainly be leaving, but we simply cannot take her with us!”

“She leaves with me right now,” Tristan demanded.

He inched his face closer to the wizard’s. “I have seen enough pain and violence to last a thousand lifetimes, much of it my own fault, and I have done nothing to help my countrymen other than to stand by and take orders from you. She goes with us, or she and I go and you stay here alone.” He looked around the room briefly. Some of the other men had stood up from their chairs and were talking angrily among themselves, and it was plain to everyone that the three of them were the unfortunate topic of conversation.

Wigg looked into the eyes of the man that he loved so much and knew that Tristan would not be denied. Finally he smiled. “Very well. We go. All of us.”

Tristan turned, the dirk still in his hand, and led the two of them across the floor to the stairs. With each step up he felt every angry eye in the room on his back.

They would have to move quickly.

Leaving the inn actually proved easier than Tristan had first thought. After collecting the bags of food and Tristan’s dreggan, Wigg opened a window on the far side of the room. Beneath lay a shallow pitched roof, presumably over the inn’s kitchen. It was directly across from the stables. They slid down the roof one by one, finally jumping to the ground, Tristan catching Lillith as she came down into his arms. He stood there holding her for a few moments longer than Wigg would have liked. Despite her obvious fear she managed to give him a smile, and he gave her a quick grin of encouragement back.

Tristan immediately ran into the stables to roust the stable boy and helped him saddle their two horses. At a word from Tristan, the stable boy produced a roan mare, complete with saddle and bridle. They galloped out of the stable yard and down the moonlit road, trying to put as much distance between them and the inn as possible. Occasionally Tristan looked over at Lillith to make sure she was all right and wasn’t having any trouble keeping up. The mare she was on was almost as fast as Pilgrim, and to his relief he saw that Lillith was an excellent rider. Once, she looked back and smiled, apparently happy to be away, her long red hair flowing behind her in the wind.

Wigg finally raised his hand and slowed his gelding, and the three of them stopped. The Lead Wizard closed his eyes for a moment—Tristan guessed that the old one was using his mind to search the area for pursuers. Tristan was careful not to speak, aware that there were many things that must be kept strictly between himself and Wigg for as long as the young woman was with them.

After Wigg declared them safe for the time being, they walked the horses over to a small rise by a nearby stream, and Tristan and Lillith slept there in the grass that night, side by side. Wigg settled himself closer to the road, alone, saying he should be the one to stand watch. Tristan knew why: Wigg would be able to detect anyone coming long before Tristan ever could and, provided the girl did not see it, the old one could use his powers to deal with any problems. The Lead Wizard could go without sleep for days if he had to.

The prince was glad to be outdoors, under the stars again, and he and Lillith talked for what seemed a long time before they fell asleep, despite how tired they were. When she had asked Tristan and Wigg their names as part of thanking them for taking her away from the inn, they had both given her their true first names, but Tristan had of course not mentioned the name of his family house. Lillith apparently had no clue who they really were, but as a precaution the old one had kept his wizard’s tail neatly tucked down into his robe, and Tristan had not unwrapped the dreggan.

They told her that Wigg was a blacksmith and Tristan his apprentice; that, like her, they were on their way north to escape the massacre at Tammerland. They had not been able to bring any of their tools, and would sadly have to start in business all over again in one of the northern cities.

For her part, Lillith explained that she was the daughter of one of the tax collectors of the outer reaches of Tammerland, and that it was in that way that her father, Agamedes of the House of Alvin, had known the king. She was a schoolteacher, as her late mother had been, and enjoyed her time with the children, especially the younger ones. Her brother, Chauncey, had been a lieutenant in the Royal Guard. Their home had been burned to the ground by the terrible creatures with wings, and when she had seen the bodies of her father and brother she had panicked, gathering up all her money and setting out on her horse for the north, just as so many others had done. The innkeeper had stolen all of her money and sold her horse the first day.

At the end of her tale, she broke into tears, and Tristan held her for a long time in the moonlight, knowing that despite how much she attracted him, they would have to part company on the day after tomorrow when they reached the fork in the road that led to Ephyra. That was where Tristan and Wigg would have to set out cross-country to reach Shadowood.

Despite the short time in which he had known Lillith, he already knew in his heart that he would miss her. She was beautiful, intelligent, and kind, and she had a rare sort of quiet bravery. The only other women he had ever known with such a quality had been his mother and his sister, and he lamented the fact that he could not introduce Lillith to them. He would have enjoyed that very much. It then occurred to him that the woman sitting next to him in the dew-laden grass was one of the few people he had met in his entire life who did not know him as the prince of Eutracia. But Lillith seemed to like him despite the fact that, as far as she knew, he was just a simple blacksmith. Somehow, that meant a great deal to him. Before they fell asleep, she leaned forward to give him a tentative kiss on the cheek, once again thanking him for his kindness back at the inn. He covered her with his saddle blanket and lay awake under the stars for some time, sorting out his feelings, before he, too, fell asleep.

The next day was slow going again, the road north still full of refugees. Wigg took the lead, apparently lost in scholarly thoughts, while Tristan and Lillith rode side by side behind him, talking and sharing their food. During the occasional moments of silence, Tristan tried not to look at the other people on the road for fear that someone would recognize him. He had no robe to pull up over his head, having left it on the floor of the inn when they had gone upstairs in such a hurry. Luckily, no one seemed to recognize him or the old wizard.

Many of the people on the road with them were in a very sorry state. A large number were bandaged and bloody, and limped along as best they could. Tristan reminded himself that until the Coven and the Minions had come, Eutracia had been at peace for over three centuries. These people have never seen death and destruction on a scale such as this, he said to himself. They are still in shock, simply going north to where they think they might find some safety. Anything to get out of the death and stink of Tammerland.

Most of the throng going up the road were on foot, because the Minions had slaughtered so much of the livestock. There were simply very few horses to ride, or oxen to pull the carts. Therefore, most of these wretched souls had been forced to abandon the vast majority of their possessions, taking with them only what they could carry. Food and water were in short supply, and it occurred to Tristan that fights and small riots might break out among them, as the hunger and thirst became worse. He silently blessed the knives that lay across his back, and his ability to hunt with them.

As dusk began to fall the three of them again went off the road and away from the crush of humanity to make their camp. They had been traveling alongside the same meandering stream all day, and they found a small clearing just above its banks where they could sleep. Tristan killed a pair of rabbits, which made a sufficient meal when combined with some of the vegetables they still had left in the leather bags.

The night was warm, the sky full of a thousand stars. The fire cast flickering, ephemeral patterns of shadow and light upon the three of them as they sat on the ground beside its warmth, knowing that tomorrow they would part.

Wigg turned to look at Lillith. “It has been a pleasure to know you, miss,” he said, smiling. He then looked briefly at the prince. “I am sure that I speak for both Tristan and myself when I say that I wish our meeting could have come under different circumstances.” He handed her a rather large handful of gold kisa from the bag that he kept at his side. “Please take these, with our compliments. And keep the horse, too. You will need a good horse underneath you as you continue to travel to Ephyra. I wish we could do more, but in the morning we must take our leave of you. Our business lies in a different direction.” In the firelight Tristan could see that Lillith’s eyes were watery, and she leaned over and gave the old one an affectionate hug. Tristan believed that even the crusty old wizard had come to genuinely like her, as well.

“Thank you, Wigg,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I shall never forget you.”

The old one stood, clearing his throat as if slightly embarrassed, and gathered his robes about him. He looked down at Tristan. “I will be on watch again, up over that rise, nearer to the road for the night. I don’t believe there is anyone following us, but it always pays to be sure. I will see you both in the morning. Sleep well.” He turned and walked up over the knoll and out of sight.

“Such a wonderful old man,” Lillith said affectionately. “I’m sure if someone had the time, there are a great many stories that he could tell them. But sometimes he acts as if he has the entire weight of the world upon his shoulders.”

If you only knew, Tristan thought to himself. “I owe him more than I could ever repay,” he said simply as he watched the fire play with the highlights in her red hair.

They sat in silence for a moment, looking into the hypnotic, dancing flames of the fire. The nighttime murmurs of the woodland creatures had begun all around them, sending out soft, reassuring sounds, mixing with the occasional crackling of the fire. Lillith looked up at the stars.

“When I was a little girl, my father told me something about the stars that I never forgot,” she said, as if from somewhere far away. “He told me that the night sky was a dark blanket the spirits of the Afterlife threw over us at the end of each day, to help keep us warm. And that the stars in the sky weren’t really stars at all, but tiny holes that they had poked in the blanket, letting little beams of light through. That way the spirits could watch over us during the night, just as they did during the daytime. And that when we saw the stars at night we could sleep in peace, because the spirits were protecting us then, too.” She looked into his eyes.

Tristan smiled at her, thinking about what a wonderful story that was. He would try to remember it for his children, if and when the time ever came. If I survive all of this, he thought. As he looked across the short space between them and into her green eyes, he allowed himself the impossible luxury of wondering what it would have been like to have fathered children with this woman. Overtaken by the moment, he gently reached his hand out to her, placing it behind her head, and kissed her deeply on the lips. She responded in kind, and a passion began to overtake him that seemed more real, more meaningful, than any he had ever known.

She looked at him with a half-mischievous, half-hungry look. Standing up, she slowly pulled the peasant’s dress off over her shoulders, dropped it to her feet, and kicked it away. Her body was magnificent, and seemed to shimmer before him in the light of the full moon. Hungrily, he pulled her to him. But she only smiled and placed her right index finger to the point of his chin, gently pushing him away.

“I have a better idea.” She laughed. “This afternoon I saw a deeper pool of water a little downstream. Let’s swim.”

Before he could find a reason to protest, she was gone, running up the bank of the river and diving into the moonlit pool about fifty yards from where he stood.

Two can play at this game, he thought happily, quickly disrobing and chasing after her. He dove headfirst into the water, wondering where she had gone, and got his bearings. The night was clear and warm, and the light of the full moons ran across the pool in a shimmering translucent path, broken only by the ripples he had made when he entered the water. Still he did not see her.

Suddenly, she surfaced noisily right next to him, laughing, and put her arms around him. Her mouth came down on his, and he could feel her wet, supple body against him. He immediately became aroused. He held her to him for some time, taking the wet ropes of her thick hair in his hands, bending her gently over backward under him, never wanting to let her go. Laughing again, she pushed herself away and was gone, and the game continued. For a long time their naked bodies flirted with each other in the warm, wet darkness of the pool, and Tristan found it intoxicating. His need for her grew even more.

They finally emerged from the water and walked arm in arm back up the bank of the river to where they had dropped their clothes. Tristan bent over to pick her dress up for her, but she stopped him and put two fingers against his lips to indicate silence. She took her dress from him and then picked up his clothes, as well. Laying them down in the dewy night’s grass of the riverbank, she looked at him in a way that he had not seen from her before. As if seeming to have made up her mind, she gave him another long, slow kiss. But the moonlight on her beautiful face showed some of the fear that still lingered there as she released his lips and began to speak. She stepped even closer, putting her arms around him.

“I have never been with a man,” she said quietly, as though not knowing how to begin. “I was scared to death that the awful innkeeper was going to rape me, and then you and Wigg came along. I know that we must leave each other tomorrow, and I am saddened because of that. I hope that you will never forget me.”

He was about to speak again when she reached out hesitantly to touch his groin, and Tristan felt a searing heat go through him that he had never experienced before. He suddenly wanted this woman more than any other he had ever known.

“I want you to be my first,” she said, lowering her eyes as if in shame. With her face still lowered, she said, “You are handsome and strong, and I know in my heart that you will not hurt me. Please be my first, Tristan, and give me something to remember you by always.”

She placed her hand upon his bare chest and gently pushed him down onto his back on the ragged, rather sad little pile of clothes. Slowly, lovingly, she lowered herself down upon him as lightly as a butterfly.

“Close your eyes, my love,” she said gently as she began to undulate her body over his.

Tristan did as she asked, and just let it happen. The warm night air seemed somehow to gather around them, as if they were the only two people in the world. This must be what it’s like, he thought, to be with someone that you truly love.

His eyes still closed, he felt her lower her face down to his, and she reached out tenderly to put her arms around him, still moving her hips on him erotically.

“By the way,” he heard a female voice say from somewhere, “this isn’t my first time. And if our child is a girl, I will teach her everything I know. But if the bastard is a boy, my sweet prince, I will kill him with my own hands.”

The voice was no longer Lillith’s, but still somehow familiar. He snapped his eyes open. Lillith’s face was gone.

He was looking directly into the eyes of Natasha, duchess of Ephyra.

Instinctively he recoiled, desire replaced with sheer hatred. He tried to move his arms and legs to throw her off him, but he couldn’t.

He was frozen to the ground beneath her as she looked down at him with a wicked, hungry grin.

“What have you done with Lillith?” he demanded, still not understanding. He tried to turn his head away from her face, but he could not move.

She smiled viciously. “There never was a Lillith, you fool.” She laughed. “Although I suppose I could let you see her one last time before you die.”

Tristan looked into her eyes as waves began to swim across his vision. Natasha’s face actually looked as if it were beginning to melt, to decompose. And then, as soon as it had blended itself away into nothingness, the waves came back again, and the smiling, loving face of Lillith, complete with green eyes and long, red hair, began to appear. This can’t be happening, he thought. I must be going mad.

And then he remembered. What was it Wigg had called Natasha? A Visage Caster. Able to change her appearance at will. He simply stared, speechless, up into the face of Lillith, the one he had once thought he could come to love, as the brown hair and eyes of the mistress of the Coven once again slowly began to reappear. She continued the slow act of coitus with him, keeping him aroused, somehow controlling that part of his anatomy, as well. She smiled.

“You bitch!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “What have you done with my sister?”

Natasha reached out and backhanded him hard across the face, and then lifted her hand to her eyes. “Now look what you’ve made me do,” she whimpered sarcastically. “I’ve broken a nail.” She narrowed her eyes to stare at the finger, and Tristan watched as the long, painted nail repaired itself. She struck him viciously again across the face, all the while her hips moving back and forth suggestively.

“Don’t concern yourself with your sister,” she said coyly, looking into his eyes. “You will never be seeing her again, anyway. She is one of us, now, and is probably already halfway across the Sea of Whispers. Don’t worry—she will receive the best of care. By the way, that was a very good trick the Lead Wizard pulled that day on the dais. We looked everywhere for you, and you were simply gone. But we know where you are now, don’t we? And don’t bother screaming for the old wizard. I’ve arranged it so that we can’t be heard by anyone, even him.”

“You have been with us since that first day at the inn,” he said, almost to himself. “You have been with us for the last two days!”

“Ah, you’re finally catching on,” she said nastily. “We knew that the two of you would probably head immediately for Shadowood. It was the only logical assumption, given the fact that the Lead Wizard had been told of the continued existence of his old friend, my dear father. So I simply hurried to the inn ahead of you while you took your time visiting the corpses of your family and friends, as we knew you would do.” She looked down at him, her eyes narrowing with pleasure. “By the way, how did you manage to kill a wiktor?” she asked curiously. “I do believe that you’re the first one ever to do so. But it doesn’t actually matter. It really isn’t dead, you know.”

“I enjoyed killing it,” he snarled, “just as I am going to enjoy killing all of you.”

“You overestimate yourself, my prince,” she said, drawing her fingers across his face and down to one of his nipples. She began to make little circles around it with the long, red nail. “And, by the way, I want to thank you for your gallantry back at the inn, but it wasn’t really necessary. I didn’t need a hero. I could have killed every one of those ignorant, unendowed bastards with a single thought.” She bent down and licked the side of his face lasciviously. “And your bringing me with you was more than I could have hoped for.”

In addition to the rage he felt, a new emotion had begun to creep into Tristan’s mind: shame. Wigg told me repeatedly not to become involved in the things that I saw, he thought. Now my brashness has killed us both.

“If you’re going to kill me, then why don’t you just do it and get it over with?” he said sarcastically. “All I ever hear out of you and Succiu is a lot of talk.”

She closed the distance slightly between their faces, and he could see the endowed anger flashing in her lustrous brown eyes. He thought of that day back at the castle when she had spoken with him, and then licked her lips and walked away. She has more in mind than just my death, he thought, and somehow I know what it is. And even if she kills me, I have to fight to keep her from getting it.

“Oh, die you shall,” she said. “Make no mistake of it. And the old wizard, too. But not before you and I finish our business. I shall take three prizes from here with me today. The head of the crown prince of Eutracia, and also that of the Lead Wizard of the Directorate. I shall dip them in wax to preserve them for the trip to my new home, across the sea.”

“And the third prize?” Tristan asked. In his heart he already knew what it was. But something inside him wanted to hear her say it.

“Our child, of course,” she said, her eyes glistening. “The child that you are about to give me, the one that will grow in my womb as I travel across the Whispering Sea, my task here really complete. Just imagine: your blood mingled with my own, in the firstborn child of the Chosen One. And I shall be the one to carry it.”

Without speaking further, she shuddered, as if she had now been consumed by the act of merely saying the words. She closed her eyes and began to rape him in earnest.

Tristan tried as hard as he could to escape, but he was still frozen in place, with the earth at his back. Natasha began to groan, as if slowly starting to build to her own climax. Her mouth was open, and her tongue was beginning to lick the area around her lips in ecstasy.

I have to fight this, he screamed silently. Fight it as hard as I can. Even if she kills me, I cannot allow her to bear a child of my blood and do as they will with it.

Natasha began to move even harder over him now, and Tristan knew he was losing himself to her. Somehow she had control over his sexuality, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he gave her what she wanted. He tried to fight back the waves of desire as best he could, but every time she moved and shuddered and groaned it sent another bolt of ecstasy coursing through him and he could feel his endowed blood screaming through his veins, as if telling him that it was all right, to let go. Her groans had turned to wanton screaming now, and he knew he was in the grip of something he couldn’t control.

He began to feel the familiar, needful waves of inevitability begin in his groin as she looked into his eyes. It would only be seconds, now. And then he saw it.

At first it looked like some kind of blue blur in the night sky, but then it began to coalesce and take more distinct form. A flowing, moving line of azure light had silently snaked its way around behind the mistress, and one end of it seemed to dance and play in the night air behind her and just over her head, the other end continuing away and out of his line of vision. At first Tristan thought that it must have been the work of Natasha. But as he continued to watch it take its final shape, he realized that she was oblivious to its presence.

It was a rope: a rope of blue azure light that danced on its own in the night air. And it was made of pure energy. Tristan watched, speechless, as the free end of the floating rope began to curl around into a knot and move closer to Natasha.

It was a hangman’s noose, and it quietly slipped itself around the mistress’s throat.

But by now Tristan’s own time had come, and just as he could hold himself back no longer and the inevitable began, the noose tightened itself around Natasha’s neck. With a single, savage yank, it pulled her off the prince and over onto her back, near the river’s edge.

Natasha’s scream was cut oft. Her eyes opened in terror and she tried to put her hands around the rope to free herself, but the azure energy was too strong, and she was beginning to weaken from lack of oxygen.

As she struggled in the wet grass of the riverbank, the glowing azure hangman’s noose began to pull her toward the river.

Tristan found that he was able to move again. He immediately reached back to his pile of clothes and picked up one of his dirks. He didn’t know anything about the azure rope or how it worked, but he was determined to help kill the monster that had murdered his family. He ran naked and screaming, his dirk held high, toward the mistress as the rope of energy dragged her, headfirst, into the river.

The water all around Natasha began to roil and steam as the mistress thrashed around in the river. Tristan finally reached her and, with a quick slash of his knife, cut her throat from ear to ear, just above the line of the rope. He grabbed her head and pushed her under the water with all his might, holding her there until the bubbles stopped and there was no longer any movement.

The azure rope of energy and the hangman’s noose that it had created emerged from the river and vanished into the night as quickly as they had come.

Panting, Tristan grabbed the mistress’s corpse by the hair and dragged it up onto the edge of the riverbank. Her eyes were still open, and in the moonlight he could see the bluish cast coming to her skin. Then he turned and scrambled up the riverbank, to kneel before his belongings. He unwrapped the dreggan and took it back down to where the corpse lay.

Natasha looked almost peaceful, almost innocent, as she lay there in the dim light. Tristan pulled the dreggan from its scabbard and listened to the sword’s song fade away on the night breeze. Holding the dreggan in his right hand, he pushed the lever in the hilt, and with a resounding clang of highly tempered steel, the blade shot out an extra foot.

With both hands he raised the dreggan high over his head and stared down at the corpse of the one who had just tried to kill him—kill him and take his firstborn child. The blade glinted in the moonlight.

“As I have sworn to do,” he declared. He brought the blade down with all his might, severing the head from the body.

Immediately the thunder and lightning started. The lightning tore across the night sky in patterns he had never seen before and continued unabated with such rapidity that the entire landscape was illuminated as if it were daytime. And the thunder, the loudest he had ever heard, was deafening, rolling across the landscape as if it had the power to mow down everything in its path. The wind blew and howled, picking up leaves and twigs from all over the area, blowing them around in a maelstrom of dirt and debris. He stood there, naked before it all, holding his sword in one hand as it finally dissipated, and then ended.

Tristan reached down and threw the severed head, and then the body itself, into the river. He watched in the moonlight as the rapids carried them away.

Exhausted, he walked back up the riverbank, but very suddenly brought his dreggan up once again. There was a shadowy figure a little higher up, sitting on the ground before him. He approached carefully, without speaking, and then calmly lowered his sword.

It was Wigg.

Tristan dressed quickly and went to the old one. Wigg didn’t look up. The prince sat in the grass of the riverbank next to the Lead Wizard for some time, both of them looking at the river as it passed by in the moonlight.

“The azure rope was yours, wasn’t it?” Tristan asked finally, already knowing the answer. He did not turn to look the wizard in the face. “Thank you, once again, for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” the old one said simply. “I had my suspicions about her from the first time she approached our table, as Lillith, back at the inn,” he said casually.

“You knew?”

“Not for a certainty,” Wigg said as he picked at the hem of his robe. “When she first came to our table I could detect a faint aura about her, but there was no way of telling whether she was Natasha, or simply an innocent of endowed blood. As you may remember, Natasha had been taught by the Coven to disguise her endowed blood, but it is a terrible strain on one’s powers to do so for as prolonged a period as she did, and I could occasionally detect brief evidences of it. Still, I couldn’t be sure. That’s why I took each of the night watches. So that I could be there for you, if need be.”

Tristan thought to himself for a few moments, and then said, “That’s why she didn’t kill me right away, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“She wanted my firstborn child, just like they want Shailiha and her unborn. She almost got it.”

“Yes,” Wigg said slowly. “Do you remember when I told you about the history of Eutracia, that for some reason near the end of the war the Coven spent a great deal of time trying to produce a special girl child of endowed blood? Sorceresses can control their conception, Tristan. It was obvious that Natasha had plans for your firstborn, provided it was a girl.”

“If that is so important to them, then why didn’t one of them take me that day up on the dais, when everyone was killed? Instead, they were willing to let Kluge butcher me.”

Wigg thought for a moment. “Probably because they were under orders from Failee to return as soon as possible with the stone, and to make sure that we both were dead. But once we had escaped, things were different and they were free to indulge themselves. But I cannot be absolutely sure.”

His training in the craft must begin soon, the old one thought. But first we must find Shailiha and the stone, and we will probably die doing it. And even if we do accomplish the impossible, the Chosen One must still first read the Prophecies before his training begins.

Tristan sat next to the old one for a long time without speaking. Despite the fact that Natasha was dead, there had been much more to her presence than he understood. It was about Lillith. He knew in his heart that she had never existed, but it was the possibility of such a woman that now consumed his mind. Lillith had given the appearance of a woman who could care about him without knowing who he was or what he could give her because of his station in life, and he had never known that before. And he had, despite the short time he had been in her presence, thought that he might have felt the beginnings of true love.

But Lillith had only been a phantom. And now she was gone forever.

“Despite the brief time in which I ‘knew’ her, I thought she might be the one,” Tristan said sadly, to no one in particular. The night breeze came again to them from off the river. No man can cross the same river twice, he mused.

“I know,” the old one said, turning to him. “Someday you will find your Lillith, but first you must find your sister.”

The Lead Wizard stood and, without speaking further, walked back up to take his place on watch, closer to the road. Tomorrow, Tristan knew, they would head overland to Shadowood, and to whatever awaited them there.

He sat there until dawn, trying to sort out what had happened to him and wondering if there would ever be such a woman, a real woman, as Lillith in his life.

13

Shailiha turned in her bed slowly, half asleep, and automatically cushioned the heaviness of her unborn child with one hand as she came to lie on her side on the silk sheets. The room was dark, and she didn’t bother to open her eyes. Her child would be special, her Sisters had told her, and it was important to take the best of care with her pregnancy. She sighed slowly, her eyes still shut, and tried to remember—remember for herself all of the things that they had told her had happened, all of the things that they had said were so understandable for her to forget.

She had been in this land that they called Parthalon for two weeks now, and aside from the voyage across the ocean, she could remember virtually nothing of her life that had come before. Even large parts of the trip across the ocean with Sister Succiu were still a blank to her. Flashes of what seemed to be another, previous life would suddenly cross her mind at times when she would least expect it, both scaring and intriguing her at the same time. And when she tried to tell her Sisters of what she remembered, they just scolded her pleasantly, telling her that these images were not correct, that they should be forgotten. They said that these brief flashes were false memories, that would eventually go away, and that they would tell her all about what her previous life had really been like. Hysterical amnesia, they called it, and given what she had been through, her condition was not unusual.

But she wasn’t sure.

Sometimes, especially in her dreams, she would see faces that were somehow familiar, and places that she had not as yet visited here in Parthalon. But there were no names to go with the faces, and that troubled her. There was a kindly man with a jewel around his neck, a woman with beautiful blond hair, a man of about her age with dark hair whom she found to be very handsome, and in particular, another man with a brown beard who seemed to be reaching out for her swollen stomach and calling out to her every time she dreamed of him. There were also a number of odd-looking older men, all in robes, with funny tails of braided hair that ran down the backs of their necks. In the slow-moving, ephemeral cloudiness of her dreams she would try to speak to all of them. But they never spoke back, except for the man with the brown beard. And when he did, no sound came out of his mouth. Every time she came physically close to them in one of her dreams, she awakened, only to find herself back here, in the palace with her Sisters. I know these people of my dreams, she would often think to herself. But they must simply be my imagination, because my Sisters tell me so.

She had been forced to learn her Sisters’ names all over again, and they had teased her and laughed at her politely when she got them wrong. They said it sounded so strange for one they had known so long to mix up their names. Failee, Succiu, Zabarra, and Vona. They were all her Sisters, they said, in both blood and bond, and they told her that she and Succiu had just returned from a great quest, during which her husband had been killed by the butchers that lived across the sea. She and Succiu had barely escaped with their lives. The tragic loss was what had caused her to forget all that had come before. But her Sisters would always be there to help her remember, they said, and slowly, carefully, they would tell her the true story of her life.

They were about to embark upon a great undertaking, they told her, and each of them would be required to do her part. Shailiha wasn’t sure she understood it all, but she knew in her heart that she would do her best to help them, because they were her Sisters and she had grown to love them. Failee also told her that if her strange dreams did not stop soon, other dreams would come. Bad ones. Shailiha did her best not to think about that, and instead tried to concentrate on what her wonderful Sisters were trying to help her remember.

Her life here with them at the palace was certainly luxurious enough, and she had very little to do except try to get better. Rest and heal your mind, they had said, and above all make sure you take care of your unborn. Her private quarters were magnificent, with several connecting rooms at her disposal. She was personally cared for to an extent that was almost embarrassing, with dozens of maidservants to satisfy her every whim. Each morning when she rose at her leisure they would bathe her and brush her hair, and then dress her in any of the magnificent maternity gowns that lined her wardrobe for almost as far as the eye could see. She took each of her meals with her Sisters and, sometimes, Succiu’s little hunchback, Geldon. They happily spent most of that time telling her of her past life, trying to help her remember. Sometimes they laughed and giggled like schoolgirls when they talked about some of the things she had done when she was young. And despite the fact that she hadn’t yet remembered any of the incidents they kept reminding her of, with every passing day she felt more sure that she would.

Failee, the oldest of the five Sisters, always seemed to be especially kind. Every few days she would come to Shailiha’s room and ask her how she was feeling. She would also place her hand on Shailiha’s abdomen and close her eyes, as if lost in thought. Each time this had happened, Failee told her that her child was well, and the birth would be soon.

But she still dreamed of the others. Not as often as at first, but sometimes they came, like silent ghosts, to visit her mind. She would just have to be patient and wait until they were no more, just as her Sisters had told her would happen.

She was thinking about all this, in the dark of her bedroom, when she first heard the tiny scratching sounds, combined with little, nondescript squeaking noises. Even though her eyes were still closed, she could tell that the darkness of her bedroom was giving way to the light of day. The noise must be one of her maidservants arriving to bathe her as usual, she thought. I must have slept unusually well, because the night seemed so short. Gently rubbing her eyes, she sat up in bed, then looked around.

What she saw made her want to scream, but she couldn’t find her voice.

This isn’t my bedroom, she thought in confusion. And it is not dawn, and I am alone.

Shailiha immediately sat up straighter, instinctively holding one hand over her abdomen. Her bedroom was gone, and in its place was a small, stone-walled room, in the center of which sat her bed. There seemed to be no doors or windows. The light that she had mistaken for the break of dawn was in fact coming from wall sconces; the flames gave the room a kind of frightening, golden tone that seemed to mix with the grayness of the stones, creating sharp-edged shadows in their nooks and crevices. The floor and the ceiling of the tiny room were the same stone as the walls.

Then she noticed the stench.

Fetid and pungent, it smelled of human fecal matter and seemed to waft back and forth across the stone room in a sickening, gray cloud. She placed her hands to her face, thinking she might vomit. And then she saw why there was such an awful smell.

Something was oozing from the walls. A brown, murky slime, it trickled down to the floor from an ever-growing number of places between the stones. The more of it that appeared, the more horrible became the smell. She wanted to scream, but found that instead all she could do was vomit. This can’t be happening! she shrieked silently as the warm, wet contents of her stomach ran down her negligee. This simply isn’t real! She screamed aloud at the top of her lungs. But no one answered. And the strange scratching and squeaking noises grew louder.

Rats.

The slime had stopped dripping from the walls and had pooled sickeningly in dark puddles on the stone floor of the room. And now, coming from the same holes, were rats.

They poured out of the crevices in all four walls and began milling about on the floor around her bed. They were the largest she had ever seem, some as big as kittens, and they sniffed everything in their path as they ran over each other, through the mire on the floor, and began testing the bottoms of the bedsheets with their longish, pointed teeth.

Their squeaking and screeching became a cacophony of hunger, as countless more of them poured into the room.

Shailiha screamed again and thought that she might pass out, but the awful sounds of the squealing rats somehow kept her conscious. In only a few moments they would begin to climb the sheets. Her bed began to shake with the sheer numbers of them around the bottom of it.

Horrified, she realized it wasn’t the rats that were shaking the bed. The bed was moving on its own. And it was somehow lowering itself into the floor.

Crying hysterically, Shailiha scrambled frantically up on all fours and looked around the room while the bed slowly went lower and lower. The most aggressive rats had begun to clamber up on the sides of the bedsheets as the silk bedding flattened out on the floor and washed into the dark brown slime.

As if with a life of its own, the ooze crept up over the side of the bed, and Shailiha slipped in the awful mire as it closed on around her. Clutching her abdomen, she fell facedown on the sheets.

The last thing she remembered before passing out were the approaching rats as they began to chew on her fingers.

“And I say once again to you that if the blood stalkers and screaming harpies had never been released, the prince and the Lead Wizard would be dead today!” Succiu exclaimed as Vona and Zabarra looked on aghast, neither of them ever having seen her address Failee so angrily. “We repeatedly warned you about the dangers of recalling them. If the old one and the Directorate had not been alerted to the presence of your now-useless creatures from the distant past, we could have finished our job that day on the dais properly. But instead, because of your unnecessary need for revenge, now we must contend with the fact that Wigg and Tristan are both still alive, and probably trying to make their way to Shadowood.”

Succiu glared at each of the women at the table in turn, and then down to Geldon, who was, as usual, at her feet, chained to the iron ring in the marble floor of the chamber. He tried to look away. He had never before seen her this angry, and he didn’t wish to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary. As it was, he was sure that at least one poor slave from the Stables would pay for her foul mood before the night was over.

The four mistresses of the Coven had been sitting at the five-pointed table in the chamber for over an hour now, and despite Succiu’s criticisms, Failee seemed almost happily unconcerned. The First Mistress had uncharacteristically listened patiently, almost politely, as Succiu had arrogantly gone on and on, blaming Failee for their Eutracian mission’s having not been completely successful. But now the dwarf could see that Failee had begun to tire of Succiu’s faultfinding, and he lowered his head in anticipation of what was to come next. Nonetheless, Succiu pressed her argument.

“Even the wiktor that Sister Natasha and I arranged to intercept the prince and the wizard at the palace gates has presumably been killed,” she continued, driving home her point. “No one has accomplished that before. And, worse yet, there has been no contact from Natasha. We have no choice but to assume that she is lost, too.” The second mistress looked down at her nails for a moment, remembering the fatalistic look on Tristan’s face when Kluge had chained him. Her demeanor changed to one of inward, rather than outward, concern. “We have seriously underestimated the Chosen One,” she said, almost softly, “and we must now take pains to be sure that neither he nor the wizard can interfere in our undertakings. To fail to dispose of them could mean the loss of everything.”

Failee let out a long, almost bored sigh, rose from the table, and walked slowly to the fireplace at the opposite side of the room. It was early evening, and the flames danced merrily outward from the hearth, adding to the warmth created by the wall sconces and chandeliers that burned so brightly. The First Mistress ran a hand through her long gray—and-black hair, knowing that her Sisters were disturbed, yet at the same time certain that they had no reason to be. But the veiled spell that she had been solely supporting since Shailiha’s arrival now weighed heavily upon her powers, and she had little time or patience for those who were not sufficiently trained in the Vagaries to grasp what it was she was trying to do. She looked down at the red stone that hung around her neck and fingered it lovingly. It was time that they learned. She turned back to the table.

“Trust in me when I tell you that none of what you say is of any consequence, my Sisters,” Failee said, as though she were addressing a roomful of impressionable schoolchildren. “True, the Chosen One and Wigg are alive, but what does it matter? They don’t know how to cross the Sea of Whispers, and the entire Royal Guard is dead. Even if they do manage to reach Faegan, which is doubtful because of his ever-protective gnomes, the crippled old wizard will be of little help to them…” Her words trailed off as she smiled briefly. “And he does not have the means to travel about quickly, not after what we did to his legs. We only allowed him to live out of deference to Natasha. And now that she may be gone, as you say, we will eventually take measures to rid the world of him, too. But not just yet. There are more important things to do. And if we succeed, then neither Tristan, nor Wigg, nor even Faegan will matter.” Her hazel eyes gleamed with certainty.

The three seated Sisters looked at Failee in wonder. Despite their deep feelings about her misguided use of the blood stalkers and screaming harpies, none of them could doubt her overall brilliance and power, or her position as their superior. She has more mastery than the rest of us put together, Succiu thought. And it now seems even more so, ever since she placed the Paragon around her neck. Succiu relaxed a little. She is probably right. She always is. Nothing can stop us now.

Failee looked at Vona as the firelight danced off the younger sorceress’ red hair, showing up the emerald Pentangle on the gold chain around her neck. “Did you bring Sister Shailiha to the chamber as I asked?”

“Yes, First Mistress,” Vona said. “She sits in a chair in the hallway, as you ordered. But I have never seen her so disturbed. She asked to see you right away this morning, just after she awoke, screaming something about a horrible dream. She has refused to eat all day, and has done nothing but cry and babble hysterically to herself about her equally ‘horrible’ bedroom. But we examined her room, and it is unchanged from when her handmaidens saw her off to sleep last night. It is all very confusing. She is even more disturbed now than when I first saw her as she disembarked the ship from Eutracia. Something has happened to her, and I fear for her sanity.”

And had I not healed her hands of the rat bites of last night, you would be even more alarmed, Failee thought. It was time she told them what was really happening to Shailiha.

She walked back toward the table, but remained standing above the other mistresses.

“Since her arrival here in Parthalon, Sister Shailiha has been subordinate to my personal ministrations—that is, she has been under a spell of my doing, and my doing alone. I tell you this now because her mental state will, from this point on, either deteriorate into abject madness, or she will willingly become one of us. Either way, we will still have her child. If the princess survives, she will, given the nature of her blood, clearly become the most powerful of us. When this occurs and her training in both the Vigors and the Vagaries is complete, I shall gladly give over to her my position as First Mistress. Given the fact that the spell I describe is of the Vagaries, and she has no prior teaching in the craft, I have no doubt that it shall be the darker side of the craft she will come to love.” She waited for a moment, watching the surprised faces of her Sisters as her unexpected words sunk in.

“Each of you already knows why she has been brought here, so I shan’t waste time with another explanation of it. Because of your limited knowledge of the Vagaries, what you don’t know is that, in order for us to be successful, Shailiha must want to help us. Completely and without reservation. And to do that, she must be made to forget her previous life totally. Soon after she arrived I could see what a difficult task it would be to try simply to talk her out of her previous experiences, and try to replace them with those of our own creation. The bonds to her former world are just too strong. I should have known that, despite the trauma she has undergone, the strength of her endowed blood would not permit her mind simply to reject her true subconscious. Therefore, a way had to be found in which she would come to us willingly, and join us as our fifth Sister out of a desire that was seemingly born in her very soul. She must become the fifth sorceress. The fifth sorceress that we have needed for so long, needed even during the war with the wizards in Eutracia.”

She looked down at the fifth throne by the five-pointed table, the one that had been empty since its construction, and felt once again the centuries-old yearning to have it filled. “And in only a month, not only shall we have our fifth Sister, but her baby daughter as well. The firstborn female child of one of the Chosen Ones.” Failee’s eyes gleamed, and the others could see the intensity of her commitment as she spoke. “She shall either survive it and become one of us, her previous life wiped from her memory forever, or she will have perished from the stark madness that failing to withstand this spell invariably produces. There is no middle ground.”

Succiu looked up at Failee with guarded curiosity. Her mood toward the First Mistress had calmed, but only marginally. “And, pray tell, just what is this spell that you have invoked upon her? It seems, at least to me, that the only change in her mental state has been one of deterioration. How is it, then, that such a thing can help?”

Failee sat back down on her throne, smiled, spread her hands flat upon the dark, intricately carved wooden table, and looked into the faces of her Sisters. Even as powerful as they are, without further training in the Vagaries they are still as children, she thought. “We shall accomplish our ends by inducing her to dispel her memories because she wants to. She will do the work of joining us herself.” She leaned back in her throne with a sense of accomplishment and control. “I am not surprised that none of you have heard of this spell, since I am the only one among us who is completely proficient in the Vagaries. Very simply, it is known as the Spell of the Chimeran Agonies.”

Noting the silent, intense looks of curiosity upon their faces, she continued. “Very simply put, the Chimeran Agonies induce people to change willingly almost any aspect of their behavior, in order to escape what become increasingly hideous dreams, or, should I say, what they perceive to be dreams.”

Succiu’s curiosity had become intense, to say the least, but she was lost in the First Mistress’ logic. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Two days ago, when I realized that she wasn’t going to let go of her memories without ‘guidance,’ I approached Shailiha and told her that whenever she has a memory of her so-called previous life, no matter how brief, she is immediately to come and tell me. Then, that evening when she goes to sleep, I invoke an even deeper slumber upon her mind. A trance. A trance so deep that she can be easily moved from one room to another without waking. In this room await a great many unpleasant experiences for her.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Last night I conjured human excrement and starving rats that came out from the stone walls of the room with no means of escape for her. I let her slip into the excrement, and also let the rats chew upon her fingers for a time before she passed out. It was necessary that I heal her hands before taking her back to her real bedroom, or she would have known immediately that the experience was genuine, and not a dream. Subsequent experiences will be even more unpleasant. When she invariably faints from the trauma, the sleep trance is once again placed upon her, and she is bathed, and dressed once again in clean, identical sleep clothing. She is then moved back into her own room and allowed to wake up on her own. The result is that she believes she has had a nightmare, but one far more real and terrifying than she can ever remember. Done correctly and often enough, it can literally shatter an otherwise healthy mind. And the victim, waking up in her own bed, detects no interference whatsoever from another person or persons. She will believe it is all of her own doing, that she is going mad, and she will become willing to try anything suggested to her to end the torment.”

Succiu was impressed. She could see how the fear of the reoccurrence of such “dreams” could cause madness, even in one of endowed blood. But she was still at a loss to understand how all of this could help them. Looking into the faces of Zabarra and Vona, she could see that they, too, did not fully understand.

Zabarra, playfully toying with one of her blond ringlets as always, was the first to ask. “How is it, First Mistress,” she asked, “that all of this, despite however effective it might be, helps us to make her forget her past? I fail to see the connection.”

“She will force the memories from her subconscious as a matter of her own survival,” Failee said simply. “And she has the ability, although she doesn’t yet know it, to accomplish this because of the unusually high purity of her blood. But she must want to do it, and there is no time like the present to make it so. And by the way, when I tell her the obvious lie that each of us has also been through her current torment, do not contradict me.” She turned toward Vona. “Please escort Sister Shailiha into the room.”

Vona rose, left the room, and was gone for a moment. Geldon, still at Succiu’s feet and still not wanting to attract anyone’s attention, quietly shifted his weight on the unforgiving marble floor. Succiu’s mood seemed to have improved, but he knew from experience that it was only a matter of time before something would make her mean again. Even so, his curious ears hadn’t missed a word.

Vona then reentered the room, with a very distraught-looking Shailiha following her. Upon seeing Failee, Shailiha’s reaction was immediate. She rushed to the First Mistress and fell to the marble floor at her feet, sobbing uncontrollably, the blue silk of her maternity robes rustling gently as she ran. Failee looked quickly to the faces of the other women at the table in a tacit command of silence, and then reached down to raise the princess’ face slowly up to her own. Shailiha’s cheeks were covered with tears, and her eyes held the crazed, terrified fear of a cornered animal that seemed to be struggling for its sanity.

“My dear Sister, whatever is so wrong?” Failee asked innocently. “Why do you cry so?” Using her handkerchief, she wiped the tears from Shailiha’s face.

“It was the dream!” Shailiha said wildly, looking around the room for agreement from her Sisters, as though having collected their mutual understanding would somehow alleviate her pain. “Last night. It was hideous. There was something coming out of the walls that made me vomit, and then there were rats, hundreds of them, that began to chew on my hands and feet. I was in a small stone room that I had never seen before, and there was no way out.” She paused, placing a hand upon her abdomen, before continuing. “Had it not been for my unborn child, I should have wanted to die.” She buried her face into Failee’s hands.

“Dreams can sometimes seem very real, Sister,” Failee said. “Especially when the person is of endowed blood.”

“But this wasn’t a dream!” Shailiha shrieked. “It was real! I know it! I was there, in that little room, awake, and the rats were all around me!”

Failee gently picked up each of Shailiha’s hands and examined the ends of her fingers. “But there are no bite marks, my child,” she said soothingly. “If, as you say, the episode was real, and you were bitten so many times, would you indeed not have the marks to prove it? No, this was a dream, Shailiha. But, I am afraid, not an ordinary one.” A look of great concern began to cross the sorceress’ face as she stared down at the terrified princess. “For some time we have been afraid that this might happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you and Succiu returned from your quest, I told you that if the memories did not stop, these bad dreams would come. And yesterday you had memories, did you not, of your recent quest with Sister Succiu?”

“Yes.”

“And, as I asked you, you immediately came to me to describe them, saying that you had remembered once again the large man with the great brown beard, among others. The man who always tries to touch your unborn child and speak to you, although you never hear what it is he is trying to say. Is that not also true?”

“Yes.”

“These horrible dreams are your punishment for allowing these false memories to crowd into your mind, my child. That is the reason the nightmares come to you. When the memories stop, the nightmares will also stop.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Failee took Shailiha’s face in her hands. “You know in your heart that you have always lived here, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And that we are your Sisters, and have always been?”

Shailiha looked at the other faces around the table and tentatively bit her lip. “I have come to believe what you have told me, yes,” she said quietly.

“Then you must also believe me now when I tell you that your memories are nothing more than the bad remembrances of the journey you made with Succiu,” the First Mistress said gently. “The quest that I sent the two of you on to recover the stone that now hangs around my neck. The quest during which you tragically lost your husband to the murderers across the sea. If you do not cast off these memories, the dreams will keep coming, each one more hideous than the last, until you go mad.”

“How do I rid myself of these memories that plague me so?” The fear and need to know were abjectly apparent upon Shailiha’s face, and in her voice.

“You must use your endowed blood, Shailiha. Whenever one of these memories encroaches upon your mind, you must use your endowed blood to cast it off.”

“How?”

“By focusing upon your life here with us, and concentrating upon the truths that we have been telling you. And by rejecting these false memories as harmful to both you and your unborn child. Done correctly, this will banish not only the unwanted remembrances, but any memories of ever having had them. All your mind will know and ever remember will be your life here with us, and the truths and training that we shall give you.”

Shailiha looked up into Failee’s eyes, genuinely glad to have such a loving and caring Sister. “I will do my best,” she said, her tears beginning to subside.

“I know you will, my dear,” Failee said. “But there is something you must promise me if you are to succeed in this.”

“Anything.”

“Whenever you experience these memories, no matter how brief, you must, after trying to cast them off, come to me and tell me of them immediately. No matter the time or the circumstances. It is only by knowing when they have occurred that I can help you to see reality for what it truly is, and better prepare you for the next time. Each of your Sisters, including myself, has been through this, and it is only our Sisterhood and our common blood that has seen us through in the past. Your especially endowed blood is not only your savior from this torment, but partly the cause of it, as well. But once you have succeeded your training can begin, and you can take your rightful place, here at our table.”

Failee glanced meaningfully at the empty throne, and Shailiha’s eyes followed. Then, to Failee’s delight Shailiha cast her gaze upon the Paragon that hung around the First Mistress’ neck. The younger woman’s eyes began to brighten and glow, the first spark of an ages-old hunger now evident in the young princess for the first time.

Shailiha returned her gaze to her loving, older Sister. “I will do my best, Sister,” she said dutifully.

“I know you will, child,” Failee said. “I know.”

14

It was raining and nearly midnight by the time Geldon left the Recluse, and the strap of the leather bag that he carried hidden beneath his cloak weighed heavily upon the ever-painful hump in his back. The rain came down in large, cold, splattering drops, and the dark sky was starless, barren of moon and breeze. The fiery torches that lined the parapets on either side of the drawbridge hissed and flickered in the dark, showing off the rain-slickened walls and cobblestoned gangway. Winged Minion guards stood at attention on either side as still as stone statues.

It was important that he leave as quickly as he could.

The second mistress had surprised him when, at the conclusion of the meeting in the chamber, she had told him that she wished him to go into the countryside and procure additional slaves for the Stables. Such errands were the only times he was allowed to leave the Recluse alone. He smiled inwardly. Her timing could not have been more perfect, he thought to himself.

Waddling down the many elaborate halls of the Recluse he had encountered the usual Minion guards, who gave him the customary wink and nod. They were quite used to the nocturnal comings and goings of the humpbacked dwarf. Succiu’s pimp, he thought wryly. He returned their leering smiles in kind, knowing that they were all-too-familiar with his job of procurement for the Stables—the job with which the second mistress had burdened him for more than three centuries.

He had, of course, often considered trying to escape; the many times she sent him forth from the Recluse to do her bidding always provided an enticing opportunity to do so. But upon reflection he had never taken the chance, knowing that the relentless Succiu, given her many talents and having the legions of the Minions at her disposal, would eventually find him no matter how long it took. She would take very seriously the personal embarrassment of losing her slave. He shuddered, thinking of what she would do to him for such a transgression, knowing in his heart that the punishment he had been forced to administer to the slave named Stephan would pale in comparison.

Nonetheless, if his own punishment had been the only ramification, he still might have attempted it. But Succiu had also warned him that if he ever forced her to employ the Minions to find him, the winged ones would be granted great latitude in butchering the members of the Parthalonian citizenry as they searched. None of my fellow citizens should have to die because of me, he thought. And so, despite the almost overwhelming temptation to flee, he always returned.

Oftentimes he thought back on that night in the Ghetto of the Shunned, when she had first found him and bestowed upon him her time enchantments. Without them he would surely be dead now, and sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better had she simply killed him, there on the spot. For the millionth time his pudgy, greasy fingers felt the jeweled, iron collar that ran around his neck. He thought of the things that she had forced him to do to some of his countrymen over the last three centuries, and of the sexuality that she had taken from him and never given back.

Someday, he thought.

Because he was a frequent visitor to the Recluse horse barns, the few stable hands who were about at that hour took little notice except to smile rudely among themselves and point at him. No one outside of the castle proper knew anything about the “other” stables, the slavery Stables, so he knew that they couldn’t be laughing at him about that. No, it was his appearance that would childishly amuse them so. But when he gave them a hard look they immediately turned away, as he knew they would. None of them wished to incur Succiu’s wrath, not even indirectly, through her slave.

He pushed the horse hard through the rain for the next two hours, flying down the south road, seeing virtually no one along the way. He knew that the closer he came to his destination, the fewer people he would see. Especially at this time of the night. Then, finally, he saw it: the once-proud city that the sorceresses had taken as their own. Over three centuries ago they had murdered the inhabitants of the city, built a wall and moat around it, and then used it as a dumping ground for sick and criminal citizens, and anyone else who displeased them. Many went in, but no one had ever come out. Except him.

He had arrived at his previous home, the Ghetto of the Shunned.

He tied the horse to a watering trough outside the high, massive walls, and untied the leather bag from the saddle. It hurt his back again when he slung it over his shoulder, but that couldn’t be helped.

Geldon was without question the only living person in Parthalon who went in and out of the Ghetto at will. There was no one in the nation who would venture inside willingly, and anyone inside who knew how to get out would certainly already have done so long ago. A little smile came to his crooked mouth. He was the only one who knew how to get in and out unnoticed, and it made him feel special tonight. It always did, and he enjoyed the irony of it all.

He stood looking for a moment at the incredibly high stone walls that surrounded the Ghetto, and the wide, deep, filthy water of the moat that surrounded it as he screwed up his courage. Geldon had purposely come to this lonely spot, on the opposite side of the city from the front gates that were always guarded by the Minions. He walked the necessary thirty-eight paces to the right of the watering trough and once again looked down onto the still, murky water. Every time he tried to enter the Ghetto secretly, rather than through the front gates, there was a good chance he would not survive the attempt, and tonight was even worse because of the weight and clumsiness of the bag that he had to take inside with him. But there was no other way. It had to be done. He could not allow the Minion guards to see him with his bag, which meant he would have to leave the same way, and gather his slaves for Succiu from somewhere else.

He walked to the edge of the moat and secured the bag around his chest and back as tightly as he could. He then filled his lungs with air, breathing in and out rapidly several times. On the final breath he held it for all he was worth, closed his eyes, and dove into the filth of the moat, swimming his way to the bottom.

The squalid water was warm, thick, and dirty, and he didn’t dare open his eyes. Start counting, he reminded himself. Start counting and find the grate.

He swam, his eyes still closed and his lungs on fire, counting the strokes until he had completed thirty-two of them, and began to feel for the far wall of the castle that descended into the slimy water. Finally, he found it. He then felt along the submerged moat wall to the right until he came to the rusted iron bars of a grate. Blindly, his lungs running out of oxygen, he pulled at the grate and took it away from the wall, laying it aside upon the muddy floor of the moat. Clutching the bag, he squeezed through the opening and entered the underwater tunnel on the other side. He swam as fast as he could, knowing he was close to passing out. With a last great push he surfaced in a stone room without light, gasping for air to fill his lungs.

He had reentered the Ghetto.

Climbing out of the filthy, freezing water, he lay there on the cold stone floor, gathering his breath and his thoughts. Seeing the room again, his mind drifted back to the time when he had first found this inconspicuous place. Apparently it had been meant for the disposal of refuse out through the lower castle wall. Curious, he had taken the first dive into the submerged tunnel only to find a grate at the other end. It had taken him many such swims to loosen the grate, but eventually he had succeeded. Then, the very night when he was to have made his final escape, Succiu had found him.

Checking the leather bag, he was pleased to see that it had not ripped or otherwise come apart; its contents were no doubt soaked, but secure. He stood, dripping wet and still out of breath, and walked up the short flight of stone steps and out onto a side street.

Clinging closely to the sides of the buildings like a shadow, he went down the first few streets by memory. Macabre, makeshift fires burning here and there at some of the street corners provided the only nighttime illumination, any oil for the street lamps having been exhausted centuries ago. All of the storefronts had long since been looted, and not a bit of intact glass could be seen anywhere. He knew that marauding bands of men sometimes walked these streets by night taking anything and anyone they saw, including the few Ghetto whores who were brave or foolish enough to ply their trade at this hour. There was no law here other than the law of personal survival. It saddened him to realize that, by now, many generations of people had been born, lived, and died here over the last three centuries without ever having seen the outside world. There was no real hierarchy here, no government, no social order. Just human beings reduced to living like animals. Once he had been one of them. Despite how much he hated living in the Recluse as a slave, it was infinitely more appealing than being locked in this nightmare of lost souls.

He finally reached the first of his two destinations. It was a small, narrow nondescript alley that ran into a dead end. Walking to the end of it, he brushed aside some dirt from the floor of the alleyway to reveal a large, flat stone. He dug beneath one edge of the stone with his fingernails, then lifted it to reveal a wooden box. Removing the top of the box, he took out the two items that would help guarantee his safety this night. The first was a dagger, which he concealed in his right boot. The second was a piece of clothing, one that would give him a wide berth through the city, ensuring that no one would bother him.

The yellow robe of a Parthalonian leper.

The robe had come from the dead body of a diseased child. The dwarf had recognized its usefulness right away and had done menial services for the grief-stricken mother in order to pay for it. Now it proved invaluable each time he came here, for it offered him two things that he badly needed in order to move about at will: anonymity and solitude. He left the alley and continued on to where the lepers lived.

He saw a few of them along the way, their yellow robes easily seen in the light of the three red moons that had decided to peek out from behind the slowly parting, vaporous clouds. These poor souls invariably walked hunched over, and he knew that this was because of a mixture of illness and shame. He felt sorry for them, but there was nothing he could do to help them, either. Perhaps one day, he thought.

After passing through several streets he finally reached a two-story building in disrepair. The structure looked as if it had been abandoned for decades, and it had always suited his purposes perfectly. He entered and began to creep silently up the stairs to the second floor, listening for the familiar sounds that would tell him that all was well and as he had left it.

In the room at the very top of the stairs, he was joyously greeted by a younger man, also in a yellow leper’s robe.

“I almost thought you dead!” the other man exclaimed, obviously glad to see the hunchbacked dwarf alive and well. “I thought for a time that something must have happened, that Succiu might have finally lost her temper with you and done something terrible.”

“I know, Ian,” Geldon said tiredly. “So much has happened in the last month that I scarcely know where to begin. I shall tell you about it all when time permits.” He looked at the face of the blond-haired, blue-eyed young man, who once had been healthy and attractive, before the ravages of his disease had taken their awful toll. Ian was no more than thirty years old but it was impossible to guess at his age now, hunched over as he was, and covered with sores and decaying skin. Still, he keeps his spirits up, Geldon thought. A lesson to us all.

When Geldon had first met Ian, the younger man’s leprosy had hardly been noticeable. But now it appeared to the dwarf that his friend with the insatiable curiosity and the keen interest in what transpired outside the city walls had little time to live.

“How are they?” Geldon asked, still listening to the soft, gentle sounds coming from the far wall of the shabby, little room.

“They’re just fine,” Ian said proudly. “The entire lot of them. And they miss you.”

Geldon turned to look. The far wall was covered from floor to ceiling with small cubicles. This had been his life’s work ever since he had met Ian, and they had come upon the idea together.

In each of the cubicles was a pigeon.

Most of them were gray, a few all white or black. They cooed and pranced as best they could in their limited surroundings, and even Geldon had to agree that they seemed to become more excited as he drew nearer to them. Ian oversaw the care and training, and Geldon supplied the food.

Geldon swung the heavy, water-soaked bag down off his aching back and onto the floor.

“Corn?” Ian asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Geldon said simply. “Stolen from the Recluse kitchens. I thought the stuff was going to drown me this time as I came through the grate.”

Without further fanfare the dwarf went to a meager writing table at the far side of the room and pulled up the chair. Taking a candle down from the wall he dripped some of the hot wax onto the desk, and then set the base of the candle into it. He reached into the desk drawer and produced a small scroll of parchment, a quill pen, and an ink bottle. And then he nervously began to write.

The hunchbacked dwarf sat there for a long time, trying his best to convey what was most important, completely unsure of his spelling yet hoping that his reader would understand. When he finally finished, he rolled the parchment up into a very small scroll, sealed it with wax, and tied an oilskin around it to keep out the rain.

He looked over at Ian. “Bring me one of the larger males,” he said.

Ian looked across the cages of birds and finally found the one he wanted—the gray male whose sense of direction never wrong. He removed the bird carefully from the cage and handed it to Geldon.

“I agree,” the dwarf said, looking the bird over. Geldon carefully tied the scroll around the bird’s leg and handed it back to Ian. He then reached up on a shelf and brought forth a small, wooden, cylindrical object on a string, which he tied carefully around the bird’s breast. It was a whistle. It would make a noise as the pigeon flew through the air, keeping the hawks away.

With a nod to Ian, Geldon took the bird out another door and onto a small balcony. The dwarf looked to the stars, thinking about the weather, the distance, and the danger. Finally, with Ian watching, he gently kissed the soft gray bird on the top of its head, and released it into the dark sky. It flew away immediately, then returned and made a large circle around the roof of the building as if saying good-bye before it turned away to its destination. It was headed to Eutracia. To Shadowood.

And finally to the wizard named Faegan.

15

“Stop straining your eyes. The harder you look, the less you will see.”

Tristan sat on Pilgrim in the hot afternoon sun, the long, golden stalks of wheat waving gently in the breeze all around him. For two hours he had been futilely attempting to put into action what the old wizard was trying to tell him. But the more the prince looked, somehow the less he saw. It was maddening, like trying to learn something by not learning it at all. He had been staring at the spot that Wigg had told him to, but still he could not see the canyon and bridge that the old one said was right in front of them. All he could see was what he first saw when they had entered the field of wheat—namely, a pine forest that began at the far end and seemed to run on into the hills forever, presumably ending at the coastline of the Sea of Whispers. Frankly, if anyone but Wigg had been telling him this, Tristan would have thought him mad.

Since the incident by the river, they had been traveling without the aid of roads, living off the land, journeying ever northeast. They had spoken little of Natasha, and even less of the one Tristan had known as Lillith. What was there to say? But despite the fact that the mistress of the Coven and daughter of Faegan was dead, the prince still could not get the other woman, the beautiful young woman he had supposedly rescued from the tavern, out of his mind. Perhaps that was part of the problem, he thought.

Wigg had sensed this, also. Therefore, during the last week or so the old wizard had decided to spend every waking moment trying to prepare the prince to see the canyon and bridge. He had imparted into Tristan as much training in this particular technique as he could, given the very short time frame in which they had to work. It typically took months for one of endowed blood to learn to see the entrance to Shadowood. Despite that, Wigg had hoped that the high quality of Tristan’s blood would shorten the process. But there was really no way to know—not until they were actually faced with it.

Wigg could see both the canyon and the bridge clearly, and was pleased to find that they were just as he remembered them. But until Tristan learned to see them, the prince would not be admitted into Shadowood.

Wigg got down off his horse, walked over to where Tristan and Pilgrim were standing, and took the reins from the prince, hoping that one less distraction would help him concentrate. “What do you see?” the old one asked gently.

Tristan looked at the pine woods again, trying to let go of the image with his eyes just as the wizard had been telling him, and instead trying see what his blood knew was there. Heed your blood, not your eyes, Wigg had kept telling him. Don’t fight to see the image, but let it simply come to you, instead. Look for it with your heart. And listen to your blood.

Tristan had seen the pines shimmer once or twice, and he knew that it wasn’t the heat that made them appear that way. It was his gift. But for the last hour nothing else had happened, and he was beginning to tire.

He must believe, Wigg thought. His will is stronger than any of the others I have trained, and he needs proof.

Handing the reins back to the prince, the wizard began to walk away. Tristan watched as the old one strode oddly about the wheat field, apparently looking for something. Wigg finally bent over and picked up a rather large rock from the ground. Seemingly satisfied, he carried it back and placed it on the ground at Pilgrim’s feet. He looked up at the prince.

“I want you to stop trying to see the canyon, and watch this instead,” the old one said without any further explanation. He pointed to the rock, and it slowly began to revolve and lift itself off the ground, ever higher in the air, until it was about the same height as the prince’s head. Wigg then pointed to the rock, and it slowly began to pass through the air, toward the place where the pine forest started to run down onto the field. He dropped his arm, and the rock sat still in midair, motionless except for the continuous revolutions it made. The old one then clapped his hands, and the rock fell to the earth. Except it didn’t land on the ground, as Tristan would have expected.

The earth swallowed it up, and it was gone. It had fallen into the canyon—the one Tristan couldn’t see but now knew for a certainty was there.

“Close your eyes,” Wigg said calmly.

Tristan did as the old one ordered. No longer able to see the field or the woods, he focused instead on the warmth of the sun, the breeze that came and went across his face, and the rustling sounds of the wheat swaying gently back and forth in the wind.

“Open your eyes,” he finally heard the old one say.

The prince opened his eyes to a magnificent view.

The pine forest was gone. In its place lay a canyon at least several hundred feet across; it stretched to either side as far as his eyes could see. The jagged and sheer walls descended straight down into a pitch-black nothingness that appeared to have no bottom. A bridge made of wooden floorboards and rope rails spanned the great, yawning gash in the earth. It swung gently back and forth in the breeze, making a creaking noise that Tristan could now hear but had been unable to detect before. And he could feel the presence of the endowed blood in his veins with new vigor, almost as if for the first time.

But it was the forest on the other side of the canyon that mesmerized him so. Huge, gnarled tree trunks, their roots exposed and seemingly grasping for ever more soil, lined the far side of the canyon, their branches so large that they almost completely blocked out the sun. The forest floor was covered with the thickest moss he had ever seen, and here again he saw the same gigantic trillium blossoms he had seen that day in the forest near the Caves of the Paragon. In fact, so much of the scene was reminiscent of the area that surrounded the Caves that he had to force himself to believe he was not back in that place he had discovered only a few months ago. A few lifetimes ago, it seemed now. Somehow, it was like going home.

He was looking at the place called Shadowood, the creation of the Directorate of Wizards as a sanctuary for those of endowed blood—and still, after all these years, the refuge of Faegan, the one Wigg referred to as “the rogue.”

It was then that Tristan first saw the gnome. He had seemingly appeared from nowhere, and was standing rather defiantly next to the bridge where it met the other side of the canyon.

He was only about as high as the prince’s waist, perhaps even somewhat shorter, but otherwise he seemed to be mostly human. He had red hair shot through with gray, and a scruffy, identically colored beard covered his face. The dark, beady eyes sat above a rather large, turned-up nose. He wore blue bibs over a bright red shirt, scruffy knee boots with upturned ends, and a strange, lopsided black cap that dangled down to one side.

From seemingly nowhere the gnome produced a chair and an oversized jug of ale. He sat in the chair and took a long draught of the ale, and then proceeded to light the corncob pipe that Tristan now noticed sticking out from between his teeth. The gnome still had not spoken to them and seemed to be settling in for some time, as if he had all the time in the world and didn’t really care whether the two of them could really see him or not.

Tristan couldn’t believe he was finally looking at one of these secretive, hermitlike little people. He could feel his endowed blood tingling with what he could only describe as a great sense of distrust.

It was Wigg who spoke first.

“I am of endowed blood, and can see the canyon and you quite clearly. I demand the right to cross,” the old one called.

The gnome took another leisurely swig of ale before responding. Finally, he replied. “I saw your trick with the rock, and I wasn’t that impressed,” he shouted across the chasm. “I am Shannon the Small, and I am the keeper of the bridge. What is your business here?” He took a long draw on the pipe, slowly sending the smoke out into the air from his nostrils.

“We have come to see Faegan,” Wigg said simply.

At the mention of the wizard’s name the little gnome sat up straighter in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Master Faegan to you,” he called back rather sarcastically. “The master sees no one. But when I return to his presence, who shall I say tried unsuccessfully to cross the canyon this day?”

“I am Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate of Wizards, and this is Tristan of the House of Galland, prince of Eutracia,” Wigg said. “I strongly suggest you let us cross.”

Upon hearing the names, the gnome narrowed his eyes even farther, pursed his lips, and then tapped the embers of the pipe out against the heel of his boot. Standing from his chair, he walked to the edge of the canyon, presumably to get a better look at them. He stared back and forth between the wizard and the prince for a while before answering.

“I am to see that no one crosses. Not since the unpleasantness in Tammerland. Go away and leave us alone.”

“Why can’t we simply cross the bridge anyway, and go on to Shado wood?” Tristan asked Wigg. “I haven’t come this far just to be told by such a small man that this is where it all ends for us.” His thoughts went to Natasha, and what she had said to him about his sister: You’ll never be seeing her again… She is one of us now… She will receive the best of care. The dead sorceress’ words played out often in his mind, sometimes becoming almost sickeningly confused with the kinder, more loving words that had come from the one named Lillith. But there had been no Lillith, only Natasha, he reminded himself. And that knowledge only made his blood course harder with the need to find his sister. He would allow no one to deny him in his attempt to bring her back—especially one so small as this arrogant gnome.

“You don’t understand,” Wigg said quietly. “Even if we cross the bridge and overpower him we will still need his permission, or Faegan will sense an unauthorized crossing. He would then most certainly go into hiding, especially considering everything that has transpired in the last few days. And without Faegan we would be right back where we started, only worse. There are a thousand places for him to hide in Shadowood alone. I’m sorry, Tristan, but we must have the permission of the gnome to cross. We would enter Shadowood, but we would lose track of Faegan forever.”

Tristan couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t conceive of the Lead Wizard of the Directorate needing permission from an unendowed gnome in order to continue their journey. He looked back across the canyon to where Shannon the Small was still sitting, watching their obvious frustration with self-satisfied amusement.

“How do you know all of this?” Tristan asked.

“As I told you,” the old one said, looking back at the gnome, “I was involved in the creation of the canyon.” He pursed his lips, then ran a hand down his long, gnarled face.

Tristan had suddenly had enough. He would get the gnome’s permission one way or another. But no sooner had he taken his first step forward when he felt Wigg’s hand on his elbow, holding him back. The wizard put his lips close to the prince’s ear. “If you are going to pet a stray dog with your left hand, make sure you have a rock in your right,” he whispered. Tristan smiled and nodded. “Although they have no gifted powers, you may find him to be very strong and quick, especially when angry,” the old one added. “Remember, we still need his official permission to cross.”

Without looking at the wizard, the prince reached over his left shoulder and pulled the dreggan free of its scabbard. It rang loud and clear out over the deep canyon, the sound seeming never to want to fade away. The idea of using a weapon like this against one so small went against his better nature, but if it had to be, it had to be. Nothing was going to keep him from his sister. He began to cross the bridge.

Unexpectedly, the gnome darted across the bridge toward the prince as fast as his little legs would carry him. Tristan hesitated to raise the dreggan, not really wanting to use it, and that was his mistake. With a great leap, Shannon the Small closed the gap between them in an instant and wrapped his arms and legs around one of the prince’s legs, holding on for dear life. The bridge swayed wildly in the air. Tristan’s laugh died in his throat when he felt an intense, searing pain in his thigh. He looked down in horror to see that the gnome had sunk his teeth into his leg and wasn’t about to let go. Shannon the Small was actually growling and shaking his head back and forth as he bit into the prince, just like a mad dog would. The pain was excruciating. Blood began to trail from the wound, dripping down toward Tristan’s knee in winding rivulets of red.

Tristan instinctively reached down to grab some of the gnome’s hair and pull him away from the injured leg, then stopped himself. If he pulled on Shannon the Small’s head and somehow actually managed to pull it loose from his leg, the gnome might take part of his thigh muscle with him in his small, unbelievably powerful little teeth. The pain increased as the little man hung onto the prince’s leg for dear life, and the blood was coming faster now.

Out of desperation, the prince looked to his sword, still held in his right hand. But something told him that he should not kill the gnome, no matter how appetizing the possibility seemed. Instead of slashing at the little man to kill him, Tristan raised the dreggan and brought its hilt down hard on the top of the gnome’s head. Shannon the Small seemed dazed for a moment, but then, growling louder, he bit into the prince’s thigh even deeper. Tristan brought the hilt of the dreggan down on the gnome’s head again, this time much harder. The little assailant collapsed, unconscious, on the floorboards of the bridge.

Gasping for breath, Tristan looked down to see Shannon the Small’s face and mouth covered with his blood. A gaping wound of about four inches across lay lengthwise in the prince’s leg, beneath the torn trousers. Wigg had been right about petting stray dogs, he thought.

Tristan turned to look at Wigg, who had walked the horses nearer to the edge of the canyon where the bridge ended. “I suggest you revive him,” the old one said dryly. “In case you have forgotten, we still need his permission to cross the bridge, and it should be interesting to see how you manage to get it, now that the two of you are such close friends.” The old wizard again frowned his disapproval, folded his hands across his chest, and waited imperiously.

At this point Tristan didn’t care what Wigg thought about it. He smirked back at the Lead Wizard. “I don’t see you out here with your leg bleeding,” he retorted.

His chest still heaving and blood still coming from his leg, the prince looked down at the unconscious body of the gnome. A smile began to creep across the prince’s face as he looked down at the small, inert body. He had to admit that Shannon the Small was tenacious, if nothing else. He turned back to the wizard. “Throw me the smaller of the two water bottles,” he said. Wigg complied, making sure when he tossed it to the prince that it did not go over the side of the bridge.

Tristan reached down and turned the unconscious gnome facedown. Then he lowered his dreggan and carefully hooked the point of the sword under enough of the gnome’s clothing to be able to pick him up using only the sword itself. With a groan, Tristan lifted the gnome up off the floor of the bridge by the point of the sword and dangled him over the rope railing. He then gingerly picked up the water bottle and pried off the cap with his thumb. Shaking the water bottle, he sprayed water into the gnome’s face.

It proved to be very effective.

Upon opening his eyes and realizing his situation, Shannon the Small started screaming and waving his arms. At first he wriggled wildly, trying to free himself, but quickly realized the folly in that particular strategy. Finally he covered his eyes with his little hands and managed to remain still over the great depths of the canyon—or as still as he could, considering that he was shaking with fear.

“Let me go,” he said venomously. “I am the keeper of the bridge, and if anything happens to me, you will have to answer to Master Faegan!”

“Then perhaps I should just drop you right now, since seeing your master is why we came here in the first place,” Tristan said calmly. He turned the sword about, swinging the gnome in the breeze. Shannon the Small swayed upon the point of the dreggan as if he were a marionette. “Grant us permission to cross and I shall let you live.”

“No!” The words came out from the little mouth in a peculiar combination of stubbornness and fear.

Tristan let the point of the sword droop just a little. “You know,” he said drily, “you’re quite heavy for such a little fellow. I really don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.” He let the dreggan suddenly drop a good half a foot, and then pressed the lever in the hilt of the sword. With a loud metallic clang, the blade immediately shot forward a foot into the air over the cavern, taking the gnome with it. Shannon the Small was swinging back and forth even harder now, the collar of his shirt up around his ears.

Finally, the gnome relented. “You may cross,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

“I can’t hear you,” Tristan said sarcastically.

“You may cross!” the gnome screamed. “Just put me back on the bridge!”

Tristan hoisted the little body back up over the rope railings and twisted the sword in the air, dropping the gnome on the floorboards.

Shannon the Small stood up shakily and looked into Tristan’s face. “Would you really have killed me?” he asked meekly.

“That depends,” Tristan said, knowing in his heart he probably never could have killed one so small. Nonetheless, he still needed to keep the upper hand. “We have important business with your master, and nothing can stop us, not even you.” He pushed the point of the dreggan toward the gnome and motioned toward the other side of the canyon. “Let’s get off this bridge,” he said. He retracted the blade and slid the dreggan back into its scabbard behind his right shoulder.

As Shannon the Small turned to walk off the bridge, Tristan motioned to Wigg to follow them with the horses. Despite the fact that the canyon was so deep, the horses came along peacefully. It was only later that Tristan realized the obvious: The horses weren’t frightened because they were unable to see either the bridge or the yawning expanse beneath them.

Once safely on the other side, Tristan sat down in the gnome’s chair and Wigg attended to his wound. After washing it, the old one closed his eyes and clasped his hands before himself. Tristan could feel the burn of the gash start to diminish, and he watched as the wound closed itself. The pain was gradually replaced by a tingling, almost itching sensation. He told the old one as much.

“What you’re feeling is the healing process, which I have accelerated,” the wizard said. “It will take time, but eventually you will be fine.”

Tristan sighed. He was tired, and he was thirsty. He grabbed for the gnome’s ale jug and started to take a sip when the little one gave him a nasty glance and started to try to take it away. But a quick look from Tristan stopped Shannon the Small in his tracks. Apparently the experience of being dangled over the bridge was still fresh on his mind. Tristan took a long drink of ale and wiped his mouth. He looked up at Wigg. “We need to be going,” he said. “Time is something we don’t have enough of.”

The prince stood up gingerly on his injured leg and was about to mount Pilgrim when he felt something tug gently at the back of his leather vest. Turning, he saw the gnome standing behind him, head down. “What is it now?” Tristan asked rather impatiently.

“I’m sorry about your leg,” the gnome said sheepishly. “I didn’t know what else to do.” He was wringing his hands as he spoke. “Take me with you,” he then said suddenly. “Please.”

“Why should we?” Tristan asked. “You made it almost impossible for us to cross the bridge, and then wounded me in the leg. I don’t trust you. You haven’t made a particularly good first impression as a representative of your race.” He looked down into the small, beseeching eyes with a commanding hardness that he was beginning to find difficult to sustain. He was finding that he was actually beginning to like Shannon the Small.

“I can take you to Master Faegan,” the gnome said. “It will save you time.”

“Why would you want to take us to him, when for the entire day you have done nothing but try to keep us from him?” Wigg asked, already astride his horse. Tristan could see that the old one’s eyes were genuinely full of mistrust.

“Because you are the first ones to cross the bridge in all of the time since he has been here,” Shannon said. “And if I take you to him, rather than simply let you go on your own…”

“It will look better for you in the eyes of your master,” Tristan said, raising an eyebrow and completing the sentence in a way that wasn’t exactly what Shannon the Small had in mind. The prince smiled at the little gnome for the first time, then looked at Wigg. “Is it true?” he asked. “Will it really save us time if we take him along?”

“Probably,” the old one said grudgingly. “As you know, I can detect others of endowed blood, and that was to be our method of finding him. But Faegan was the most talented of us all, and if he doesn’t want to be found I doubt that there is anything that even I could do about it. But it’s going to be your responsibility to watch the gnome. I don’t trust them, and I never have.” He shook his head derisively.

Tristan looked down to see Shannon the Small beaming from ear to ear. “Well don’t just stand there,” the prince said with a gruffness that even he could tell was becoming ineffective. “Get your things and climb up.”

The little gnome ran happily to gather up his pipe and his jug. Returning, he watched Tristan mount his horse.

“By the way,” Tristan said, “his name is Pilgrim.” He held his hand down to the little one and hoisted him up on the saddle in front of him.

Shannon the Small then pointed gleefully to an entrance in the thickest part of the domain of Shadowood, and Pilgrim began to step gingerly into the dark heart of the forest.

Although the next day’s sun was bright and the weather warm, the prince, wizard, and gnome traveled through Shadowood in comparative darkness and cold, due to the dense foliage of the trees surrounding them. Here, as had been the case that day in the Hartwick Woods, the prince felt as if he had suddenly entered a place of other-worldliness, as if the three of them somehow did not belong in this foreboding but still beautiful forest.

Wigg refused to speak to Shannon, and it appeared to the prince that this arrangement was equally acceptable to the gnome. I wonder what the basis for this mutual mistrust is, the prince wondered as he and Shannon sat upon Pilgrim, leading the way through the ever-thickening woods. Whatever it is, it has a very long history.

Suddenly Tristan could feel the gnome seated behind him begin to stiffen, and as he looked ahead, he thought he could see why. There was a small clearing just in front of them, and the heavy, sickening odor emanating from it clearly carried the message that this was a place of death, and of the unattended dead.

“Go around it, whatever it is,” Shannon said quickly. “We do not need to see it. Besides, Master Faegan awaits us.”

It was precisely the gnome’s insistence that made Tristan stop his horse, determined to investigate. He had known the wizard much longer than he had known the gnome, and if Wigg had his doubts about Shannon, then perhaps he should, too.

Swinging one leg over the pommel of his saddle, he slipped quickly to the ground, then reached over his right shoulder and withdrew the dreggan. He looked back up at the angry-faced gnome.

“You’ll soon find that I don’t take orders very well,” he said sternly. “But then again, I would have thought that you might have learned that rather valuable lesson back at the bridge.” Tristan looked back to Wigg, indicating that he should dismount and follow him. “And by the way,” he added, “don’t get any sudden ideas about stealing our horses.” He narrowed his eyes and smiled ruefully. “Neither Pilgrim nor I would appreciate it.” Without waiting for a response, he walked carefully into the clearing.

The scene before him was staggering. Some kind of barbaric massacre had taken place here. He began to try to count the bodies, but found that they were in so many pieces that counting them accurately was impossible. But from what he could determine, some kind of battle—no, make that slaughter—had taken place here. The ground was covered with a great deal of blood. Body parts lay strewn across the clearing in a random pattern of bloody, sudden death. He placed his cupped hand over his nose and mouth to block the stench as best he could. Busy flies and maggots had been at their grisly work here for some time. Then he realized that each of the mangled bodies and body parts were unusually small.

These victims were gnomes, he suddenly realized. And someone or something has ripped them apart.

He noticed two other anomalies: In a great many places he could see bones that had been completely stripped of their flesh, as they lay gleaming in the sun that shone into the clearing. Carrion would not have polished these bones so, he thought. They positively shine. And secondly, he could see no heads.

Sensing Wigg come up behind him, he turned around. “Can you possibly explain this?” he asked. Wigg raised the infamous eyebrow and slowly walked about the clearing, occasionally bending over to examine the remains more closely, apparently oblivious to the stench.

“Gnomes,” he said simply. “A number of Faegan’s gnomes were killed here, and by the looks of it, they died very badly. Literally ripped to pieces, I would say.” He looked around a bit more before once again addressing the prince. “And did you notice that there are no heads?” he asked. “Strange. I am no great fan of the gnomes, but this is truly a tragedy.”

“Yes,” Tristan answered. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perhaps not to us,” Wigg said slowly. He looked back to where Shannon was obediently but angrily still sitting atop Pilgrim. “But the gnome may know more than he is telling. They usually do.”

They walked back to the horses, and Wigg looked up into Shannon’s face with a glance that could have frozen water. “What happened here?” he demanded.

“If you don’t know, Lead Wizard, then someone as unenlightened as myself certainly couldn’t figure it out for you, now could they?” Shannon answered sarcastically. “If you’re really interested, I suggest you ask Master Faegan when you see him. But standing here in this glade all day pondering over dead bodies isn’t going to get us there, now is it?” As if he had had quite enough of the wizard for one day and could simply dismiss him at his leisure, the gnome raised himself up haughtily in the saddle and turned his face the other way.

That was a mistake, the prince thought with an inward smile.

Tristan knew that Wigg was angry, but what he saw next quite frankly surprised him. The wizard reached up and yanked the gnome from the horse, using the endowed strength of his arms to hold Shannon in midair. The look in the Lead Wizard’s eyes said that he wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

Wigg glared at the gnome. “Faegan isn’t here, and frankly, I’m starting to wonder whether you truly know his location at all! I will ask you one more time, and one more time only,” Wigg thundered, swinging the gnome back and forth slightly in his endowed, iron grip. “What happened here?”

Tristan smiled to himself. He was not sure that the wizard would win this contest of wills. Wigg’s vows prevented him from unnecessarily harming the gnome, and Tristan knew that Wigg would never do such a thing, anyway. But the prospect of wondering who would win this was becoming amusing, despite the circumstances.

“Except for Master Faegan, I hate wizards, and I hate magic, and above all I hate you! And nothing you can do to me will make me tell. Besides, if you truly do not already know, which I doubt, then I don’t care if you ever find out!”

Finally realizing that this had become nothing but a waste of time, Wigg unceremoniously dropped the gnome into the dirt at his feet. Quick as a flash, Shannon bounded back up and kicked Wigg in the shin—hard. Wigg let out a yelp and jumped to one foot, almost falling down.

Tristan couldn’t help it: he burst out laughing.

“And let that be a lesson to you!” Shannon scowled as he walked away in disgust toward the horses and the ever-tempting ale jug.

“We had better get back there before he drinks all the rest of that stuff and becomes drunk again,” Tristan said, still laughing. “We truly do not need a guide who is both obstinate and inebriated. The Afterlife only knows, he’ll probably steal the horses, too!”

Wigg rubbed his shin and scowled back at the prince, placing his foot gingerly back down upon the ground. He cast another angry look back at the carnage in the clearing. “I still don’t know who caused this, but at this particular moment, I’m not altogether sure I disapprove!” He rubbed his sore leg again. “I told you I hated gnomes!” he said grumpily as he started to walk away, his braided tail of gray hair swinging crazily back and forth as it matched his limping gait.

Tristan started laughing out loud again as he began to follow the limping Lead Wizard of the Directorate back to the horses. He then watched as the imperious, ale-swilling little gnome clambered atop a stump to hoist himself onto Pilgrim’s back, looking for all the world as if he, not Tristan, was now the owner of the stallion.

But the prince couldn’t shake the nagging thought that continued to run through his mind. What happened here was no accident, and Shadowood was supposed to be a place of peace. He shook his head. That obviously is no longer true.

16

Kluge looked down at the dead body that was impaled on his dreggan, and then to the pool of crimson blood that was beginning to spread across the ground beneath it. I wish it were the endowed blood of that Eutracian royal bastard, he thought. Raising his right boot, he negligently pushed the corpse off his sword and onto the earth. His opponent had fought well, but had obviously been no match for the commander of the Minions of Day and Night. He doubted in his heart that any of them were. One day the corpse at my feet shall be the prince of Eutracia, he thought. Until he is dead, my mission remains unfulfilled, and Succiu will never be mine.

He glared at Traax, who was standing nearby, watching. “Get me another one to play with,” he said, pointing to the body on the ground. “This one is broken.”

Traax bowed. “Yes, sir,” he said simply, and began walking across the courtyard of the compound to select another opponent for the commander. Another warrior of the Minions who would no doubt die at the hands of his leader. An honor, many of them said.

As he waited, Kluge ran a hand through his sweaty, gray—and-black hair, pulling it off his shoulders and tying it behind his neck so that it fell straight down his back between his dark, leathery wings. He looked up into the clear Parthalonian sky and idly wondered what the weather was like today in Eutracia. Eutracia, where the Lead Wizard and Prince Tristan still lived—the prizes who had escaped that day in the Great Hall of the palace in Tammerland. The men of endowed blood he so badly wanted to kill.

Kluge looked down from the rise upon which he was standing and observed the training that was relentlessly going on below him. He was in the largest of the Minion compounds, the one nearest to the Recluse, and he had designated this to be a special training day, one in which he always participated personally. He enjoyed these days above all others, when he was allowed to kill his own troops.

After the inception of the Minions of Day and Night, long before Kluge’s time, there had come upon the Coven a problem in the training of the warriors. Because the kingdom of Parthalon had never had a standing army, the science of war was unknown to them and there was no one with whom the warriors could effectively train. Every time any meaningful battle practice had been attempted against the population, it had simply been a slaughter and had served no purpose. The Coven had not cared, of course, whether the citizens of the population died. Their only concern had been that no realistic training to the death could be had, training that the Coven knew would be essential one day in their attack upon Eutracia.

The Coven had therefore not only ordered the Minions to train among themselves but to occasionally practice their arts to the death. To the sorceresses’ delight, the Minions had immediately agreed to this command. Despite the obvious disadvantage of the loss of their own troops, the resulting carnage not only provided actual battle experience, but also weeded out the less skilled of the warriors. Some of those who survived were promoted to the officers’ ranks, and those who were wounded beyond battle service were assigned other tasks, as best as their various handicaps would allow. The dead were honored as heroes and burned in huge funeral pyres that lit up the night sky for hours. Kluge looked down to the leaded glove on his right hand, the one that both threw and caught the returning wheel, the other great weapon of the Minions. Smiling, he was reminded that the bloodstains upon it came from a combination of Parthalonian and Eutracian victims.

He turned to see Traax following another warrior up the rise to where he stood. There were two reasons why Kluge always did his own practice upon elevated ground. First, so he could more easily follow the progress of his warriors as they fought to the death. And second, so that they could see him train. He took pleasure in making sure that each of them knew that he was the best. Tradition said that whichever Minion warrior could kill him during such training would, provided the sorceresses approved, assume his rank and automatically become their unquestioned leader. The policy had been put in place by the Coven long ago, in order to assure there would be no lack of opponents eager to train in this way with their leader, and to dispose efficiently of a leader whose prime had passed.

The warrior that Traax was bringing to him appeared fit and strong, and had both the look in his eyes and the scars upon his body of one who had lived through a great many such contests. As Kluge glanced again down into the training yards where thousands of his best continued to fight, he also noticed that many of them had stopped their individual battles to look up to where he was standing. He had always taught them to be ready for anything, to trust no one, and to be ready at a moment’s notice. He silently decided to reinforce that concept.

As Traax and the other approached, Kluge waited until they were at least one hundred paces from him before he turned his back to them, something he had always taught his warriors not to do. He hoped a great number of them were watching.

Slowly, imperceptibly, he reached across his body with his right hand to remove the returning wheel from his belt. He knew that his opponent had not yet drawn his dreggan—he would have heard its distinctive ring. His final, fatal blunder, Kluge thought. I always taught them to arm themselves the moment they were in sight of the enemy. Not doing so will be the mistake of his life.

Kluge turned back toward his opponent with a speed that few of the men in the yard had ever seen. The returning wheel was already spinning through the air, a silver, spherical blur. Its razor-sharp teeth buried themselves in the man’s throat just above his larynx, kept on tearing, and then exited the back of his neck as his head began to fall clumsily, held to the shoulders by only the briefest of pink connective tissue. The body crumpled to the ground as though the legs had just been amputated. The warrior’s wings began to jerk reflexively back and forth upon the ground as his blood covered the ground around him.

Without even looking up from the dying man, Kluge reached his right hand back into the air and automatically caught the returning wheel in the bloodstained, padded glove. He hung the deadly sphere back on his belt, then walked over to the fallen warrior and removed the man’s dreggan from its scabbard.

He placed the tip of the dreggan against the warrior’s chest and pressed the button on the hilt that would release the remaining length of the blade, ending the fallen fighter’s existence. The wings still flapped pitifully against the blood-soaked ground like those of a damaged bird that had fallen to earth, unable to lift itself.

He looked down at the crowd of men who had gathered closer to the spectacle, pursed his lips, and then lifted his sword. He retracted the blade and replaced it into the scabbard.

“Leave the body here,” he said casually to Traax. He noticed that his second in command had been splattered with the blood of the fallen man. Kluge gestured to the troops below. “Make sure they get a good look at what happens to those who take their enemies for granted.”

Just as he was about to turn away he heard the sound of someone clapping in praise, and a female voice called out to him.

“Well done, Commander,” Succiu said from a place on the hill a short distance above him. She was dressed in a white silk gown, with touches of the darkest blue here and there in her jewelry and her shoes. Tiny droplets of blood from Kluge’s victim had spattered her dress, and the wind gently blew her long, lustrous hair in slow, dark, undulating waves. Her slave, the little hunchbacked dwarf named Geldon, was abjectly sitting beside her in the dirt as she held the jeweled leash that ran to his iron collar. In her other hand she casually twirled a white parasol, also trimmed in dark blue, open to the sun. She looked dressed to attend a great ball, rather than the struggles of men killing each other in the dirt below her. But he knew her tastes well, and was not surprised.

It had been several days since he had seen her, and despite how well he knew every curve of her body and face he nonetheless drew an instinctively sharp breath at this sudden appearance of her beauty. With her unexpected arrival had also come the twin, bitter remembrances of both how she could never be his and how she had gazed upon the prince of Eutracia, the male of endowed blood, that day in the great hall at Tammerland. Warrior emotion rushed through his veins, fed by his intense, visceral hatred of Tristan. The so-called Chosen One, he spat silently.

“I see that the Minion custom of succession by death is still in place,” Succiu said, smiling at him. She carefully touched the tip of her right index finger to one of the blood spots on her gown and daintily placed it on her tongue.

Kluge and Traax each immediately went down on one knee. “I live to serve,” they said in unison.

Succiu was busy studying one of her nails. “You may rise.” She sighed.

Kluge’s eyes narrowed as he reexamined the little dwarf at her side. Must she take him everywhere she goes? he wondered. He took in the contemptuous sneer that lay deep in the hunchback’s eyes as he watched the pudgy little fingers anxiously feel the jeweled collar around his neck. Someday she may regret enslaving him, Kluge mused. Still, in some ways I envy the dwarf who is constantly at her side.

Succiu looked at Kluge, her expression businesslike. “My conversation is for your ears only, Commander,” she ordered. “Traax, you are dismissed.”

With a quick bow, Traax started off down the hill. But Kluge called out to him, and he stopped and turned. “Yes, my lord?” he asked.

The Minion commander looked down the hill to where the warriors had resumed their practice. “Begin counting dead bodies,” he ordered. “When you have reached two hundred, stop the training. That is all we can afford for one session of such combat. I shall join you later.”

“Yes, my lord,” Traax said. He turned and began walking back down into the courtyard.

With the departure of Traax, Succiu frowned slightly, her brow furrowed with thought. “Walk with me,” she finally murmured, and turned with the jeweled leash in her hand. She began strolling along the ridge of the hill and away from the courtyard. The dwarf waddled hurriedly beside her.

After apparently walking as far as she wished to, she turned to him, and Geldon automatically sat down in the grass at her feet. “What I have to say to you is to be kept strictly between the two of us,” she said strongly, her dark, almond-shaped eyes boring into his. “If I hear that any of our conversation has been intimated to anyone else, you will curse the day you were born. Do you understand?”

“Permission to speak freely?” Kluge asked. It was rare that he requested this privilege from her, but given her tone he decided he wanted the freedom to express himself.

“Yes.”

“I will, of course, honor whatever wishes my mistress has of me, as I have always done. However, do you think it wise that there be another pair of ears present?” He cast his eyes down to the dwarf, so that Succiu would not miss his meaning.

“There is no cause for worry,” the second mistress said, laughing lightly. “Geldon has been with me for more than three hundred years, and has heard things of far greater importance than those of which I am about to speak. He is usually with me because he amuses me, and performs some rather indispensable tasks.”

The little dwarf suddenly jumped to his feet, thrusting his jaw out at Kluge. “I’m important, too!” he hollered indignantly, making wise use of the rare chance to prove his false loyalty to Succiu. “I was here almost three hundred years before you were even born! Whatever my mistress says to you, she can say to me!”

Succiu’s reaction was immediate. She backhanded the little hunchback for all she was worth, sending him to his knees, and he went rolling partway downhill until the leash brought him to an abrupt stop, almost breaking his neck. “I gave the commander permission to speak freely, but I do not remember giving you the same privilege, little man,” she sneered. When Geldon finally managed to get up on all fours, she dropped the leash. Kluge watched her extend her right hand in the air toward the little dwarf, and suddenly Geldon began to cough. Succiu was tightening his collar.

“No matter how many times I punish you, you just never seem to learn,” she purred in obvious enjoyment. The dwarf’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets, and Kluge could actually see a bluish tinge beginning to show in the little man’s face.

Succiu turned her head slightly and pursed her lips as she continued to torture the dwarf. “He makes such a fascinating little toy, don’t you think?” she asked happily. “And, as you can see, his collar serves more purposes than one.”

It made no real difference to Kluge, but he was sure that the dwarf was about to die. Then, just at the last instant, Succiu again raised her hand, and the collar returned to its normal size. She has done this often, Kluge realized. She knows just how far she can take him. Just as she knows how far she can take me when she commands me to lie with her.

Coughing and gagging, the dwarf stood up and trudged back up the hill to sit once again at the feet of his mistress, almost as if nothing had happened.

Succiu twirled her parasol, her expression lighter now, as if the punishment of Geldon had been a tonic for her. “Now then, Commander,” she began, “the reason for my visit. Put very simply, I want you to double the Minion guard near the vicinity of the Recluse.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he said automatically. “But is there some threat of which I should be told? I am aware of no immediate danger in the countryside.”

“It is not Parthalon that concerns me,” she said, frowning again. “It is Eutracia. Despite the overall success of our campaign, our mission was not completely fulfilled. The Lead Wizard and the Chosen One still live, and I believe they will try to do everything in their power to cross the Sea of Whispers and come for Sister Shailiha. Amazingly, they have apparently eluded several of the traps that I laid in Eutracia before we left. I fear I may have underestimated them both. Wigg doesn’t know how to cross the sea, and neither does Faegan. Indeed, they have neither seen nor spoken to each other for over three hundred years. But I believe Wigg will try to find him, and when he does it should make for a very interesting reunion. And Failee seems somehow quite unconcerned about all of these possibilities.” She paused, looking away momentarily. Uncharacteristically, almost to herself, she added, “Sometimes I do not agree with all of her decisions…”

She gazed off into the distance as if thinking about something else. Finally, she seemed to return to the present. “In any event, the other mistresses do not know that I am taking this precaution, and no one is to know other than you and me. Failee seems to think that there is no danger, that even Wigg and Faegan put together cannot cross the sea. She is probably right. But my blood tells me that they will try. You may get your chance to kill the Chosen One, after all.”

Kluge’s blood raced with the prospect of killing the prince of Eutracia, especially here, on his own soil. That royal, sniveling bastard would not escape him again, he thought. I shall kill you in front of the second mistress, endowed blood or not, and prove to her which of us is the better man.

The white—and-blue parasol twirled in what was fast becoming the late-afternoon sun. Succiu’s mischievous mood had returned. “I can see by the look in your eyes that you are excited about the prospect of killing Prince Tristan,” she said. “Fine and well. But hear me: He is not to die until I am done with him. When he is found he is to be taken alive and brought to me. There is to be no deviation from this order, or you will precede him into the Afterlife, where the two of you can finally take all of eternity, if you choose, to prove who is the best.” She took a moment to smile at that thought before continuing. “I do not care what happens to the Lead Wizard, provided he dies. Make it as fast or as slow as you care to. But the prince is mine.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Kluge said, smiling slightly. “It shall all be as you order.”

“Very good.” She looked down at the dwarf. “Up,” she said to him as if she were talking to her dog. “There is just enough time upon our return to the Recluse for you to pick out a worthy slave from the Stables for my use this evening.” She looked cattily at Kluge. “I told you he had his uses.”

She turned and began to walk away, the little dwarf waddling as fast as he could to keep up with her.

As Kluge turned and walked down the hill to join Traax, his mind still clung tenaciously to the image of the second mistress’ unexpected appearance. The frustration was always the same, and fueled the flames of the other, equally burning desire in his heart: to eventually find and kill the one man in the entire world who truly appeared to fascinate her.

The Chosen One.

In truth there was little he could do about either emotion just now. But Succiu’s nearness—her scent and her dark, enticing eyes—never failed to fuel the animal instinct in him. And since she had made no mention of needing him for “other duties” tonight, his only recourse would be to visit the brothels.

Which he intended to do soon.

He walked with Traax to one of the funeral pyres that were always built prior to training to the death. They watched a warrior gently touch a torch to the dry twigs and leaves at the bottom. Almost immediately the base of the great stack of corpses jumped into flames. The clothing of the dead fueled the flames higher still, and the familiar stench and dark, sooty haze of burning flesh started to cling to the air. Kluge casually turned to look at the other three pyres. The orange—and-red flames would light up the sky into the coming night and continue on for hours as they fed upon their victims.

“You stopped the fighting at two hundred dead, and collected their dreggans and returning wheels for new trainees?” he asked his second in command.

“Yes, my lord,” Traax answered. “Just as is the usual custom.”

“How many wounded?”

“Four hundred and fifty. Two hundred of whom will no longer be able to fight.”

Kluge did not speak, for there was no need. These losses were quite acceptable for a full day of such training to the death, and both he and Traax knew it.

“But there is something else of which my lord must be advised,” Traax said almost quietly.

Kluge stopped in midstride and turned his head. “And that is?”

“There is to be a Kachinaar starting soon in the Hall of Fallen Heroes. All is prepared. But I refused to let the warrior’s vigil begin without your permission, and hopefully also your attendance.”

Kluge glared intently into Traax’s eyes with a ferocity that was more feigned than real, designed to make sure that clear, flashing master/slave signals passed between them just the same. He learns quickly, Kluge thought, and reminds me of myself. In the future I must remember not to let his ambition go too far.

“And who ordered this?” he demanded.

“I did, my lord,” Traax said, lowering his head slightly in submission. “The need was clear.”

“The crime?”

“Failure to finish off quickly one of his adversaries in today’s training. It appears the two of them knew each other, and the warrior in question hesitated for a split second before doing his duty. He killed him eventually, of course, but the supervising officer thought his actions to be too slow, and brought it to my attention.”

“And were his actions too slow?” Kluge asked.

Traax allowed himself a wicked leer. “Does it really matter?”

Kluge grinned back knowingly. “No,” he said simply. “But go to the Kachinaar. I shall be there shortly. And call for Arial. I wish her to be present there for me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Traax smiled. “It shall be as you command.” He immediately walked away, heading deeper into the heart of the Minion compound.

As Kluge slowly walked past the various Minion buildings, he looked around, in awe, as always, of the complexities of the Minion fortifications and all that it took to make them run smoothly. The sorceresses had indeed planned well.

This particular fortification housed at least one hundred thousand Minions, in addition to everything that was needed to run a city of that size effectively. There were granaries, kitchens, nurseries and healing areas, gathering areas for entertainment, and a great slaughterhouse. The list of required facilities went on and on. And in addition to all of these came the requirements for running and maintaining a battle force, such as armorers, fletchers and bow makers, barracks for the troops, training grounds, stables, blacksmiths, and specially trained healers for the wounded. He knew every one of the buildings in each of the three compounds in Parthalon, for it was his job to oversee them all. His reason for being in this particular stronghold today was the fact a training session to the death had been scheduled and he never missed one, no matter which of the compounds it took place in.

As he continued to walk though the busy streets among his own kind, his warrior’s eyes took in the high, rough-hewn, foreboding walls that completely surrounded the fortress. With armed Minion warriors patrolling their tops, the ramparts were obviously intended to scare away the curious of the population should any of them actually be so foolhardy as to approach, and in his lifetime he had never heard of a single such case. But he also knew that if any of the Parthalonian citizens were ever to set foot somehow inside one of these fortresses, they would be shocked—because instead of the harsh and primitive conditions they would expect to find within these rough walls, what they would see was a city of luxury.

Each of the buildings was made of the finest marble, and their interiors were no less splendid. The many intersecting and winding streets were paved with shiny black granite bricks, and the oil sconces at each of the street corners were starting to be lit, giving the city a spectacularly soft, burnished glow. The brothels, barracks, and birthing houses especially, he knew, were almost overdone in their great luxury. Each Minion combat warrior had the very best of food, wine, and training. And, of course, the most beautiful of the very willing, talented whores of the brothels.

It was wise of the Coven to afford the Minions such luxury, he mused for the thousandth time. Kluge was under no illusions as to why the mistresses allowed him and his kind such lavishness. He knew that it was designed to keep his men happy and therefore less likely to revolt. A force such as the Minions would be potent indeed, even against the magic of the Coven, should the warriors become restless. He closed his eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the memories of various experiences that being their commander had afforded him and him alone. Yes. He smiled to himself. It is this life that keeps them content. That—and the fact that they know nothing better, such as the glories of the interior of the Recluse or what it is truly like to lie with a sorceress such as Succiu.

As he turned the corner to approach the massive Hall of Fallen Heroes, he was again reminded of his utmost duty to the Coven, aside from protecting them and controlling the citizenry. This second-most important of his tasks was to oversee constantly the increase in the numbers of the Minions, especially the combat troops. And so the luxurious brothels that constantly fed the birthing houses were also a critical part of his responsibilities. They had been here long before him, and would probably be here long after he was dead. He smirked to himself knowingly. The Coven had never granted the benefits of the time enchantments to the Minions except for briefly accelerating the aging process during childhood, and then also temporarily decelerating it later in life so as to be able to widen the window of opportunity to produce yet more Minion children. But in the end every Minion eventually died of battle, disease, or old age.

To this day Failee could still sometimes be seen walking through the fortresses, commanding certain members of the population to gather together upon bended knee for her application of the incantations. She would sometimes walk through the luxurious brothels, as well, placing her hand upon the abdomen of each of the women there, determining which of them might already be pregnant. Such women would be taken immediately to the best of quarters, so that Failee’s enchantments of acceleration might be placed upon them to speed their gestation. It was an eerie sight, even to Kluge’s hardened mind, to see the First Mistress plying the craft in this way.

He paused, thinking, wondering just how many more warriors the Coven would desire now that they had accomplished their mission in Eutracia. Would there be other such conquests? He surely hoped so, and the thought of yet more campaigns of sudden, violent death caused him to grip the hilt of his dreggan tightly, his knuckles turning white with anticipation.

The Hall of Fallen Heroes was gigantic in size, and the sorceresses had seen that it was the utmost in luxury—second only, perhaps, to the Recluse itself. It was constructed of unusually fine, blanched marble with variegated indigo streaks, the facade trimmed in the palest of gold. Dozens of blanched-marble columns reached to either side of the magnificent portico, their white—and-indigo variegated lengths stretching to support the great gilt-edged, tiled roof. The steps in front of the building were of the finest black granite, and the sun glinted off them as he began the rather long climb. Finally reaching the huge double doors, he walked through and into the hall.

The scene before him was as amazing as always, and he drank in the sights, smells, and sounds of this place as if he were a drowning man in need of air to breathe.

The Hall of Fallen Heroes had always been meant as a place of revelry rather than of quiet. Today was no exception, as the feasting and celebration that traditionally followed a day of training to the death was always particularly rowdy and ostentatious. But what made today’s orgy of food, wine, and carnality particularly intriguing was the fact that there was about to be a Kachinaar.

Hundreds of his warriors, mostly his officers, filled the room at long banquet tables eating and drinking their fill, laughing and slapping each other on the back between their dark, leathery wings. Many of them were already seriously drunk and telling stories of how they had been fortunate enough to kill and once again survive the day. Taking small, tentative steps—all their bound feet could manage—the Minion women brought them ever more food and jugs of wine and ale.

Occasionally a man would reach out to touch or grab a woman, leaving little of his intentions to the imagination. The willing girls almost always fell easily into the warriors’ arms. More often than not, outright copulation would rigorously begin in front of everyone, either on the floor or on the banquet tables themselves, amid the food and drink. Leering crowds of men and women alike shouted lustful cheers of support. Under normal circumstances these indulgences of the flesh would continue well into dawn. But today there was to be a Kachinaar.

The Minion commander looked around for his second in command. When Traax saw his superior he jumped up from his chair, spilling to the floor both his goblet of wine and the naked woman in his lap. Immediately, he screamed his warriors to attention, and they, too, quickly jumped to their feet. A riot of plates, dishes, food, wine, and chairs crashed, slipped, and slopped noisily to the floor. The hall became as quiet as a tomb.

Suddenly, all at once, the air was filled with the sound of silver-studded boot heels clicking together in unison. Then silence reigned once again for what seemed an eternity as the commander of the Minions of Day and Night looked out across the hall.

“You have done well this day,” Kluge began, shouting in his deep, strong voice. “And to those of you who have fought and survived, I grant this day of feasting and celebration!” Cheers went up all around the room, and the carnival of indulgences began anew. Kluge motioned for Traax to join him.

“Yes, my lord?” the younger man asked.

“The Kachinaar is ready?” Kluge asked.

“Yes, all is prepared. It is to take place in the usual area.”

Kluge’s eyes narrowed. “And Arial, is she here?”

“She has been summoned, my lord, and awaits you. She seems eager.”

“Very well,” Kluge answered. He and Traax began to make their way through the loud, almost insane revelry to stand before a very special area of the room.

The Kachinaar had been Kluge’s concept from the first, and he was quite proud of it. Early in his career as the commander of the Minions he had realized the need for maintaining order in a way that would produce the greatest respect, the greatest fear of his leadership throughout the ranks. Simply striking down warriors who transgressed had always been the way of it before, but as the ranks grew it became apparent to Kluge that another, more effective method needed to be found. His warrior’s mind had no time or patience for the niceties of asking questions or conducting trials. And so he had devised a cleaner, quicker way to deal with the problem. He had invented the Kachinaar, or the warrior’s vigil, as it came to be known by the troops.

The concept behind it was blindingly effective and simple. Any warrior accused by any of his fellows of a transgression, no matter how small, could be brought before the Kachinaar. The final decision to proceed was always left to Kluge or Traax. It mattered not a whit whether the man or woman was guilty or innocent, only that he or she had been accused. Indeed, Kluge was well aware of several of his men, officers included, who were quite guilty and had nonetheless survived the vigil, only to be fully reinstated to their places in the ranks. But those transgressors who were lucky enough to survive the Kachinaar would never again go astray.

If the accused survived he was deemed innocent. And if he perished he was guilty, the punishment having already been carried out—in the process sending yet another warning of obedience through the ranks.

Today’s Kachinaar was ready to begin. There was a deep marble pit in the floor of the hall, and suspended over it was the accused warrior. Ropes stretched from his wrists to brackets on the wall at either side. He dangled there helplessly, his wings no good to him now. He looked at Kluge but did not speak, for he knew it would be taken as a sign of weakness and would not help him in any event, for warriors of the Kachinaar who begged for mercy or tried to explain their supposed transgressions were always killed. Slowly and methodically. The Kachinaar was not meant to be a forum for explanations, and Kluge would not have it as such.

Kluge walked over to the edge of the pit and looked down on the three Parthalonian wolves trapped at the bottom. They had been taken from the countryside and starved almost to death. Now they snarled up at Kluge with bared teeth, their eyes glowing with the prospect of the meal that hung so temptingly above them. The floor around them was littered with the clothing and polished bones of Minion warriors. And then Kluge noticed something else, an enhancement no doubt introduced by Traax, and was momentarily perplexed.

Each of the wolves was wearing a silver-spiked collar. Suddenly, Kluge grasped the reasoning. The collars were to prevent the wolves, starving and half mad as they were, from eating each other.

He smiled to his second in command. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means, my lord,” Traax answered.

Five Minion warriors were called forth, and a blindfold was produced. The warrior hanging in the ropes knew precisely what was about to happen, for he had witnessed it himself several times before. Each of the warriors would be blindfolded, and would take a turn throwing his returning wheel at the ropes. If the ropes were cut, the warrior would die and was therefore guilty, his punishment already inflicted. But if they missed or cut only one of the ropes, the warrior would be deemed innocent and returned to his unit. The room became hushed, and the crowd pressed in toward the pit.

The first Minion warrior came forward and took the blindfold. Grasping his returning wheel, he threw it in the direction of the ropes. The crowd held its breath.

The wheel sliced through one side of the rope, leaving it shredded but still holding the weight of the warrior. He dangled there above the pit just a little lower than before, closer to the snarling, hungry wolves at the bottom.

Kluge glanced to the rear of the hall to be sure that one of his men would be catching the wheels as they started to come around again. Satisfied, he returned his gaze to the scene before him.

The next three warriors had little luck, their wheels missing amid catcalls from the crowd. The warrior hanging in the ropes looked intently at Kluge, knowing that his fate would soon be sealed.

The fifth warrior to take the blindfold threw his wheel with great force, and it spun unerringly toward the as-yet-unharmed rope, slicing it cleanly in half. Great hollers and yells of congratulations erupted among the crowd as the warrior hung between life and death from the shreds of a single frayed rope. The circling, half-mad wolves could be heard demanding their reward.

As was always Kachinaar custom, if the warrior had survived five of whatever the particular ritual called for, Kluge was given the opportunity to try his hand, thereby settling the issue. Smiling, Kluge placed the blindfold over his eyes and took the returning wheel from the hook on his broad leather belt.

There were many experts of the returning wheel among the Minions, but even the graybeards among them had always said that there had never been one to match Kluge. He had been given the title of wheel-master by his previous teacher, who had also been a wheelmaster before him, and there were currently only three living warriors to have earned that title among the entire Minion population. Kluge was the best of the three.

But such a throw would be impossible even for Kluge, many of the warriors thought.

The room became as still as death. The warrior hanging from the shredded rope closed his eyes.

Kluge paused for a moment. He tilted his head slightly as if trying to anticipate the angle, and then immediately loosed the wheel with a strong, sure whip of his right arm.

The revolving, silver blur raced toward the warrior hanging by the single shred of rope. The wheel sliced cleanly through the rope as if it weren’t there. The warrior tumbled sickeningly into the pit as Kluge reached up and removed his blindfold.

The crowd pushed forward to lean over the pit as the wolves tore into the screaming warrior, stripping the flesh from his body, the sounds of the riot of carnage and blood rising to fill the hall. Kluge turned to Traax. “Guilty it is!” he shouted happily over the din.

Traax returned the wicked smile. “So it would seem.”

Kluge began to walk back to the front of the hall, but stopped when he heard a woman’s voice call out his name. He turned to see Arial, the whore he had ordered Traax to summon, standing before him, and he drank in her beauty in much the way he always did that of the second mistress.

Because they were so similar.

Arial stood confidently before Kluge, staring at him with her large, dark eyes. The long, straight black hair that flowed down her back and the shapely curves of her body took him back to that afternoon, when he had seen Succiu upon the hill.

And to when she had left, leaving him hungry for her.

“You called for me, my lord?” Arial asked, smiling. She knew full well why she was here, and she was eager to be with him, as always. She knew his tastes, and enjoyed indulging the commander in them.

Without speaking, Kluge violently used his right arm to wipe away the food and drink from a large section of one of the banquet tables, then lowered Arial beneath him.

17

Shailiha lay in her bed in her sumptuous quarters, the lights in the room still ablaze. She was frantically hoping that keeping them lit would help to prevent her from falling asleep. But it was well past midnight, and her eyelids were becoming heavier by the minute, as if a blanket of luxurious, inevitable sleep were being drawn over her. She looked down at her swollen abdomen and gently caressed the silk of her pink maternity gown. I will give birth very soon, she thought.

Yet another flood of exhaustion tried to engulf her consciousness. She could feel it roll over her mind like an unstoppable wave. She fought back tears, but it was no use. She was soon crying openly, and trembling inside as though her panicked shaking would never stop. She was terrified of the coming night, and she could see no way through it except to stay awake—stay awake against what she feared might appear in her dreams.

For that afternoon she had experienced another of her memories.

It had been many days since such thoughts had come to her. She had been in the conservatory with Succiu and Vona when the strangers had walked back into her mind.

First had come an old man with a gray robe and a funny, woven braid of hair that fell down the back of his neck. Then, out of the fog, had come another, younger man. He was tall and had dark hair, and seemed to be trying to call out to her, beseechingly. But she had been unable to hear him, his mouth working as if in slow motion, his words lost to the cool, dense fog that surrounded him. She had noticed a medallion hanging around his neck. Made of gold, it carried the impressions of a lion and a broadsword, images she recognized, although the significance of them meant nothing to her. Then, suddenly, just as soon as the two men had appeared, they were gone. And she had collapsed into tears. Succiu had ushered her into Failee’s chambers immediately.

The First Mistress of the Coven had embraced her lovingly, holding her until the crying had stopped. They had talked for a long time. Shailiha had felt abject shame in having to come to see her, despite the fact that she had been strictly ordered to do so. Sensing this, the First Mistress had insisted that one of the four other Sisters be in Shailiha’s presence at all times, just to be sure that she would be brought to her if indeed such an occurrence transpired.

Shailiha lay in her sumptuous bed, breathing heavily, her eyelids closing fully now and again, her head sometimes tilting off to one side on the dark-blue silk pillow, her shiny, blond hair spilling off it and onto the sheets. The bed felt so soft and comforting. Stay awake, her mind called out to her from nowhere. The bed is your enemy tonight. Stay awake or you will have to endure it all again.

She tried to remember some of the things Failee had told her. Perhaps that would help to keep her alert. “These horrible dreams are your punishment for allowing such false memories to crowd into your mind,” the First Mistress had said. “You must use your endowed blood to cast them off… If you do not cast off the memories, these dreams will keep coming, each one more hideous than the last, until you go mad.”

She whimpered and bit her lip, praying that she could stay awake just this one night, and be allowed to remain in peace. Trembling, she pulled the silk sheet up over her head, just like she had done as a child here in the Recluse. Just the same way her Sisters had told her had been her habit when she was growing up. Somehow the greater degree of darkness given by the sheet and the counterfeit sense of being protected from the room finally began to relax her. And as the next wave of slumber came to her seemingly from somewhere far away, she closed her eyes and had no choice but to surrender to its indulgent, irresistible peace.

She awakened lazily and stretched luxuriously in the bed before reaching down to scratch the bite that some insect had left on her arm. Opening her eyes, she looked down at it.

It was a boil, and it was bleeding.

The itching was quickly becoming unbearable, and Shailiha scratched at it even harder. But as she did so the sore opened wide and began to bleed freely, the bright-red blood running onto the silk sheets. Her hands covered in her own blood, she turned to run from the bed and wash herself. But she froze when she looked up at the room. The walls were of stone, and the oil sconces were not the ones she was accustomed to. She began to scream.

Somehow she had returned once again to the room of her nightmares.

She was beginning to itch everywhere. Crying and babbling incoherently, she lifted the hem of her maternity gown to look at her body.

What she saw made her retch. Sores and boils were beginning to develop—first as small, rose-colored spots—and then almost immediately opening up to bleed and fester. There were dozens of them all over her body, and still more were forming before her eyes.

Screaming hysterically, she looked to see that the bed was covered in blood. Still screaming, she started to climb off the bed to go find help, then realized that, once again, she was in a tiny room with no windows and no doors.

She was alone, she was bleeding to death, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Even more sores were appearing, and she raised her hands to her face in horror to see her palms covered in lesions. An exploratory touch with a finger told her that her entire face was now festering, as well. The blood from the sores on her forehead began to run, warmly and redly, into her eyes.

She began to vomit in earnest, spewing the contents of her stomach down her gown and over the sides of her protruding abdomen, to mix with the blood on the bed. She screamed again, her wail ending in a barely audible sob. The itching had turned into an indescribable pain.

She got up on all fours and clawed at the bloody sheets in desperation. “I have done nothing to deserve this!” she screamed aloud, knowing in her heart that no one could hear her. “Please, I beg you, for the life of my child, leave me alone!”

And then the bed began to spin.

It moved slowly at first, turning around and around in the little room like a child’s spinning top. But soon it began to gather speed, and she found herself lying back down in the blood and vomit and holding on for all she was worth to keep from flying off as the bed went round and round ever faster, like a whirling dervish. Blood sprayed the walls and began to drip sickeningly onto the floor.

Above her, the stone ceiling spun, her blood covering it, as well, mixing frantically with the dark gray of the stones in a dizzying pin-wheel of her own gore.

The last thing she thought of was them. Not of herself, or even of her unborn child this time, but of them. The ones who kept coming to her in her memories. They were the cause of this. Just before everything went dark, she knew that she hated them, all of them, and she wanted them dead. Real or not.

18

Tristan lay on his back on the deep, mossy forest floor of Shadowood, his head and shoulders propped up on the saddle that served as his pillow. From all around him came the sounds of the nighttime forest, familiar yet also somehow foreign here in this place. Shadowood. A place that he had never known existed. Despite his love of the outdoors, this forest gave him not only a measure of familiarity, but an underlying feeling of dread, as well.

He looked up into the night sky, full of the bright pinpricks of stars, and watched the wisps of smoke, dark and pungent, rise from the happily burning campfire in the center of the clearing. The ribbons of smoke spiraled ever upward as if trying to reach those twinkling, astral bodies suspended so high above them, only to vaporize in the chill of the night breeze. Spiritlike shadows, randomly created by the flickering firelight, danced back and forth among the trees surrounding the clearing like teasing, long-waisted maidens of the court at Tammer-land, beckoning him to come dance with them in their loneliness. But there was no longer a court at Tammerland. And there were no more great balls at which to dance. He sadly wondered if there ever would be again.

He looked over at the two figures lying asleep near the fire. Quite a pair of traveling companions, he thought. The irascible old wizard and the equally ancient and abrasive gnome. The two had distrusted each other from the beginning. Tristan and Wigg had been traveling for two days now with the little one as their guide, and Shannon the Small had promised them that tomorrow they would finally meet Faegan. The gnome had gone off to sleep drunk, as he had done on each of the two previous nights, but not before haranguing them for over an hour about his supposedly vaunted relationship with Faegan. “Master Faegan to you,” as he was so fond of saying. Tristan smiled as he looked at the little man lying there in his bibs, upturned boots, and black cap, snoring loudly from the influence of the ale. He then looked down to his right thigh, the one that Shannon had bitten. It had all but completely healed, and despite the wound, over the course of the last two days the prince had come to like Shannon the Small. Wigg had not.

Unable to sleep, Tristan reached behind his right shoulder and pulled out one of his dirks. He held it up to the orange light of the campfire, admiring its blade and the skill with which the palace blacksmith had fashioned it. He had very much liked the congenial smith, and had wondered on more than one occasion what the gnarled old man would have thought of the dreggan that now lay peacefully in its curved, black, tooled scabbard in the moss at the prince’s side. But the smith was dead now, too, as were so many of the ones Tristan had loved. I killed several of the winged monsters with these very knives, he reflected. Of that much, at least, I can be proud. And so could the smith.

Reaching over near the fire, Tristan snatched up a fallen branch and began to whittle it with his dirk. Upon the very first stroke the knife glanced over a bump on the limb and slipped off, slicing slightly into his left index finger. He scowled. After handling the knives for so many years he had certainly had his share of nicks and cuts, and he absent-mindedly put his finger into his mouth to clean the wound. Then he took it back out and examined it in the light of the campfire, watching as the bright red blood dripped slowly from the cut.

Narrowing his eyes, he rubbed a few of the drops between the finger and thumb of his other hand, feeling the warmth of the blood, examining its color and texture, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time. This is what it’s all about, he thought to himself. All of this death, and magic, and insanity. For some reason that neither he nor the wizard understood, the Coven had taken his sister. And it was all about blood. He suddenly realized that it was really a question of who had it, and who did not. And it was also a question of what they chose to do with their power once they had harnessed it, sometimes making a life-altering choice between the Vigors or the Vagaries. He understood that endowed was more powerful than unendowed, that Wigg’s blood was more powerful than that of the consuls of the Redoubt, that Shailiha’s blood was more powerful than Wigg’s, and that his was supposedly the most powerful of all. He shook his head.

Mine, he thought.

Still looking at the red fluid between his fingers, watching the firelight glance off it in the night, he scowled to himself. What a wonderful vessel the fates chose into which to pour the purest of all blood, he thought. The man who was too selfish to want to become king.

Tristan’s mind began to wander farther still as he looked at the inert body of the old wizard who lay sleeping near the fire. Is the old one really asleep? he wondered. Tristan was well aware that Wigg could go for days without sleep, if necessary. He also realized how little he knew about the wizard, despite the fact that he had known the old one all his life. Over the last three days Tristan had often tried to imagine what this journey must be like for Wigg. To finally come face-to-face with Faegan, the wizard suspected of helping the Coven during the war. Tristan assumed that Wigg must hate him, despite the fact that the old one had never said as much. The prince also wondered what it was that Faegan had done to help the sorceresses, and for how long—and, above all, why he had done it. Was it only because he feared for his daughter, or had there been more? Tristan couldn’t even begin to imagine what Wigg’s reaction would be to seeing Faegan after all these years.

Wigg had been the wizard who first discovered the Tome of the Paragon, Tristan mused. The great book that still resided safely deep within the Caves of the Paragon, vastly important, but useless without the stone. Wigg had also been the one to discover the Paragon itself, the jewel now in the hands of the Coven, along with Shailiha. And it had been Faegan’s daughter, Natasha, who first deciphered and read the Tome at the tender age of five years old. Faegan’s daughter, taken by the Coven, and raised to be one of them. Was that what was going to happen to Shailiha?

He thought of Natasha, the one he also knew as Lillith, and how she had tried first to rape, and then to kill him. What, I wonder, was her real name, the one Faegan gave to her at birth? he asked himself. Then his mind suddenly turned to yet another thought. Will Wigg tell him how she died? But to tell him that, Wigg will first have to tell him that his daughter was alive all these years—only to tell him that she is once again dead. How long has Faegan assumed her to be dead? Will Wigg mention her at all?

His mind became a whirl of questions, each one bringing forth even more questions, yet never the answers to them. Was Faegan really as powerful as Wigg said? Wigg had said that Faegan commanded something called the power of Consummate Recollection, that he quite literally never forgot anything that he had ever seen, heard, or read, and could recall as much of it as he cared to at will, with perfect accuracy. Could such a thing be true?

Tristan turned to look once more at the campfire’s shadow dancers, flickering between the trees as if they could speak and might answer for him the questions that careened through his mind. If Faegan aided the Coven once, how do we know he won’t do it again? Did he know about the attack on Eutracia? His mind began to reel as he sat there in the night, in the wonderfully strange forest.

He thought of Shailiha, wondering where she was and what was happening to her. Even Wigg does not know, he thought. But I have a suspicion the one called Faegan does. His grip tightened on the handle of the knife.

He threw another log on the fire. The blaze hissed and popped angrily at the disturbance, as if trying to reject the very fuel that it needed to sustain its life. He looked up at the giant trees in the darkness, their huge branches waving overhead in the night breeze like waves rushing toward a distant shore.

Suddenly, he was reminded of something Wigg had said to him just before they entered the forest of Shadowood two days ago. “Heed my words, Tristan,” he had said, the infamous right eyebrow rising high into the furrows of his forehead. “This is a place where reality is the intruder, not illusion. Stay close to me, and be surprised at nothing that you see.”

As if Wigg had just now uttered those same words, Tristan froze, amazed at what he saw before him.

He thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him. His muscles started to coil, his dark eyes staring in amazement as the thing came closer, drip by drip, glowing a bright green in the dark of the night. Instinctively he knew he should not move or cry out, but it would soon be upon him if he took no action.

He replaced the dirk and silently reached for the dreggan at his side. Standing slowly, he took two paces to one side as the green fluid pooled in the depression he had left in the soft grass. His eyes searched the branches overhead, but could see nothing. Then, as he glanced back down to the wizard and the gnome, his blood froze in his veins.

A solid stream of the fluorescent fluid had begun, almost as if it had a life of its own, to slither toward the fire.

Meanwhile, an impossibly bright line of the green fluid was descending from another tree, snaking its menacing way down to touch the floor of the forest. Instinctively, Tristan stepped around behind his tree to hide himself as best he could.

It was then, from behind the great tree, that the prince saw the first of them.

It was an apparently human form—long, lean, and muscular—and it was slowly sliding down the rope of fluid, hand under hand, cautiously pausing now and then in its descent to take stock of the scene. When it stopped halfway down, the prince was able to finally discern its appearance in the flames of the campfire.

What he saw would remain lodged in his mind forever.

It was naked and hairless, its skin a smooth, shiny, dark brown. As it turned slowly in midair upon the glimmering rope of fluid, its face finally came into view.

Except there was no real face. Only eyes, and a slit for a mouth.

There was no nose, no brow, no ears. It reminded Tristan of the many marble statues in Eutracia that had been standing in the elements for centuries, their features worn away by the ravages of time. The creature had arms and legs but, as far as Tristan could see, no genitalia. Its eyes were its most arresting feature.

The bright green eyes were the same color as the fluid rope it was slithering down. No irises, no pupils, no whites showed. It was as if the sockets were filled with the same ominous green light that came from the fluid, and that haunting illumination shone out like twin beacons slicing through the night. They glowed brightly against the smooth, dark brown of its skin. More of the bright-green fluid could now be seen trailing from its mouth, dripping slowly down onto the smooth, brown, muscular body.

Then, as it raised one of its hands for a better grip, the breath rushed out of the prince.

The creature’s fingers, toes, and underarms were webbed.

It dropped soundlessly the rest of the way to the forest floor, landing warily in a crouch and casting the light from its eyes about the clearing. Even more of the bright green fluid began to run from its mouth as it looked over at the sleeping wizard and gnome. Standing there in the glow from the campfire, bathing both of Tristan’s defenseless friends in the eerie glow of its vision, it menacingly held its hands and arms slightly away from its sides as it crouched upon the grass.

It seemed to be death incarnate.

To the prince’s horror, another of the fluid ropes began descending from the trees above and down into the campsite. And then another.

Tristan watched, the dreggan tight in his hand, as two more of the things, identical to the first, landed silently upon the forest floor. The first one began to creep softly in the direction of Shannon as the other two stood by, turning their glowing eyes this way and that, apparently searching for anyone else who might be near.

In the dim light of the fire, the prince watched in horror as the thing bent over Shannon’s face and began to open its mouth.

Now! Tristan screamed silently. You must do it now!

He quickly stepped from behind the tree and in one fluid movement tossed the heavy dreggan from his right hand to his left. Immediately his free hand found one of his dirks, and almost before he knew it the silver blade was wheeling its way toward the creature nearest the gnome.

As the razor-sharp dirk buried itself sickeningly in the right temple of the thing’s head, the creature let out an ear-splitting scream and immediately recoiled, bright-green fluid spurting from its head and mouth. It fell to the forest floor, dead, the strange light from its eyes dimming into final nothingness.

“Wigg, Shannon, get up! Now!” Tristan screamed as he watched another of the things approach the gnome. But apparently the death scream of the first had awakened them both, for the gnome and the wizard were suddenly on their feet, sleep still apparent in their faces, trying to grasp the hideous nature of the emergency.

The second of the awful creatures laughed at Shannon, a terrifying, insane laugh that shot through the woods and seemed to go on forever.

But Shannon was quick to react. He rolled quickly across the grass, landing near the wizard, just missing the oncoming stream of green fluid that shot from the mouth of the nearest creature. Now the two creatures were standing between the wizard and the gnome on one side, and the prince on the other. They looked confused as the glow from their eyes crazily flashed from one side to the other.

“Don’t let the fluid touch you!” Shannon screamed. “Whatever you do, don’t let it touch you!”

The larger of the two remaining nightmares whirled toward Tristan and opened its mouth. Almost immediately a bright-green stream of the ominous fluid flew through the air toward the prince.

But it wasn’t fast enough. Wigg raised one of his hands, and a bright-azure bolt of light shot toward Tristan, arriving just before the fluid. Wigg’s azure bolt instantly turned itself into a wall of glistening blue, shielding the prince. The green fluid struck the blue wall dead center and fell drippingly to the floor of the forest, hissing as it went, coalescing into yet another pool.

Wigg wasted no time. With a wave of his hand, the azure wall became a magnificent sword, hanging in the air. With lightning speed, the sword tore across the clearing and sliced the creature’s head cleanly from its body. The creature fell to the ground, its mouth still working grotesquely in the severed head in an autonomic spasm of death.

That leaves just one, Tristan noted wildly. And it belongs to me.

But it was not to be. The last of the hideous things, apparently cognizant of its situation, instead turned its head and opened its mouth in a completely different direction, aiming up into the treetops.

A solid stream of the awful fluid shot high into the trees. Then the creature closed its mouth, seeming to bite down on the string of fluid and cut it in two. With amazing speed, it took hold of the rope of fluid and, with a single, powerful jump, swung itself up and away, into the darkness and safety of the limbs above, pulling the fluid rope up after it. The trees began to rustle hauntingly, one after the next, as it apparently leapt nimbly from limb to limb. Bright-green fluid dripped down sporadically, leaving an eerie trail in the darkness of the forest as the thing ran through the tops of the trees as quickly as any man could ever have run across the ground. And then, finally, just as Tristan thought all would be quiet, from far away came another of the insane, blood-chilling laughs, resounding through Shadowood.

And then it was gone.

Tristan stood there, his chest heaving, in complete disbelief. He immediately ran to the wizard and the gnome.

They both seemed unhurt, but Wigg’s amazed expression was quickly turning into anger as he stood there in the firelight, glaring at Shannon. As for the gnome, he was shaking uncontrollably from fear, and quickly waddled over to where the jug of ale lay next to the fire. As if he hadn’t a moment to lose, he put the jug to his lips and took a huge gulp, followed by another, and then yet another. Tristan was about to reprimand him for drinking again, but given the nature of the situation, decided to let the little one have his fill for a while.

“I told you never to trust the gnomes!” Wigg shouted at Tristan, obviously upset. “I told you not to bring him along! And whatever those things were, Shannon had to know about it! He’s lived here for three centuries! And he didn’t say a word about this possibility!” He glared back at the gnome, who was greedily drinking. “I would say you have some explaining to do!”

Despite the fact that they had all just nearly been killed, Tristan had to smile at what came next. Without hesitation, the gnome wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Looking into the jug and seeing that there were only a few gulps left, he carefully set it down. At the same time, he reached down to grasp a rock, which he promptly launched at Wigg’s head. The wizard stepped neatly aside, avoiding the rock as it tore through the air, but the tone between these two had once again definitely been set.

“You pompous old bastard!” Shannon yelled. “How dare you! You know what those hideous things are as well as I do!”

“What are you talking about?” Wigg shouted back, clearly beside himself. “I’ve never seen anything like them in my life!”

“You know full well what they are,” Shannon said. His voice had now become softer, but the anger in his eyes was no less apparent. “You created them,” he whispered nastily.

Wigg just stood there and stared at the gnome as if he were from another world. He narrowed his eyes at Shannon. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t joust with me, Lead Wizard,” Shannon said defiantly. “Those things were vomited into existence by you and the rest of your beloved Directorate, near the end of the Sorceresses’ War, when you all so efficiently created Shadowood.” The gnome lowered his eyes, some of his anger now replaced with sadness. “And they have been plaguing our kind for the last three centuries. Even Master Faegan, the great one, is only of limited use in protecting us from them. It was your rush to protect your beloved magic, three hundred years ago, that brought these monsters forth.”

Wigg looked as if someone had just slapped him across the face. His mouth was open, but no words came. A look of great pain came across his tanned, creased face.

“What are they called?” Tristan interrupted.

“Berserkers,” Shannon answered.

“What?” Tristan exclaimed.

“We call them berserkers because of the vicious way they attack us and the awful, insane laughter they inflict upon their prey just before a kill,” Shannon said. He looked at the corpses in the grass. “I believe you can now appreciate the name we gave them, after having seen them for yourself.”

Wigg took a step closer to the gnome, the anger completely gone from his face. “They were once gnome hunters, weren’t they?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Shannon said. “The same humans of your kind who once slaughtered us and took our women. It seems that when your transformation of Shadowood took place, you effectively protected all of the gnomes living here at the time, but quite forgot about whatever gnome hunters were also here. They were transformed into what you see lying dead before you. You and your precious magic created the creatures you just had the unfortunate opportunity to encounter.” He paused, as if in sorrow. “The scene of the massacre we saw two days ago was the work of berserkers.”

Wigg literally hung his head in shame, a rare sight indeed. “Why has Faegan not been able to rid Shadowood of them?” he asked quietly.

“Even Master Faegan has his limits,” Shannon said. “And when you finally come face-to-face with him, you will understand why.”

Tristan walked over to the body of the berserker he had killed. The fluid that had pooled next to it in the grass still glowed. “What is this substance that comes from their mouths?” he asked. “It is deadly?”

“Yes, but not in the way you might think,” Shannon replied. “They live in trees, and hunt only at night. The fluid is used to help them traverse the trees. But they also use it to injure their prey. If it touches your skin, the affected area will quickly begin to wither and bleed. If the attacking party is small, the Berserkers follow the wounded, waiting for them to become weak and helpless. Then they gather around him with their insane laughter and tear him apart, limb from limb. But a large attacking party will kill the prey on the spot, covering it with large quantities of the fluid.”

“But why are they so intent on killing the gnomes?”

“They need us for sustenance,” Shannon said angrily. “They eat us—while we are still alive.” He looked carefully at Tristan.

“After they have eaten their fill, they take the heads, skin them, and remove and eat the brain. They then polish the bare skull to a high gleam,” Shannon continued. “They store these trophies in the branches of the trees in which they live. We believe that there is some sort of hierarchy to their existence, that the one with the most skulls is the leader, but there really is no way for us to know. If we come upon a collection of skulls in our travels, we try to steal them back for burial later.” He gave Wigg a hard look. “Many of my closest friends have died while trying to perform this act of kindness.”

Tristan thought to himself for a moment. “This is why you were so difficult with us back at the bridge, is it not?”

“Yes,” Shannon replied. “While it is my duty to Master Faegan to protect the bridge, I also have no use for anyone, other than him, who indulges in the craft.”

“And the massacre we came upon two days ago, why did you not tell us of them then?” Wigg asked.

Shannon turned to the wizard. “I did not mention it because I saw no look of guilt upon your face, only curiosity. Had you, as one of the creators of this madness, seemed more contrite I would have discussed it. As it was, I felt it best to say nothing.”

“We thought we were doing the right thing,” Wigg said apologetically. “We knew we had perfected the incantation for the protection of the gnomes, and we were fairly sure that the transformation would kill the gnome hunters.” He sighed greatly, pursing his lips. “I am truly sorry, Shannon,” he said. “And I will do everything in my power to correct this when we reach Faegan.”

“Master Faegan to you,” the little gnome added imperiously. Wigg smiled slightly for the first time. “Master Faegan,” he agreed. Although dawn was still several hours away, Tristan doubted that any of them would be getting very much more sleep that night. Shannon went to retrieve the ale jug, and Wigg sat down next to the fire, lost in thought.

Tristan sat down as well, still astounded at what he had just heard. Pulling his knees up against the chill of the night, he began the rather long wait for the first prisms of dawn.

The prince of Eutracia shifted in his saddle as Pilgrim half walked, half trotted up a little wooded knoll. He and Wigg had been traveling for the last two hours in relative silence, following as the gnome led the way on foot through the dense forest of Shadowood. Despite his lack of sleep, Tristan was not tired, too excited at the prospect of finally meeting Faegan and, he hoped, coming one step closer to finding Shailiha.

Looking around at the forest, he continued to marvel at the similarity it held to the Hartwick Woods, especially the area in which he had discovered the Caves of the Paragon. The same lush and colorful ground foliage grew here, as did the huge, gnarled trees that until now he had never before seen in any other part of the kingdom. The branches overhead were just as thick and dense as those surrounding the Caves, and the air brought back to his nostrils the same sweet, light scents that he had first detected before finding the wall that led him tumbling down into the earth. Once again his overactive mind sought out the similarities, trying to connect the possibilities of such coincidences. Wigg has said that Shadowood was created by the Directorate just before the end of the war, as a refuge for endowed blood, he thought. Could the Hartwick Woods be the same kind of thing? Did the Directorate create that place, as well?

Looking ahead, Tristan thought that he could discern some brighter light at what finally appeared to be the edge of the forest. Pressing his heels to Pilgrim’s sides, he sped up to follow Wigg and Shannon as they finally exited the woods.

What Tristan saw beyond the trees took his breath away.

He was looking down onto a wide plain of grasses and wildflowers that seemed to stretch off to his left, to the west, forever. To the east was the Sea of Whispers, the great uncrossable ocean. With the crashing of waves upon the jagged rocks of the coast, it came ever rolling into the land, angrily attacking over and over with dark, frothy arms, only to tentatively retreat, regroup, and roll in again.

Straight ahead lay a ridge of low mountains, at the bottom of which was the most beautiful lake he had ever seen. Tranquil, deep, and dark blue, the water gently swayed back and forth to a rhythm of its own, seemingly unaffected by the breezes that were blowing over it. At the far end of the lake was a very high waterfall. Jutting out from the ridge, it billowed its contents out and down the amazing height as if [UNREADABLE] commanded all of the beauty and grace in her power to this one spot. The endowed blood in his veins ran quicker the longer he looked at it, and he somehow knew, without a doubt, that the waterfall was their destination.

Tristan and Wigg watched from their horses as the excited little gnome in the red shirt and blue bibs started to jump up and down with glee.

“I told you!” he exclaimed happily. “I told you we would get here! My master awaits on the other side of the falls.” Over the last two days, Shannon apparently had come to regard Tristan and Wigg as trophies to be shown off to his master, rather than as the imposing Lead Wizard of the Directorate and the prince of Eutracia who had come to find Faegan. He rubbed his hands together anxiously, and instinctively reached up for the jug of ale that was tied to the back of Tristan’s saddle. It had been their practice not to let the ale-loving gnome near his swill while guiding them through the forest, letting him drink it only at night around the campfire. They had no need of a drunken guide. But knowing that the jug was almost empty, Tristan decided to let the little one have one final, congratulatory swig of the potent, dark brew, despite the glower on Wigg’s face, and handed down the jug.

“It won’t be long now,” Shannon said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, at the same time nodding his thanks to the prince. Tristan simply sat atop his horse and smiled. On the pretense of wanting a drink himself, he reclaimed the jug from the little one, retying it to his saddle after a quick swallow. Finally the three of them started around the western edge of the lake, and on toward the falls. It was then that Tristan saw them.

When the first slash of color came swooping out of nowhere to careen before their eyes, Pilgrim began to dance about nervously. Tristan instinctively unsheathed the dreggan, touching the button on the hilt of the great sword and sending the tip of the blade shooting out angrily. Then, at the same time he realized he didn’t need it, he heard the old wizard speak his first words of the day. “If you can cut one of them down in midair, you will be the first ever to do so, Chosen One or not,” the old one said calmly, pursing his lips. “The Directorate brought them here, over three hundred years ago, for their protection. I shouldn’t like to think that the prince of Eutracia had become responsible for their demise.”

Smiling and chagrined, Tristan replaced the dreggan in its scabbard. He spoke gently to Pilgrim and stroked the horse’s neck as the riotous flashes of color continued to dart and swerve around them.

For the second time in his life he was watching the Fliers of the Fields.

Except this time there were hundreds of them.

The huge, multicolored butterflies swooped and darted back and forth across the afternoon sky with amazing speed, teasing the horses and their riders, zigzagging in and out of the forest behind them at will.

Wigg turned in his saddle and stretched out one of his gnarled hands. In a moment, a violet—and-yellow flier came to rest upon the old one’s forearm, settling down and remaining very still save for the gentle opening and closing its long, diaphanous wings. Tristan’s mouth fell open. He had no idea that there had ever been any kind of bond between the fliers and human beings.

“When we realized that the fliers had been changed by the waters of the Paragon,” the wizard continued, “not only did we feel responsible for their welfare, but we knew that we needed to find a place to hide them, lest the curious come looking for them and discover all of the same things that you did that day. But despite our best efforts to keep their existence a secret, the rumors of their existence still persist.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this that day in the Redoubt?” He remembered all of the pain that he had felt that afternoon in his meeting with the Directorate and his father. How none of the things that they had told him had made any sense. And how angry he had become. He looked directly into the wizard’s penetrating aquamarine eyes. “It would have helped me to know that there were at least other fliers that were still alive.”

Wigg sighed and lifted his arm, and as if by silent order, the giant violet—and-yellow butterfly once again took to the air. “We couldn’t, Tristan,” he said simply, “no matter how much we wanted to. The coronation ceremony was only a month away, and in your state of mind at the time, we couldn’t take the chance of you wanting to come here to prove it to yourself. You would never have made it across the canyon alone.”

The old one looked with genuine love into the dark-blue eyes of the man who had so quickly, so painfully, come to so many realizations. “Your father told you that day that everything that was done, indeed even everything that was not done, as well, had a reason. I hope you are beginning to understand.”

Tristan lifted his eyes from the wizard’s gaze long enough to see that the little gnome was trotting happily around the edge of the lake to the left, through the tall grasses and wildflowers of the pastures.

“We had better hurry up and follow him,” Wigg said. “I suppose it’s actually possible that we could lose him in all this high grass.” He pushed his tongue against the inside of one cheek. “And what a shame that would be,” he added caustically.

They soon caught up to Shannon and followed him around the lake to a spot very near the rushing water of the falls. Tristan had never seen anything like it, even in the caves of the Paragon. It was the highest waterfall he had ever seen, and the roaring sound that it made as it poured its flowing, almost crystalline contents out and down into the indigo lake was deafening. The spray brought to his nostrils the sweet, familiar smell of morning rain. He watched Shannon and Wigg exchange a few words, and then the gnome inexplicably stepped behind the falls and disappeared.

Confused, the prince trotted Pilgrim up to stand next to Wigg’s horse, making sure he was close enough to the old one to be sure they could converse amid all of the noise. Both horses had begun to dance about in their nervousness at being so close to the rushing water. Tristan reached up to stroke Pilgrim’s neck as he leaned over to shout into the old one’s ear.

“Where did he go? How could Shannon just disappear like that?”

“He didn’t,” Wigg said calmly. Still looking straight ahead at the place where Shannon had slipped away behind the falls, he added, “Dismount. We walk in from here. Make sure and hold the reins very tightly.” Wigg got down off his gelding and curiously passed his hand over each of Pilgrim’s eyes. Immediately the stallion began to grow calmer, more docile. The wizard then accomplished the same feat with his own mount and began to walk behind the falls, leading his horse, beckoning Tristan to follow. Before Tristan knew it, Wigg, too, had vanished.

Holding the reins tightly, Tristan tentatively stepped behind the rushing water, not knowing what to expect, a trusting and subdued Pilgrim following him obediently. It took a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but once they had, what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

The three of them were standing in a tunnel carved out of the rock. It seemed to go on for rather a long way, and he could not immediately discern any light coming from the opposite end. The only illumination was the sunlight that filtered in from behind the rushing water as it flowed down past the entrance. The dark gray walls were slick and glistening, and the sounds from the falls were muffled. The floor of the tunnel was flooded with dark, murky water.

Tristan waded forward a few steps to stand side by side with Wigg. The water was about two feet deep. “Where are we?” he asked anxiously.

“This tunnel was fashioned by the wizards just before the end of the war, as the final obstacle to reaching the settlement that exists on the other side of Shadowood,” Wigg said almost absently as he glanced around at the walls and floor of the dark, empty cylinder in which they stood. Tristan guessed that the wizard, who no doubt had been one of the chief engineers of its construction, was examining the tunnel for signs of decay and stress. “I have not been here for more than three hundred years,” Wigg said quietly, to no one in particular.

Tristan and Shannon watched as Wigg raised his hands above his head and closed his eyes. The tunnel began to fill with green light, and Tristan looked up to see that the entire length of the tunnel roof was lined by glowing stones. They were jagged and sharp, crystalline, and they glowed more and more brightly until, when Wigg finally dropped his hands back to his sides, the tunnel was shimmering in sage-colored light. Wigg smiled, the first grin that Tristan had seen on his face in days.

“These are called radiance stones,” he said simply. “We created them, and then brought them here over three hundred years ago, just as we were completing the tunnel. I am immensely glad to see that they are still just as powerful as the day we first activated them.”

Tristan moved forward a couple of paces, hoping to get a better look at some of the radiance stones, but his knee bumped into something in the murky water. He glanced down, only to jump back immediately, drawing his dreggan. The now-familiar clang of the blade as it leaped out the extra foot resounded down the length of the dark tunnel and echoed hollowly off its barren walls.

He was standing over a skeleton.

It was the full skeleton of a man, or at least he assumed it to have been a man, because of its size. The skull looked up at him with empty, yet somehow smirking eye sockets from just below the surface of the water, as if taunting him, laughing at him for being afraid. The bones were of the purest white; they seemed to shimmer in the light of the radiance stones.

He looked around in the strange, pale-green light of the tunnel to find that the dank water in which they were standing was quite full of them. The various bones had been polished clean by the ever-moving water, and lay at impossible angles in the tunnel, sometimes missing limbs, sometimes not. It was Shannon who first broke the silence—with his laughter.

“The prince frightens easily, does he not, considering that these poor fellows cannot fight back?” He laughed, holding his stomach, at the same time craftily eyeing the ale jug that was still attached to the prince’s saddle. “Don’t worry, my prince.” He snickered. “None of them can harm you. I would have thought that the old wizard might have told you about them before we entered the tunnel.” He continued to grin at the prince, enjoying the moment.

“1 would have thought so, as well,” Tristan said, eyeing Wigg as he returned the dreggan to its scabbard. He reached down and plucked one of the skeletons from the water, examining it for a cause of death. Unsatisfied, he dropped it back into the wet darkness that was the floor of the tunnel and looked at Wigg. “How did they get here?” he demanded. “What happened to them?”

Wigg took a long breath in through his nose and pursed his lips before answering. He clasped his hands in front of himself. “As to who they are, I really couldn’t say,” he explained. “But if they are what we expected them to be when we built in the tunnel’s safeguards three hundred years ago, I imagine they are the usual rabble that was so prevalent in those times: grave robbers, looters, common criminals, and gnome hunters.”

At the mention of gnome hunters, Tristan watched the smile vanish from Shannon’s face.

“The gnome hunters were most active near the end of the war, when there was very little control left over society,” Wigg went on. “This passageway is the last defense before entering Shadowood proper, and if anyone of unendowed blood or without the benefit of time enchantments enters this tunnel, they are recognized by the incantations we left behind, and immediately killed. Only gnomes are exempt.” Wigg looked down at the skeletons. “If these are gnome hunters, they were killed before the transformation of Shadowood, since their skeletons are still human. Obviously, a great many of them tried to get past and failed. I am glad to see that this trap, too, works as well as the day we left it here.”

As his eyes grew more adjusted to the light, Tristan could make out the skeletons of larger creatures that lay in the same watery graves as the remains of the humans. He saw the unmistakable skull and jaw of a horse, and then another, and then yet another. Beasts of burden for criminals and robbers, he thought. He stared incredulously at the sight before him. It’s like a ghastly, flooded cemetery with the lids of all the coffins removed.

Tristan looked back up at Wigg. “What killed them all?”

“Oh, they drowned,” the wizard said nonchalantly.

“How?”

“When the wrong person enters the tunnel, it immediately begins to fill with water from the falls. At such a fast rate, I might add, that escape is impossible,” Wigg explained. “We thought it rather a good idea at the time, since these falls had been known to have been here for centuries, and had never run dry.”

“How did they ever get this far?” Tristan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How did they get across the canyon to reach this far?”

Wigg smiled. He is beginning to think like the Chosen One. “If you remember, I said that the tunnel was created near the end of the war, as a precaution. At that time, the canyon had not yet been created. Each of these skeletons came to rest here long before the canyon or bridge existed.”

“Does this place have a name?” Tristan asked. Whether it had a name or not, he would not soon forget it, he told himself.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Wigg murmured.

“The Tunnel of Bones,” Shannon quietly interjected. His voice sounded small and far away, as though some of the bravado of before had left him. “That’s what we started to call it after the skeletons began to pile up in here. Somehow, the name just stuck.”

Wigg nodded thoughtfully. “The Tunnel of Bones it is,” he said. He looked at poor little Shannon, who was almost up to his neck in the cold, dank water.

“By the way,” the old wizard asked of the gnome. “How is it that you can traverse this tunnel without being of endowed blood?”

“One does not have to be of endowed blood, provided he has a brave heart,” Shannon answered, puffing out his chest. “I wade in the water in the dark, sometimes up to my chin, parting the bones as I go. It is not pleasant, but it is necessary. For Master Faegan, I would do anything.”

Wigg pursed his lips in thought. “Pick him up and put him on your horse, Tristan,” he said finally. “I’ll see what I can do to make this passage a little easier.”

Smiling, the prince reached down and hoisted the little gnome up into the saddle. When Shannon immediately began to eye the ale jug, Tristan shook his head and waggled a finger back and forth.

Tristan then watched curiously as Wigg waded several steps back down the length of the Tunnel of Bones from which they had come. The wizard raised his hands in the air and bowed his head. At once, the skeletons, human and beast alike, began to move.

They were crawling out of the water and wading slowly toward the sides of the tunnel.

Tristan stared at them, astonished. This can’t be happening. They have all been dead for hundreds of years.

Like some kind of macabre army of the dead, they looked about with empty, unseeing eye sockets and then walked to the edges of the tunnel walls, where they stood in long, silent lines that seemed stretch on forever. They looked like something from a bizarre nightmare as the water dripped from tneir bones, the pale-green light illuminating their stark whiteness against the dark walls behind them. Even though they had perished hundreds of years ago, Tristan could almost smell the death in the air.

Their path now clear, Wigg turned around to look at the speechless prince and gnome, raising the familiar eyebrow as if he were displeased with them for some reason. “Don’t you think it time we left?” he asked. Without waiting for a response, he collected the reins to his horse and began to lead the way down the tunnel.

They waded through the Tunnel of Bones for a good hour, the silent, white sentinels of the dead never moving from their positions against the walls as the three of them passed by. They walked in silence, even Shannon the Small’s voice having been repressed by the sight before him. It was almost like passing through an honor guard of death, the pale-green light pointing up both the stark whiteness and murky shadows at once, the sound of the water dripping from the bones into the darkness of the tunnel strangely loud in the silence. There must have been hundreds of them.

Finally, blessedly, Wigg stopped at what appeared to be the far end of the tunnel. The entrance was blocked by a large, round stone, but from around the edges Tristan could see shafts of natural sunlight here and there, pricking their way through from the outside.

Wigg turned around and silently motioned for Tristan and Shannon to step behind him, their backs to the circular rock that blocked the tunnel. Then he stretched his arms out straight ahead, pointing down the tunnel, and closed his eyes. Almost immediately the skeletons began falling back into the dirty water of the passageway, bobbing oddly, almost as if they had just been freshly killed. One by one they fell, all the way down the dark tunnel, until their tumblings could only be heard and no longer seen.

When the splashing stopped, Wigg turned his attention back to the circular stone door. It was as if he were looking for something in particular. At last he cast his aquamarine eyes up toward the gnome, still perched atop Tristan’s horse. “I assume, since you come and go through here often, that you know where the lever is,” he said without pretense. “I can only imagine that it has been moved in the interest of security at least once over the course of the last three centuries. The Faegan I knew would have insisted upon it.”

“Of course,” Shannon said confidently. It was obvious that the gnome enjoyed the fact that the wizard was now, finally, asking for his help. “It was moved from its original position to there, where I could more easily reach it.” He pointed to a dark, square spot on the wall down near the surface of the water. “The panel can be slid away either manually or by the use of the craft. The lever you seek is behind it.”

Wigg pointed two of his long, ancient fingers at the dark spot, and the square retreated back into the wall and slid to one side. Peering into the resulting hole, Tristan could see a rather long stone lever that seemed to be hewn into the rock. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Wigg.

“Not everything is better left to the devices of magic, Tristan,” Wigg said as if he were still reciting one of his lectures back at the Wizards’ Conservatory in Tammerland. “As I told you, gnomes are not gifted with the craft. Therefore, Shannon had to be given some way to move the stone manually.” He thought to himself for a moment before speaking again. Finally, he said, “Would you care to do the honors?”

Tristan breathed in sharply, eyes widening. Then he handed the reins to Shannon, waded over to the lever in the wall, and looked up at Wigg.

The old wizard gazed deeply, seriously, into Tristan’s eyes. “What you are about to see, you are to tell to no one,” he said, scowling slightly and looking down his nose for emphasis. “Too many lives are at stake.”

“I understand,” Tristan said. He pulled up on the lever, and the great stone blocking the end of the tunnel began to roll away to the right, allowing some of the water on the tunnel floor to begin to gush out. Squinting into the bright afternoon sun, Wigg and Tristan led their horses out and remounted, Tristan settling in front of Shannon on Pilgrim’s back.

As his eyes began to adjust to the brightness, Tristan looked down the long, gradual grassy slope upon which they were standing. At the bottom of the slope he could see a great many huge, gnarled trees, like those they had seen that morning. But at last he looked upward, at the branches of the trees, and he understood. The gnomes lived above ground, in the trees.

There were literally hundreds of tree houses. They were fashioned of the same kind of wood as the trees they were built in, and most of them had bridges that connected them to each other, not unlike the bridge over the canyon. There were windows, balconies, porches, and chimneys, and if the houses had been upon the ground instead of in the trees, no one would have given them a second glance, except, of course, for their smaller proportions, scaled to gnomes. Curiously, each of the houses had a large, flat platform constructed both above and beneath it that completely encircled both the house and the tree in which it was built. As they approached more closely, Tristan realized that something didn’t seem right about these woods.

Then it hit him. There is no one here! Their city in the trees is deserted. Suddenly a group of gnomes, all male, rounded the corner of the village on foot, brandishing weapons such as longbows, crossbows, and spears. There must have been at least two hundred of them, and Tristan could see that they were both angry and afraid. From what Shannon has told us, none of these little people have seen any man but Faegan for over three hundred years, Tristan reflected. They probably think we are gnome hunters, come to kill them and take their women.

Reflexively, he pulled his dreggan from its scabbard, and just as quickly he saw Wigg turn toward him with a look that spoke volumes. “Put that away, right now,” the wizard said through clenched teeth, “unless you want to lose Faegan forever. Besides, the gnomes may be small, but they can fight like lions. We would be forced to kill a great number of them before they finally backed off. We are here to see Faegan, not to start another war. There is a much better way to handle this.” The wizard looked at Shannon, who was still sitting on Pilgrim, just behind Tristan. “Go to them,” he ordered the gnome. “Now.” He stiffened a little in his saddle as he contemplated his next words. “Make them understand that you brought us here to see their master, nothing more. I do not wish to cause any harm to them, but if I have to, I shall.” He looked down the hill to see that the gnomes had begun to approach within longbow range. Wigg pushed his tongue against the inside of one of his cheeks, then let out a long breath as he scowled at the gnome. “I suggest you go now!”

Shannon jumped to the ground and began running toward his fellows as fast as his little legs could carry him. They began to crowd around him, shouting in strange, scratchy voices and pointing excitedly at Tristan and Wigg. Shannon was hopping around in desperation, obviously trying to make them understand that they had much more to lose by fighting the Lead Wizard and the prince than they did by letting them pass. After several minutes of commotion, they finally settled down and allowed Shannon to walk back up the slope to Tristan and Wigg.

The little gnome stuck his thumbs in his bibs and pushed them outward with pride. “I have arranged safe passage for you to see Master Faegan,” he said, fairly bursting with himself. He waved a cautionary finger into the two faces that looked down on him from their horses. “It’s a good thing for you that I was here, or else you would have tasted their wrath. No one has successfully visited here for over three centuries.” He looked at the ale jug that was tied to the back of Tristan’s saddle. “I need a drink,” he said commandingly.

Wigg glanced at the gnome with a combination of disbelief and rather undisguised contempt. “Yes,” the old one said slowly, as he scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know how we could ever have done it without you.” He glanced at Tristan, his infamous left eyebrow raised. The prince smiled knowingly back in return. Wigg looked at the prideful little gnome. “You may lead us through the village, Your Highness,” the old one said.

Oblivious to the wizard’s sarcasm, Shannon began to lead them down the hill.

As the crowd of angry gnomes parted to allow them entrance to the village, Tristan had a chance to study the tree houses more closely. They were really quite extraordinary, each one unique in its craftsmanship, and looked to be as sturdily built as anything he had seen upon the ground. And then he began to see the gnomes’ wives and children as they popped their heads out of windows and emerged onto balconies to watch the strangely dressed giants riding past their homes. Occasionally he caught the scent of a freshly baked loaf of bread, or a pie that was resting on an open windowsill.

Tristan once again looked at the platforms that had been built above and below each of the houses, and understanding dawned. The platforms are a guard against the berserkers, he realized.

Tristan looked down to the gnome. “Shannon,” he asked, “is there a name for this place?”

“Of course,” the little one said. “It is called Tree Town. Simple and to the point, don’t you think?”

Tree Town, Tristan thought. Where we will finally find Faegan and, hopefully, the answers to so many of our questions.

Shannon stopped at last in front of the largest tree the prince had ever seen. It would have taken Pilgrim at least fifty steps to walk its circumference. The branches reached endlessly into the cool air of the coming night, and ensconced in them was by far the largest tree house he had seen that day. It was several stories high, built of very dark wood, and seemed to go on forever Soft, yellow light glowed in the many windows, and several of the chimneys were smoking. The gentle, sweet sounds of a violin began to waft out of the house, floating down to their ears.

It was like looking into a dream.

This is where he lives, Tristan said to himself. He felt a sudden rush of endowed blood through his veins. I know he is here. I can feel it.

Uncharacteristically quiet, Shannon the Small beckoned them closer to the trunk of the great tree. “My master awaits you,” he said reverently. “He will know you are here.”

Suddenly a section of the tree trunk began to pivot open. Larger and larger the opening became, until it was the size of a doorway. Shannon pointed. “This way,” he said simply, and he walked inside, into the darkness.

Tristan touched Wigg on the arm before the old one could enter the great tree. “Do you sense him? Is he here?”

Wigg took a deep breath and closed his eyes before responding. “There is someone here of endowed blood,” he said cautiously. He looked into Tristan’s eyes. “Someone with a very long lifeline.”

They stepped into the tree next to the gnome, and the trunk closed and sealed itself behind them.

19

The rising breeze billowed softly through the open window of Shailiha’s quarters, admitting with it the promise of a beautiful morning, along with the scent of the bugaylea trees that had just come to bloom in her private garden. Dawn light poured generously into the chamber and twinkled on the mirrors and decorative pieces in the sumptuous room. But the beauty of the room belied the seriousness of what was taking place inside it. Normally the princess would have awakened to find great joy in such a morning, here, in Parthalon, with her Sisters. But today it was not to be.

For today Shailiha did not awaken.

When her handmaidens discovered her writhing in her bed, screaming, they found they could not bring her to consciousness. Without delay, they sent one of them running to Failee. The First Mistress had come immediately, and had also summoned the other mistresses of the Coven to join her at Shailiha’s bedside. For the last hour they had been standing around the princess’ bed in relative silence, the only communication between them the blatant, castigating glances from Succiu to her lead mistress. With a wave of the hand, Failee finally dismissed the weeping handmaidens from the room.

Failee at first feared that Shailiha had not been able to withstand the intensity of the Chimeran Agony she had placed on the young woman the previous night. When the First Mistress had had the inert princess moved from the small stone room, bathed, dressed in her original clothing, and placed back in her own bed, she had not been concerned. But the princess’ inability to wake up the following morning was A Mgü, and she knew that Shailiha was now at the crossroads of her sanity.

Without yet having completely forgotten her memories. Without yet having completely become one of them.

Failee extended her right hand and placed it on Shailiha’s abdomen, closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. Immediately the princess began to calm, and although her eyes did not open she stopped writhing and calling out the names that she had been screaming all morning.

The names of her family in Eutracia.

“Her unborn is well, and shall be delivered soon,” Failee said in a quiet voice. “At the very least, we shall gain that much. And Sister Shailiha is also well, in the physical sense.” She looked up into each pair of the other six eyes in turn, so that the woman standing before her would not miss her meaning. “Her psyche, however, namely that which makes her who and what she is, is damaged. Perhaps beyond repair. She may never come back to us. At least not in the way that we would like. If she does not find her way out of her memories, she may remain like she is now for all time, and quite useless to us.” The First Mistress turned decisively from the bed and walked to one of the windows, lost in her thoughts.

It was Succiu who took the lead in criticizing her. “First the blood stalkers, and then the screaming harpies, both alerting the Directorate to the possibility of our existence! And now this!” she exclaimed with fire in her eyes. She glared at the First Mistress’ back as Failee continued to gaze peacefully out the window. “Have you lost your mind? Does your hatred of Wigg so completely blind you to what is happening to Sister Shailiha? Need I remind you that it is paramount we have her able to help us in our plans? If Shailiha dies, we will be forced to wait until her daughter gains the maturity to understand our cause and can be fully trained in the craft. And what of her daughter’s blood? What if it is not equal to that of her mother, eh? Do you not remember that Frederick, her husband, was of unendowed blood? Had you considered that when you began these Agonies of yours? How can you take this so calmly?” Frustrated and seething, Succiu stood her ground in a rare display of disrespect, her knuckles white, her eyes angry slits.

Despite all of their knowledge and power, my other Sisters are still as children compared to me, Failee thought serenely, still looking out the window. Only a complete study of the Vagaries can bring one to the place of enlightenment that I have found, and therefore to the understanding that I now alone possess. They must follow me, as they always have. They have no choice. They never will.

She turned calmly to face Succiu. “Of course I took that into consideration. The fact of the matter is that Sister Shailiha is now, finally, in precisely the mental state I need to invoke the last of the Chimeran Agonies. That is, she is now on the cusp of madness. The last of the Agonies will occur tonight, whether she regains consciousness or not. We cannot afford to wait. Her mind, because of the quality of the endowed blood that flows through her, still tenaciously grips the distant memories of her previous life. But this time there is a difference. She now believes that her memories are the true cause of her Agonies. Therefore Shailiha is finally ready to make the last leap away from her past life, and into a life with us.” Failee smiled slowly. “She finally, truly, wants her memories dead. Her memories shall die tonight, or she will. In any event, we will still have the child. And I believe there is little question that the child will be endowed, given the unprecedented quality of Shailiha’s blood. If she begins to die I will induce labor, and her daughter will be born and will know nothing except us. Either way, success will be ours.” She returned to the bedside.

Succiu was still angry, as were Vona and Zabarra, but she was also intrigued with what Failee was saying. She arched an eyebrow at the First Mistress. “And just how is it that she will now succeed in finally killing off these memories of hers?” she asked. “What will be different about it this time?”

“She can only withstand one more such experience. To make her successful, we must be sure that the final Chimeran Agony threatens to take from her that which she cherishes most: namely, her unborn child. And whoever threatens her unborn will be the recipient of both her hatred and her untapped powers.”

Succiu thought for a moment in silence, beginning to understand. “And just who will it be who threatens her unborn in her next dream’?” she asked, smiling for the first time that morning. She thought she already knew the answer.

“Why, my dear Sister,” Failee replied, “her attackers will of course be the very memories she wants to destroy.”

Shailiha turned in the silk sheets of her bed, and her eyes opened partway. The morning sunlight had been replaced with the dusky, violet hues of early evening, and a distinct coolness had begun to waft into the room through the still-open windows. The night sounds of the tree frogs and nesting birds had begun, and the air had the hint of scent that always preceded a night rain. Someone had already lit the oil sconces on the walls, and their light was gradually taking over the room. Yet she saw nothing except what was being created in her mind; she neither heard nor smelled anything other than the creations of the visions that tormented her.

And they went on and on in her bedroom, her prison, her mind. She had been like this for the entire day, and had taken no food or water. Her handmaidens had been by her side the entire time, to see that she didn’t harm herself. Failee had been in every hour to check on her, and to make sure that her condition had not worsened. If Shailiha began to die, the First Mistress needed to be ready to induce labor and take the child. Failee had considered commencing the last of the Chimeran Agonies immediately but changed her mind, remembering that the Vagaries promised a more effective resolution if the spell was cast at night. And so they had all waited for the coming night, hoping that the princess did not perish from her torment before Failee could once again use the craft.

Shailiha opened her hazel eyes once more, but instead of seeing the beauty of her bedroom, she saw only images of horror and confusion. People, places, and things flew by in an incoherent pattern. Some of the people tried to speak to her, but she could hear nothing. An older man with a gray beard and dark blue robes, an oddly shaped stone hanging around his neck, accompanied a woman of great beauty, with hair like Shailiha’s own. Another old man, this one with a stern face and a funny braid of hair down the back of his neck, came and went repeatedly, simply walking by in his gray robes as if she did not exist. Then another younger and much more handsome man came near, dressed in a black vest and knee boots, who looked quizzically through the fog at her. She tried to run to him but found herself unable to move. She then saw another man, large, with a great brown beard, who simply looked at her and cried. He cried for a very long time, until suddenly his head fell away from his body in a great sheet of blood. She screamed frantically and tried to reach him, but he was already dead. And then had come the pretty women.

First the older one with the gray-streaked hair, and then the beautiful, exotic-looking one with the silken black hair that reached to her waist. After them had come the blond and the redhead, each of them dressed in amazingly beautiful gowns, calling to her to join them. Join them and be happy. Join them and bring her unborn child, and live with them in a huge castle. As Sisters.

Looking out into the fog but now seeing no one, she clutched at her abdomen and sadly, quietly, began to call out names. Names that came from nowhere, and went to the same nonexistent place. Names that had no meaning to her.

Then everything began to spin again, and she saw nothing.

It was the sharp, pulling pain in her left shoulder that woke her again. She had tried to turn over in her sleep but had been unable to do so. There was something unusually hard and unyielding at her back. She opened her eyes and immediately let out a scream that never wanted to end.

She was back in the little stone room again, except this time things were different.

This time she couldn’t get up, and the bed she was lying on was made of stone.

She raised her head as best as she could and found that her hands were secured to the great stone with iron rings. Looking down the length of her blue silk sleeping gown, she realized that her feet were flat upon the bed. Her knees were up and apart, and iron rings ran around her ankles and secured them to the surface of the stone. Her bedclothes had tumbled down the lengths of her thighs and collected in her lap. She felt horribly naked, exposed. And then the realization came to her. This was not a bed. Beds weren’t made of stone.

The very large stone on which she lay was the same size as her bed. It sat directly in the center of the small room. Yet everything else about the chamber was as she had remembered it. The stone walls and ceiling, the absence of a door, and the oil sconces on the walls were all just the same as before. But unlike before, the room was dead silent, as still as a tomb. Nothing is happening to me, she realized. The conversely bizarre nature of that thought made her tremble with the panic that already had her in its grip. And she was becoming cold.

Water vapor was condensing in the air each time she let out a breath. Still, there was no movement, no sound. She lay very still with her eyes wide, terrorized and afraid to move, as if the slightest bit of motion might bring forth something even more terrible.

And then she heard them.

Soft at first, it almost sounded like music. But then the sounds grew closer and more recognizable. It isn’t music. It’s voices! And they were becoming louder.

Slowly, five hooded figures appeared. At first all she could see was the outline of their black robes as they materialized, the cowls hiding their faces. And then they were suddenly standing a short distance from the end of the stone altar, looking at her, their hands folded in front of them as they moaned and wailed, the foglike vapor streaming from their mouths.

It wasn’t until they raised their faces in unison to look upon her that she screamed again.

The laces were identical, each of them out of some kind of nightmare. They were long and pale green, the eyes mere sockets in the heads, the skin surrounding them decayed and falling off in places. The mouths were wide and angular, with black teeth and dripping drool. Their smiles were monstrous as they came closer to the foot of the altar, nearer her feet, nearer to her nakedness.

She began screaming at them in earnest, crying wildly, tears streaming down her face. Terrified of what they might do next, she was straining so violently at the unforgiving iron rings around her wrists and ankles that she knew she was starting to bleed. And still the hooded figures came.

“Go away!” she begged, bucking against the harsh stone of the altar. “I have nothing that you could want!” She laid her head back against the cold stone, on the verge of giving up. Then, faintly, she whimpered, “Please, please let me live.” At the very edge of madness, she closed her eyes in resignation knowing she was powerless to stop whatever was about to happen.

She could feel their hands and fingers on her, touching and stroking her inner thighs as they gathered around the altar, grinning and moaning in quiet, almost murmured tones. And then the fingers of one of them began to probe her, painfully violating her. She tried to close her legs, but the iron rings held her fast, and all she could do was scream and strain against the altar. And then she knew.

They’re here to take my child. My unborn child. She could feel the drool that ran from the five gaping mouths dripping sickeningly upon her thighs and groin, and knew she was about to vomit.

Her mind on the very cusp of madness, she let out a long, final scream of agony.

And that was when everything changed.

Suddenly things were clear, and she was amazingly unafraid. She stopped resisting, and the irises of her hazel eyes receded deeply up under her eyelids. She suddenly felt something cold and hard in her right hand and, looking over at it, saw that she was holding one of the long, curved swords that she had seen the winged protectors of her Sisters carry in and around the castle. Her ankles and hands were free of the iron rings, which had vanished. She looked calmly up into the faces of her attackers.

Their faces had changed. They were now faces that she had seen before—faces she hated with all her heart and soul.

One had become the older man with the gray beard and strange stone about his neck. Another had become the elderly man with the gray tail of hair down the back of his neck, and yet another was the beautiful woman with the hair like her own. The fourth one had be come the man with the great brown beard and hair that was thinning at the temples, and the last was the handsome young man in the black vest, with a strange-looking gold medallion around his neck. And they were trying to take her child.

The figure with his hands inside her was the one with the gray tail of hair, and he died first.

As she jumped to her feet upon the altar, she swung the heavy sword with confidence, as if she had been doing it all of her life. The old one’s head rolled off his body and landed on the cold stone floor, his hands and body vaporizing. Then came the man with the brown beard. He died the same way, as did then the woman with the blond hair and blue eyes. But the man with the gray beard and the stone around his neck was trying to penetrate her, reaching up to put his hands where the hands of the old one had once been. Shailiha cut his extended arm off first, then swung for his neck, his head rolling bloodlessly, almost gracefully, to the floor as had the others.

And then the only one left was the handsome young man. He was not trying to reach up to her as the others had been, but rather was looking up at her strangely, as if he knew her. He was crying.

Pausing, she calmly looked down at the medallion around his neck. Neither the sword nor the lion, engraved in the twinkling gold, meant anything to her. Raising her face back up to his, she slowly pointed the dreggan at him and smiled, as if to calm his fears.

Something told her to press the lever on the sword hilt, and the blade obediently launched itself out another foot, shooting through the young man’s throat and exiting the back of his neck. He crumpled to the ground bloodlessly and vaporized, the medallion that had been around his neck falling to the floor. Sneering, she dropped the sword to the floor with a noisy clang that echoed sharply off the walls of the oily stone room. Involuntarily, her eyes closed.

Immediately her mind swirled with a golden, intense, serene peace. It engulfed all of her senses and cascaded through her body in an ecstatic ripple of light and understanding as she raised her arms to the ceiling in newfound rapture. She stood that way for a long time, finally opening her eyes and looking around, as if seeing the room, her life, and herself for the first time.

Shailiha climbed down from the strange stone altar in the middle of the room, wondering why she was here, and not with the Sisters she loved so much. Looking around the room, she saw that a doorway had materialized, through which came the warm, golden light of the Recluse oil lamps, leading upward to the living quarters.

As she began to walk out, her foot struck something, and she bent over to see what was there. It was a gold medallion. She picked it up, and it twinkled in the light of the room as she held it before her face. She saw that it held the images of both a lion and a broadsword. It was pretty, so she placed it around her neck and tucked it beneath the blue silk bodice of her sleeping gown.

She walked confidently to the door, remembering nothing of what had happened in the room, and caring even less. No memories existed for her other than those of living here in the Recluse with her Sisters. She would gladly kill anyone or anything that endangered them.

She walked confidently out of the room and into the light. Shailiha was no longer the princess of Eutracia. She was now a mistress of the Coven.

The long-awaited fifth sorceress.

20

Shannon led the party of three up a ramp that snaked its way ever upward and around, inside the hollow body of the great old tree. The ramp, surprisingly, was made of blue Ephyran marble. Oil lamps mounted on the carved wooden walls gave off an eerie, shadowy light, and the air smelled of musty, dried wood. Finally they exited another door at the top of the ramp and found themselves looking into the living quarters of the wizard named Faegan. Without looking at Wigg, Tristan could feel the tension in the old one’s body.

“Wait here,” Shannon said simply. “I will see whether Master Faegan will admit you now.” He turned on his heel and waddled away, down one of the halls that stretched off to the right.

The room they were standing in was some kind of atrium, filled with unfamiliar plants of all descriptions and sizes. The walls and ceiling were made of glass, and when Tristan looked up he could see the stars, surrounded by the now-inky blue of night. The floors were of highly polished mahogany, and the air was perfumed with a blend of scents from the plants. Occasionally a gnome would come in and tend one or two of the plants, completely ignoring the two visitors.

Wigg walked slowly over to a potted tree and began to examine it closely. He rubbed several of its leaves, leaned in to smell them, and studied the twigs carefully. He turned to the prince. “I have not seen these plants for over three hundred years,” he said, putting a finger to his lips in thought. “I had assumed them all to be extinct. Near the end of the war the Coven burned all of the fields that contained them, so as to keep them from us. These are herbs, petals, and roots that are used in especially high disciplines of the craft, and some of them have value beyond measure. We have not been able to use them in all this time.” He took several steps back, obviously impressed, an emotion that was not often seen upon the face of the Lead Wizard. “Cat’s claw, sneezeweed, romainia, tulip of rokhana, and even sandalwood.” He pursed his lips. “It makes me wonder what else he has here in this place.” Concern lingered on his face.

Shannon returned and made a great show of removing the ever-present pipe from between his teeth. “The master will see you now,” he said imperiously. “He has instructed me to bring you to the music room.”

Tristan gave Wigg a quick, questioning glance as the two of them began to follow the gnome down one of the halls of highly polished wood.

“It would be best to let me do the talking,” the wizard told Tristan seriously. “I have known this man for a long time, although I must admit that nothing I see or hear this day will surprise me.”

As they walked along, Tristan began to hear the low, sad strains of a violin. The rich tones grew louder as the men neared the end of the hallway. At last they entered another room, and Tristan of the House of Galland was offered his first glimpse of Faegan, the rogue wizard.

He was not at all what the prince had expected.

A rough-hewn chair on wheels sat on a highly patterned woven rug in the middle of the large, expansive room, its back to the doorway, its violin-playing occupant facing the burning fireplace. Long, gray hair covered the shoulders of the simple black robe, almost touching the back of the invalid chair. A sudden, cruel memory of Succiu’s words came to Tristan from out of the past, words she had spoken to Wigg upon the dais of the Great Hall, the day the prince’s family and the Directorate of Wizards had all died. Tristan had not understood those words at the time. “You wasted your time and energy in erecting a memorial to Faegan, because he lives,” she had hissed. “In Shadowood, with his precious gnomes. And we’ve seen to it that he isn’t quite the man he used to be.” Now Tristan realized what she had meant. The Coven had destroyed his legs.

A dark-blue cat with a silver chain around its neck sat patiently on the floor next to the man in the chair and stared at the visitors, unperturbed. But there is no such thing as a dark-blue cat, Tristan thought. He slowly took his eyes off the animal and took in the room around him.

The wizard in the chair may have looked shabby, but the room was sumptuous. Musical instruments lined the walls, tomes and sheet music filled the bookcases and littered the tabletops. Oil chandeliers gave the room a pleasant, welcoming glow, and a hint of jasmine combined with the musty smell of old memories filled the air. A small table stood near the chair, holding a crystal goblet half filled with red wine. Tristan took another tentative step forward to stand next to Wigg.

And then the music stopped, the violin came down, and the wizard turned his chair around to face them.

Tristan had never believed he would see a pair of eyes more intense—or more beautiful—than Wigg’s. But he had been wrong. Faegan’s eyes were even more amazing.

Large and heavily hooded, they stared back at Tristan with absolute candor and calmness. A calmness born of power. The gray irises were huge, flecked with strange green motes that made the eyes look rather like continuously turning kaleidoscopes. Over the eyes rested long, arched brows; the gray hair was rather raggedly parted down the middle and fell over his shoulders. A large, hawklike nose hung over a long, thin-lipped mouth. The strong jaw commanded respect.

Tristan felt the silence in the room thicken as Faegan turned his gaze to Wigg.

“I have brought with me Tristan of the House of Galland, Prince of Eutracia,” Wigg said carefully. The Lead Wizard let his words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “He is the Chosen One for whom we have waited so long.”

“Come to me,” Faegan told the prince.

Tristan began to take a step toward the wizard when Wigg reached out a hand to stop him.

“I understand your concern, Wigg,” Faegan said. “It has indeed been a long time, and there is a great deal that needs to be said. But surely you must know I would not hurt him for all the world. Is he not the one for whom we have waited so long?” He held his hand out to the prince.

Wigg’s hand dropped to his side, and Tristan walked to the wizard in the chair.

“Bend over and look into my eyes,” Faegan commanded. Tristan did as he was told, and almost immediately became lost in the swirling green motes. It was like being caught in a bottomless whirlpool of color. The wizard held his gaze for what felt like a long time.

“You may rise, Tristan,” Faegan said. He looked at Wigg. “You have seen the azure aura about him with your own eyes?”

“Yes,” Wigg answered curtly.

“And you were also there at his birth, as the Prophecies describe?”

“Yes.”

“Other than the occasion of his birth, when was it that you first saw the aura?” Faegan’s attention was completely on Wigg now, and Tristan could see that his questions were not to be denied. There was an unmistakable aura of power in this crippled wizard that seemed to command everyone and everything in his presence.

“The same day that he discovered the Caves of the Paragon,” Wigg answered. “Just after I killed a blood stalker.”

At the mention of the blood stalker, Faegan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, letting out a small sigh.

“It was Phillius,” Wigg added. “I identified him from the birthmark on his forearm. I burned the body and returned the battle axe to be interred in the wizards’ crypt. There was also a screaming harpy, attacking the palace courtyard. I killed her, too, with a wizard’s cage.”

Faegan looked down at the useless feet covered by the black robe and then turned his wheelchair around to face the open glass doors of a balcony. He wheeled himself out onto it and sat there silently, looking at the trees.

Despite the fact that this wizard had supposedly been a traitor and was, at the very least, partly responsible for the abduction of his sister and the destruction of his family, Tristan began to feel a certain compassion for the old man. The prince began to take a step forward to join Faegan on the balcony when Wigg stopped him, shaking his head.

Faegan finally broke the silence. “Shannon, you may leave us now,” he said quietly.

Tristan had completely forgotten the little man was still there. Now he turned to watch the gnome obediently leave the room and walk back down the hall from which they had come.

“So the Chosen One discovered the Caves on his own, before the coronation?” Faegan asked, his face still toward the crashing sea.

“Yes,” Wigg answered.

“Interesting.” Faegan sighed. “And the Tome—the three volumes are still intact, still safe, the wizard’s warp effectively guarding the entrance to the tunnel near the falls?”

“Yes,” Wigg replied. “The prince got his first taste of a warp when he tried to enter the tunnel.” By his tone it was apparent that the Lead Wizard was tiring of answering questions and was eager to ask a few of his own.

“I therefore assume, given the nature of everything that has happened, that you have informed Tristan his training cannot begin until he reads the Prophecies, and that he cannot do that without the stone?” the crippled wizard asked. Faegan seemed particularly interested in the answer to this question. He abruptly turned his chair around to face them. “I can easily discern the hunger for knowledge in his eyes, Wigg,” he added. “More so than anyone of endowed blood that I have ever seen. But then again, it’s what we expected, is it not?”

“Tristan has been informed of the nature of his responsibilities, his potential power, and his impending training,” Wigg said impatiently. He glared menacingly at the older wizard with an intensity that Tristan believed could scorch the very air that surrounded them.

“You may say what is on your mind, Wigg,” Faegan said gently. “I am reasonably sure I know what it is.”

Wigg took a step forward and pointed a long, bony finger at the seated man. “I should kill you where you stand,” he snarled, the words barely a whisper. The threat came out like venom from the mouth of an angry viper. “Or in your case, where you sit.”

Tristan watched the crippled wizard’s face for a reaction to the insulting reference to his disability. There was none.

“Foolishness was never one of your traits, Wigg,” Faegan said serenely, shaking his head. “I do not recommend you take it up now. I could kill you with a single thought, and you know it. You, however, cannot do the same to me.” He wheeled himself to the small table, lifted the wineglass to his lips, and swallowed slowly. “The ironic truth is that I am not your enemy, and we desperately need each other now, if there is to be any hope of putting things right. There is still a great deal that you do not know, Lead Wizard, and there is little, if any, time left in which to act.”

Faegan looked down at the dark-blue cat and motioned with his index finger. Immediately the cat jumped up into his lap.

Tristan thought that he could see some softening in Wigg’s face. A memory, perhaps. But it was not so touching that Wigg was ready to trust Faegan again—least of all with their lives.

Wigg pointed to the cat in Faegan’s lap. “Nicodemus, I presume?”

“Your memory is still as sharp as ever,” Faegan replied, smiling for the first time. “Proof that time enchantments can work well on animals, also.”

Tristan had suddenly had quite enough of all of this useless conversation. He took two steps closer to the chair-bound wizard and looked deeply into the strange gray eyes. The gold medallion around his neck fell forward, twinkling brightly in the light of the fireplace.

“My family and the Directorate have been murdered, the only sibling I shall ever have is with the Coven, the nation that I love lies in tatters, and you are busy being coy with your secrets,” he said firmly. “I want some answers, and I want them now! I am only interested in what became of my sister and the part you may or may not have played in it.” He turned around and gave Wigg a hard look, putting the Lead Wizard also on notice before returning his gaze to Faegan. “It seems all the two of you want to do is discuss three-hundred-year-old cats!” He could feel his endowed blood rising in his veins, and he silently vowed to get his answers, or die trying. He had come too far to be stopped by yet another arcane relic from the distant past, no matter how powerful this wizard was purported to be.

As if Tristan did not exist, Faegan turned to Wigg. His response was unexpected. “I’m sure you were intrigued with the plants in my atrium. I have something to show you,” he said wryly. One corner of his thin-lipped mouth mischievously turned up into a smile, and something about that grin told Tristan that there would be more smiles from the wizard before their time here was over. “I believe it will surprise you,” Faegan continued. “True, there is much yet to talk about this night, but please do me the honor of indulging the ego of a lonely, eccentric old wizard who rarely has the opportunity to receive guests.”

Without waiting for an answer, Faegan began wheeling himself toward another of the many highly polished wooden hallways, Nicodemus still in his lap.

Tristan started to ask Wigg a question, but before he could speak the Lead Wizard shook his head and replied. “Yes,” Wigg said, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek in frustration, “this is indeed how he always was. Maddening, isn’t it? Because his power was so much greater than that of the rest of us, we were always obliged to follow his lead, including trying to keep up with his amazing mind as it careened off in various directions. He was famous for it. And now, to this day, except for being in that chair, it seems nothing about him has really changed.” The old one sighed resignedly. “I suppose we must follow him, but stay behind me, and be careful. His motives are still unclear to me.”

The hallways seemed never-ending, reminding the prince of the sheer size of this mansion in the trees. Once again the oil lamps of the passageways gave off their soft, translucent hues, and the clean, luxurious scent of the highly polished wooden floors and walls permeated Tristan’s nostrils. Finally, after what seemed an interminable walk, Faegan stopped before a pair of large double doors. He pointed one of his long, angular fingers at the doors, and they dutifully opened. The old wizard beckoned for Wigg and Tristan to follow him through.

What Tristan saw below him took his breath away.

The three of them were standing on a brass-railed balcony, overlooking a lush garden of the most wildly colored plants and trees Tristan had ever seen. The soft, grassy floor was at least fifty feet below them, and it stretched on for hundreds of feet in each direction. The walls and ceilings were made of glass, and the prince could see the evening stars and the three red Eutracian moons through the shiny, transparent ceiling above them. The atmosphere was warm and humid; the sights and smells of the incredible gardens below him were absolutely overpowering. I have been here before, he thought. Or at least someplace just like it. And then it hit him. The Hartwick Woods. The amazing area that surrounds the entrance to the Caves. It’s just like being back there again. Totally overwhelmed, he simply had to ask.

“Faegan, what is this place?” the prince asked. “I feel that I have been here before.”

“In some ways, you have,” the old wizard replied as he stroked the head of his cat, his impish grin beginning to resurface. “This is my private atrium, in which are kept the most exotic of all of the plants and trees that we wizards once used in the practice of the craft. And yes, many of those you see before you also exist in the Hartwick Woods, but not the truly rare and valuable ones.” His face began to darken again. “Those same fragile plants that the Coven supposedly destroyed during the war I have been able, over the course of the last three centuries, not only to recultivate but to cause to flourish here, under my care.” Faegan glanced out over the scene below him. “Their value is beyond description.”

It was then that Tristan noticed the anomaly. In the center of the garden was a clearing, and in the clearing was a circular floor of brightly polished lavender marble, shot through with streaks of indigo. But that was where the similarity to any other floor the prince had ever seen ended. All around the circumference of the circular marble floor were additional pieces of marble, such as would make up the spokes of a wagon wheel. At the top of each of the spaces, inlaid into the marble, were the letters of the Eutracian alphabet, in a very antiquated and flourishing script. Each one had its own space, and as the prince looked farther he could see that they began at the top of the great wheel with the letter A and continued around in a clockwise direction, in alphabetical order, the Z finally in place just to the left of the A.

It was Wigg who broke the silence and asked the obvious question, the infamous eyebrow arching higher than ever. “And just what, pray tell, does a marble schoolchild’s alphabet have to do with growing the plants of the craft?” he asked. Tristan noticed that Wigg’s tone had become unusually harsh, and for a brief moment he wondered why. But suddenly his mind was taken up with Faegan’s response.

“I needed some help,” the elder wizard replied, still calmly stroking the purring Nicodemus. “I may be Faegan,” he added imperiously, “but after all, I’m still in a wheelchair.”

“Explain,” Wigg demanded.

“Why don’t I just show you both, instead?” Faegan said, smiling again. “I believe you will be much more impressed with the display than with only the spoken word.”

At this Faegan raised his hands and closed his eyes. Immediately one of the glass sections of the ceiling began to hinge up and away, opening the garden to the sky. The cool night breeze began to waft into the great room, carrying the scents of the plants ever farther up to the three of them on the balcony.

Faegan turned to Wigg, his countenance more serious than before. “Observe, Lead Wizard,” he said calmly. “Behold our friends once again.”

Almost immediately the giant butterflies called the Fliers of the Fields began to pour in through the opening in the roof, so many in fact that at first Tristan thought they would collide with each other, even though previous experience told him that they never would.

There were hundreds of them. They swooped and darted, careened and wheeled through the air of the atrium, some of them occasionally landing on the plants. A small squadron of the most colorful and vibrant of them came to rest on another brass rail that was attached to a nearby glass wall, not too far from where the three men were observing them. They were magnificent.

“Ask them a question,” Faegan said to Wigg, as if such an incredible demand were an everyday occurrence.

Wigg’s mouth fell partly open with shock, a look that Tristan had seen only a few times in his life on the face of the Lead Wizard.

“Wha—what?” Wigg whispered, his voice suddenly seeming ragged and small.

“As I said,” Faegan ordered imperiously, looking up at Wigg. “Ask them a question.”

“Are you mad?” Wigg retorted. “I will not talk to butterflies! Such a thing is not possible, even for you!” In defiance, he placed each of his hands into the opposite sleeve of his robe and hardened his jaw.

“Simply because you have been Lead Wizard for the last three centuries does not preclude you from learning something, especially from me,” Faegan said, his eyes narrowing at Wigg. Tristan was awestruck. He had never heard anyone speak to Wigg that way, not even his father, the king. “Now, as I said, ask them a question,” Faegan continued. “And kindly address those fliers that sit on the brass rail beside us.”

Wigg was obviously furious—so much so that Tristan thought he might soon see steam rising from the top of the Lead Wizard’s head. Finally, and with apparently great effort upon his part, Wigg seemed to gain greater control over himself. He turned to face the fliers sitting quietly on the rail.

“What is the name of your master?” Wigg asked them sarcastically, still apparently not believing that he was actually doing such a childish thing.

What Tristan saw next would remain lodged in his memories forever.

Immediately one of the fliers took off in the direction of the floor, gracefully soaring down toward the marble area until it had neatly landed upon the letter F. Holding his breath, the prince watched in awe as the remaining fliers took off from their perches, each of them landing upon a letter engraved in the circular floor until they had, in turn, landed upon one of the letters, two of them now side by side upon one of them. Tristan followed the order in which they landed.

F-A-E-G-A-N.

Such a thing is not possible! Tristan stared in disbelief. It simply cannot be.

But the fliers continued to sit quietly upon the marble floor, their diaphanous, colorful wings slowly opening and closing as if in anticipation of the next question.

Faegan wasted no time in pouring salt into Wigg’s fresh wounds. “Still don’t believe me, Lead Wizard?” he asked gloatingly. “You certainly haven’t changed much in the last three centuries, have you? Still as stubborn as a Eutracian mule. Would you like to try another question, just to make sure? Or can’t you get your mouth to work?”

They’re behaving like two novices competing at the Wizards’ Conservatory, Tristan thought. So this is what is was like between them three hundred years ago. And this is why Wigg is so angry. It’s jealousy! An emotion I doubt he has had to deal with for over three hundred years, since there was no other wizard superior to him in his use of the craft. Tristan smiled to himself.

Until now.

Wigg just stood there, seemingly frozen in time, as if the scene below him was simply not registering in his brain. Quickly he turned back to Faegan.

“Is it true?” he demanded. Tristan thought he could see an angry vein beginning to throb in the Lead Wizards forehead. “Did you truly find the key to communicating with the animal world?”

“If you’re asking me whether I can talk to the animals, the answer is decidedly no.” Faegan sniffed. “At least not yet. But with the fliers I have achieved a rudimentary level of correspondence.” He smiled again. “Go ahead, skeptic. Ask another question of them. Ask as many as you like. Prove it to yourself”

This time Wigg needed no coaxing, his curiosity having at least temporarily won out over his contest of wills with Faegan. He leaned over the rail slightly and shouted, “Please, fliers, tell me the name of the stone that controls the power of magic!”

Immediately the giant butterflies that were perched upon the letters took to the air, fluttered their colorful, diaphanous wings, then began to descend once again—this time upon some different letters. Tristan watched, carefully noting the order in which they landed. And then he stared in awe at the circular floor, his mouth open in amazement. P-A-R-A-G-O-N.

“How?” Wigg demanded. “How did you do it? The entire Directorate tried for over three hundred years to accomplish such a thing, and even then we were unsuccessful. You could never have accomplished this on your own! It has to be a trick!”

“No trick, Lead Wizard,” Faegan gloated. “That is why I made you ask your own questions, so that you could be sure.” He put a finger to his lips and seemed to ponder a thought, with a new twinkle now in his eyes and the playful smile returning. “If, however, you still require proof, I’m sure something can be arranged.” Looking up directly at Tristan, he added, “Perhaps we should take some of the starch out of his attitude.”

The wizard in the chair closed his eyes, and several of the fliers that had been circling the room quickly soared up to hover in a riotous pattern of color over the top of Wigg’s head. Using their slender legs to grasp the wizard’s braided tail of gray hair, several of the fliers suddenly began to bounce it up and down in the air, while one of the others perched atop Wigg’s head and began prancing about in the general area of his widow’s peak as if doing some kind of dance. Others began to hover around Wigg’s feet and beat their wings harder, causing the hem of his robe to billow and rise, showing the wizard’s bony legs and leaving little else to the imagination. Tristan tried hard not to laugh, but it was quite impossible. He soon found himself roaring at the spectacle and doubled over with tears in his eyes, despite the castigating look on the Lead Wizard’s scarlet face. The butterflies around Wigg’s feet were beating their wings so quickly that the prince could feel the breeze. He thought Wigg was literally about to come apart with rage, while Faegan simply sat in his chair and continued his maddening smile.

Another schoolboy prank, Tristan realized. These two must have been incredibly difficult for their teachers, despite all of their arrogant posturing in their old age. They reminded him of the endowed children he had seen in the nursery of the Redoubt of the Directorate. Except those children had been better behaved.

“Enough!” Wigg finally shouted. “I believe you!”

“Are you sure?” Faegan asked, delighting in the scene being created by his obedient butterflies. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to argue with me some more? The fliers can keep this up all day, you know.” A quick glance to Tristan was followed by a conspiratorial wink.

“No, no, you fool!” Wigg shouted. “Just get them off me!”

“Very well,” Faegan answered reluctantly. He lowered his head, and the fliers that were torturing Wigg dutifully rejoined the others circling the atrium.

“But what do the fliers have to do with the garden?” Tristan asked, finally managing to overcome his laughter as Wigg angrily began smoothing out the hem of his robe.

“Ah,” Faegan replied. “Leave it to the Chosen One to bring us finally to the heart of the question. I needed the fliers to be my legs, to travel away from this mansion and bring back the pollen, seeds, and spores I required to produce the plants and trees that you see here. It took them over a hundred years to gather it all. Without the fliers, none of what you see here in this room would exist.”

The prince could clearly remember his own time in the Caves, and how the fliers had been there with him, drinking the water from the stone pool. But then a different question began tugging at the back of his mind. “Why not just use the gnomes to collect what you needed?” he asked. “Surely they would have been easier to communicate with than the butterflies.” Communicate with the butterflies. He shook his head at the seeming absurdity of the thought.

“For the simple reason that the fliers cannot speak. You see, I feared that if the Coven ever returned, the information could be easily tortured from the gnomes.” He smiled. “But not from the butterflies.”

The unexpected mention of the Coven brought Tristan’s mind back to the true problem at hand, and he suddenly felt guilty for having spent so much time watching the fliers and listening to the two ancient wizards trying to insult each other. He looked hard at the wizard in the chair.

“Faegan, as I told you before, I need answers about my sister, and I need them now.” He glowered, his face grown cold and hard.

The answer surprised him.

“Have you eaten?”

Tristan stared incredulously at the old wizard. “What possible difference could that make?”

“I took the liberty of having a dinner prepared when I knew the two of you were getting close to me. It is about to be served in the dining room, and I am hungry. The two of you shall join me.”

Tristan scowled. “And if we don’t?”

“Then the two of you shall remain both hungry and unenlightened, I’m afraid,” Faegan said simply. “Besides, you really don’t have a choice. You can either dine with me, or I will instruct Shannon to show you the way out.” He smiled up impishly at the pair of them. “I am reasonably sure that since you took such pains to come all this way, you will not leave, your questions unanswered, simply because I have offered you a meal.” Without further comment, he wheeled around and headed back into the room, laughing softly as he went.

Tristan looked incredulously at Wigg, who merely raised a frustrated eyebrow. Then the Lead Wizard sighed, some of his anger apparently having dissipated. “I know he can be infuriating, but he’s also right,” he whispered. “And just now we really don’t have a choice.”

Tristan looked out at the exotic garden spread out below him, and at the giant butterflies that had begun silently, effortlessly, to sail back out the opening in the glass ceiling. Finally he turned and joined Wigg as they followed the rough-hewn wooden wheelchair and the snickering rogue wizard.

Faegan’s large dining room was paneled in rich, dark mahogany with wainscoting on the walls. Patterned rugs adorned the floor, and a huge oil chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Directly below it sat a highly polished table large enough to seat ten. The table was set for three with excellent crystal and flatware, and the air was full of several wonderful but different scents that drifted in through a door that the prince assumed led to an adjoining kitchen. The ceiling was glass, and Tristan looked up to see that the stars were now fully visible, the night having completely overtaken Shadowood.

Looking again at the wizard in the wheelchair, Tristan felt a strange mixture of sadness and compassion trying to wash over his distrust. The luxury and size of the room belied the emptiness of the wizard’s life, and spoke little of the many sad and lonely nights that the solitary Faegan would have sat here and eaten in silence, left to his thoughts of his personal betrayal of the Directorate and the loss of his daughter.

The kitchen door opened suddenly, and three gnome women wearing little white chef’s aprons blew in, chatting noisily to one another. They carried a tureen of soup, a large silver platter of vegetables and potatoes, and another, much larger platter on which were piled three roasted Eutracian pheasants, complete with stuffing.

As the women laid the trays down and began to serve, Tristan was able to get his first good look at them. The female gnomes looked very much like the males both in their faces and in their broad and stout, rather than curved and sensual bodies. They seemed to be very hard workers, and were clearly devoutly loyal to their master. Tristan realized that he was coming to like and respect the gnomes very much. One could have worse friends, he reflected. He removed the dreggan and its baldric, hanging it over the high-backed chair so that the handle of the sword could be reached in an instant, and sat down. From his place at the head of the table, Faegan gave the dreggan a sidelong glance and pursed his lips in a gesture of curiosity.

“The sword that killed your father, I have been told,” he said with a measure of sympathy in his raspy voice. “I can understand why you carry it, and I have also heard that you have already had occasion to use it. But understand me well, young man, when I tell you that one day soon you will find such weapons as crude and unnecessary as they now seem to you to be important and useful.” He reached for his goblet of red wine and took a sip.

“… I have also heard that you have already had occasion to use it.” His words echoed in Tristan’s mind. How could Faegan know? Was he referring to Natasha, or to the wiktor that had attacked Tristan in the palace entranceway?

“I want to know about Shailiha,” Tristan suddenly demanded, ignoring his food. “You seem to have a great many answers about a great many things, and I demand to be told.”

“No.” Wigg had surprisingly but simply said the single word from the other side of the table. “First he and I have some unfinished business.” The Lead Wizard looked at Faegan.

“You and I have known each other for a very long time. I need to know. Now, before anything else is said.” Wigg glared hard at the wizard in the black robe. “Did you betray us?” The question hung heavily in the air like a sword over all three of their heads.

Faegan put down his wineglass and stared sadly into Wigg’s eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly. “But not for the reasons that you think, nor to the extent you certainly believe.” He closed his eyes in pain. “They had Emily.”

Emily, Tristan mused. Natasha, the duchess of Ephyra. Lillith. Her real name was Emily.

“We assumed as much,” Wigg snarled. “But the threatened loss of one family member does not justify helping the Coven, no matter how much you loved her! I swear to the Afterlife, if I could, I would kill you right now with my bare hands!” Tristan had never in his life seen the Lead Wizard so angry. The vein in Wigg’s right temple had begun to beat furiously again, his endowed blood racing.

“You don’t understand,” Faegan said. “It wasn’t because of Emily that they received my help.”

“Explain.”

“Shortly after Emily learned how to read the Tome by putting the stone around her neck, the Coven recognized her potential value to them and abducted her. To this day I do not know how. They knew that I had the gift of Consummate Recollection. I received a parchment with a lock of her hair three days later, telling me to read the complete Tome and then come to them, or they would send parts of my daughter back to me, one day at a time.” Faegan looked down at his dinner plate. “It was signed by Failee.”

Wigg looked as though he had just been slapped across the face. “And what then did you do?”

“Nothing. I sent the parchment back, telling her that they could kill my daughter if they chose to, but that I would never help them.”

Wigg sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”

Faegan raised his head back up, the once-haughty eyes on the verge of tears. “And do what, Wigg? I know that Tretiak, Slike, Killius, and the others would have given me their very lives if necessary, but to what end? The Coven was winning the war, our only chance was the immediate use of the Tome and the stone, and time was running out. Despite my personal feelings, it would have been an egregious waste of time and energy. My Emily died, but in the end the sorceresses lost the struggle. All I have left of her is that single lock of hair.”

Wigg sat quietly for a moment, digesting what he had just heard. “But you disappeared” he said finally. “No one ever knew where or why. You were just suddenly gone. And immediately after you vanished, the Coven became inexplicably more powerful. We very nearly did not prevail, and many of us in the newly formed Directorate quietly assumed that it was because of your defection.” He looked away for a moment, lost in time. “The sorceresses were banished to the Sea of Whispers. I know. I did it myself.”

Faegan reached out and placed his hand on Wigg’s arm. “We both made terrible mistakes,” he said. “Banishing the sorceresses, instead of killing them, was yours.” He paused for a moment, and a look of remorse shadowed his face. “Shannon told me of your experience with the berserkers. You have your regrets; I have mine. And now, it seems, we have mutual decisions about our creation of Shadowood to be sorry for.”

Wigg looked as if he was about to become ill. He stood and walked to one of the open leaded-glass windows. He stood there for some time, looking out at the trees, then turned back to face Faegan.

“How was it, then, that you betrayed us?”

“I did not go to them, as you all have suspected for so long. I was taken.”

“How could they just take you?” Tristan interjected skeptically. “I thought you were the most powerful of all of the wizards.”

“I was,” Faegan replied. “But did Wigg not tell you? By that time, the sorceresses had learned to join their powers. Even I could not withstand the joint strength of their collected abilities.”

“How did it happen?” Wigg asked.

“It was foolish of me, I know, but I was making a solitary visit back to the Caves to search for any more clues or artifacts that might help us accelerate our understanding of the Tome. I thought if I went alone I could go there and back much more quickly and quietly. Four of the lesser sorceresses came upon me and captured me. Because I was wearing a wizard’s robe, they took me straight to Failee.” He hung his head in shame. “She cackled aloud at seeing me, and said that I would recite to them everything I had read in the Tome, or they would kill Emily before my eyes.”

“What happened?”

“They shackled me to a chair in the town square of the city of Florian’s Glade. It had already been in their hands for some time, controlled by an army of blood stalkers. They brought Emily out before me, and once again threatened to kill her.”

“What did you do?” Wigg asked.

“I beckoned Failee to come closer, and spit into her face. I then looked up into the eyes of my only child and said good-bye. Vona dragged her by her hair into one of the houses and slowly cut her throat. She walked back out with a bloody knife and more handfuls of my daughter’s hair and threw them into my face, laughing. I still hear Emily’s screams in my sleep.”

Wigg turned to Tristan and gave him a hard look. The prince immediately understood. We will probably never know who it was Vona killed that day, he thought, but it wasn’t Emily.

“What happened then?” Wigg asked gently.

“They tortured me for the information.”

“How?”

“Look at me, Wigg,” Faegan said, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of disbelief. “Can’t you imagine?”

Wigg touched Faegan’s shoulder with a gentleness that the prince had not seen in him for some time. “And was it then that you told them?”

“No,” Faegan said proudly. “I did not. The torture went on for weeks as they slowly crippled me, starting at each of my toes. The used fire, spells, and incantations. Virtually everything I had ever known or learned, they tried upon me. But still I did not talk. Somehow most of my blood and training held out against them, and they failed.”

Wigg closed his eyes and sighed. So much pain and death, he thought. And now, over three hundred years later, I am still learning of their crimes.

“How was it, then, that they finally broke you?”

“Failee had succeeded in pushing past one small fraction of my mental block that had slipped during the worst of the torture. It had to do with the Vagaries. A very obscure but ultimately useful passage. From it she learned a technique of mental torture that is irresistible. It has to do with dreams, and the complete reversal of a person’s logic and allegiances. Used properly, no one can resist it, not even a wizard with blood as pure as mine. With its use, I eventually gave over to them some of what I had read in the Tome, and, as you said, they subsequently became much stronger, and almost beat you. They kept me prisoner until the end of the war, until things became desperate for them. By that time I was so weak from torture that I was incoherent, and my legs were unable to function. I was so near death that they no longer considered me a threat, and they simply left me to die. But I regained consciousness and used the craft to fashion this chair you now see me in. I knew my only hope was to try to get to Shadowood. Finally, the gnomes found me and took me in. Slowly I was able to regain my health. In return, when I was well I promised to live here among them and give them my protection as best I could.”

He looked at Tristan. “The form of mental torture they used on me is called the Chimeran Agonies.” He paused, letting the prince contemplate what he had just heard, knowing that what he was about to tell Tristan would be one of the most painful experiences of the prince’s life. He put one hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “It is what they are torturing your sister with as we speak.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, stunned. They are torturing Shailiha, his mind roared at him. And I am sitting here, having dinner with a madman.

Tristan’s reaction was immediate. He reached behind his back and in a flash had one of his dirks in his right hand. He stood and grabbed Faegan by the robe, yanking the eccentric wizard toward him. “How could you possibly know such a thing?” he demanded. “Besides, why would they torture her? They treated her like a queen that day upon the dais! Succiu even called her Sister, and bowed to her! I saw it with my own eyes! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He moved the razor-sharp dirk to within an inch of the wizard’s right eye.

As Faegan looked calmly up into the dark-blue eyes of the Chosen One, one corner of his mouth turned up. “You don’t really think you can harm me with that toy, do you?” he asked. When Tristan refused to give any ground, Faegan looked over at Wigg. The Lead Wizard spoke directly to the prince.

“Put the knife down, Tristan,” Wigg said calmly. “This must be done his way. He has all of the answers, and so far we have no reason not to believe him. We must hear him out.” When Tristan did not relent, Wigg raised the usual eyebrow at the prince. “It would be much easier to do all of this with you still alive, don’t you think?”

As much angry with himself as he was at Faegan, the prince reluctantly replaced the dirk in the quiver and sat down. “I think it’s about time you told me where my sister is, and what’s happening to her,” he said menacingly. “I have waited for your story as long as I care to.”

Faegan sighed, and decided to begin at the beginning. “Your sister is in Parthalon, the kingdom across the Sea of Whispers that is ruled by the Coven. I have long believed that the two nations at one time shared a common heritage because of the same basic similarities in language and customs, but as yet there is no way to be sure. Shailiha and the Paragon were taken there because of a great plan the Coven has in store, one that Failee garnered from my recitation of the Vagaries to her. The incantation they are planning calls for five sorceresses of highly endowed blood. There is no naturally occurring endowed blood in Parthalon. Therefore, if any of them were to mate with the local males to produce a female child to raise, the blood quality would not be high enough for their needs. That is why they came here. To take both the stone and Shailiha. They are using the Chimeran Agonies I described to turn her into one of them.”

And those of the Pentangle, the ones who practice the Vagaries, shall require the female of the Chosen Ones, and shall bend her to their purpose, Faegan thought. The quote from the Vagaries rang as clearly in his mind today as it had three hundred years ago when he had first read it. “They are turning your sister into the fifth sorceress, and after the incantation she will not only be one of them, she will also willingly be their leader.”

Tristan and Wigg sat staring at each other from opposite sides of the table, speechless. The silence hung in the room for what seemed a long time. Finally, Wigg was the first to break the stillness.

“So there is a land across the sea?” the Lead Wizard asked incredulously. He looked at Tristan. “We had long suspected it. We even sent numerous sailing expeditions out to try to cross the ocean, but few ever returned. The farthest anyone went and lived to tell about it was fifteen days of sailing.” He looked hard at Faegan. “How do you know such things, unless you have had contact with the sorceresses when they were last here?”

“There is one in Parthalon who is loyal to me. He sends me messages.”

Tristan sat there in his chair, still stunned. Slowly getting hold of himself he finally asked, “How do you receive his messages? Are you able to join with his mind as we believe the Coven can? And how does he supposedly know of the intimate lives of the mistresses?”

“I am not telepathic to that extent,” Faegan said. “I do have a modicum of telepathic ability, but I cannot completely join to a mind that I have not prepared, let alone never met. However, if I had chosen to study that aspect of the craft I am sure I could accomplish it, and I am familiar with lesser derivations, although some of them are practices of the Vagaries. Remember, I never took the wizards’ vows or accepted the death enchantments—Failee captured me before they had been introduced. Therefore, not only have I read the complete volume of the Vagaries, but I could, if I chose to, also practice them.” He smiled coyly for a brief moment. “I would not, however, enjoy the side effects should I practice them mistakenly, as has the Coven. No, Tristan. In this case the answer is much more simple. My friend across the sea sends me handwritten parchments, tied to the legs of pigeons. These birds are extremely swift and hardy. One can usually traverse the Sea of Whispers in several days of nonstop flight. I read the message, write to him, and send the bird back after it has had sufficient rest.” He paused, taking a sip of wine.

“I don’t understand,” Tristan countered. “How is it that these birds can do such a thing, especially in several days? It seems impossible.”

“Indeed,” Wigg replied drily.

“After nearly three centuries of trying, I was unable to cure my legs,” Faegan answered. “I have long known that my usefulness would be forever limited. But when I heard of the return of the Sorceresses, I knew I had to try, in whatever fashion I could, to make a contribution to their downfall. Somehow I needed to gain all of the knowledge I could about them, and their impossible, unexpected return. And then an idea came to me. Although no one had ever before been able to cross the Sea of Whispers, it seemed to me that the only place the Sorceresses could have come from was across that same sea. So I ordered the gnomes to capture a group of Eutracian pigeons and bring them here to my house in the trees.”

“You enchanted these birds?” Wigg asked skeptically, the infamous eyebrow arched.

“True,” Faegan answered, a smile finally coming to his lips. “As a result they are imaginably swift, and can cross the Sea in matter of days, never stopping. Not forever, of course—eventually their hearts would give out. But the spell sustaining is sufficient for our needs. At first they were simply enchanted to fly east until flying over land or dying in the attempt. It took many birds and many convolutions of the spell before the first of them finally returned to me with proof that it had struck land. It was at that point I began to tie notes to their legs. Naturally I was extremely careful not to reveal where the notes came from, in case they fell into the hands of the Coven. Luckily, they did not. You can imagine my joy at finally seeing one of them return with a note from someone across the sea—someone who is also an enemy of the sorceresses. We have been conversing ever since.”

“Does this supposed person from across the sea have a name?” Wigg asked.

“Geldon. He bravely continues to correspond with me, despite the risk. He contends he does not mind dying, if his efforts will have helped defeat the Sorceresses—he hates them that much.”

“And just who is this Geldon in the social order of Parthalon to be so well informed?”

“He is a Parthalonian dwarfed hunchback upon whom Succiu has granted time enchantments. He is almost as old as you and I are. He is also Succiu’s slave. He wears a jeweled collar around his neck that is attached to a chain leash. She forces him to help her practice some of her more exotic hobbies. Fortunately, she makes the mistake of taking him with her almost everywhere she goes. He hears much, and risks his life every time he sends a bird to me. His enforced loneliness and hatred of the Coven is so great that he began taking the chance of randomly sending out birds with messages, simply letting them go in the air, not knowing where they would end up or that there was even a nation called Eutracia. I believe at first he was only trying to find a kindred spirit in Parthalon to talk to, someone to sympathize with. Imagine his great surprise when the bird returned from me. We have been ‘conversing’ ever since.”

“And as for trusting him, I did not at first, of course,” he finally continued. “Until the attack upon Eutracia, I kept my return messages to him rather cryptic, saying little. It wasn’t until Succiu and her Minions had come and gone that I began to realize I must take the chance of confiding in him in earnest. This sounds contradictory, I know. He could have been lying. But at this point, I felt there was much less to lose by being forthright—and more to gain if he were indeed genuine. A gamble, assuredly. But then again, so many things in life are. I am still not entirely sure that he can be trusted. But given the severity of our situation, what other choice could there be? If anything he said was true, even the slightest scrap, I needed to know what it was.” Pausing again, he narrowed his eyes in thought. “Even the greatest of wheels sometimes revolve about the smallest of hubs,” he added quietly.

Wigg leaned forward over the highly polished dining table. “Did Geldon know of the impending attack upon Eutracia?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes, he did.”

“Then why didn’t your loyal letter writer warn you?” Tristan asked skeptically. “I thought the two of you were the best of friends.”

“He couldn’t. During the period between which he first heard of the plan and the actual attack, the atmosphere at the Recluse was very tense. Succiu kept him with her almost every second. She never sent him out of the Recluse, so he had no chance to send a note to me. I didn’t hear from him during a period of almost three months, and at first I thought him discovered, and dead. Then after the attack he contacted me with a note of great sympathy. He lives each day with the knowledge that he might have been able to warn us, but could not. And each day his hatred of the Coven grows. He cannot write to me simply because he would like to. He must first be sent out of the Recluse by Succiu in order to do it without detection.”

“How convenient.” Wigg sniffed.

“And just why does he supposedly hate the Coven?” Tristan asked.

“As I said, Succiu discovered him and made him her slave. At the same time she placed a Blood Pox upon him, and took away his reproductive powers. She spends a portion of each day laughing at him because of it, and embarrassing him in front of whomever she comes across.”

That would be like her, Wigg thought. He scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. “So where did she supposedly find this Geldon?”

“In the Ghetto of the Shunned.”

“The what?”

“The Ghetto of the Shunned. It’s a walled city two hours’ ride south from the Recluse. The Coven needed a place to put their so-called ‘undesirables’ while they were subjugating the nation, so they loosed a disease upon the entire population of a nearby city, murdering them. It’s one of the reasons they were able to enslave the nation without the immediate need for any allies. The resulting walled, empty remains of the city suited their needs perfectly. Their enemies are confined there rather than killed outright because it is said that unending relegation to the Ghetto is worse than death, and therefore a greater means of control. It exists to this day, and confines almost two hundred thousand lost souls. There is only one commonly known way in: the front gates, which are controlled by the sorceresses and guarded by the Minions. But, unknown to them all there is a secret way in and out, and Geldon was the one to discover it. Only he and one other know of its existence. The Ghetto is also where he keeps his birds.” Faegan paused, thinking it over. “A perfect location, really. The last place anyone would want to go looking, even if he could.”

Wigg raised his wineglass and looked into the crimson liquid as it twinkled through the crystal. It looks just like blood—endowed blood. The cause of it all, he thought, unknowingly echoing Tristan’s private thoughts by the campfire of two nights earlier. He narrowed his eyes as he formulated his next words.

“An unknown country across the sea, butterflies that can spell, a supposedly disloyal slave who sends you notes tied to birds, your life here in the trees among the gnomes, and your story of your ‘dream’ torture at the hands of the Coven. All very interesting.” The obviously skeptical Lead Wizard continued to examine the wine as the glass twirled slowly between his fingertips. “There is, however, the greater remaining question. The one you have still to answer.”

Tristan leaned forward intently, waiting.

“Exactly why did they take Shailiha?” Wigg finally asked. He returned his gaze to Faegan. “Why do they need her to be their fifth sorceress?”

The crippled wizard’s face darkened as he set down his fork and looked first to Tristan, and then back to Wigg. “They plan to invoke the Blood Communion.” Faegan sat back in his wheelchair as if a great burden had just been placed upon him, and his eyes grew shiny.

Tristan had no idea what Faegan was talking about, and he could tell by the look on Wigg’s face that the Lead Wizard did not, either. But the mere sound of it all sent a shiver through him, one that he couldn’t quite explain. “Please tell us about it,” he said.

Faegan sighed heavily and wiped his face with his hands, as if he were suddenly very tired. “The Coven will gather in a specific place, the location of which is probably somewhere in the depths of the Recluse. Shailiha, unfortunately, will by then probably be one of them, although still untrained in the craft. She need not be trained for this purpose. They only need her blood, not her talents, and then they can take all eternity to train her if they so choose, as they undoubtedly will. The sorceresses will all be around the Pentangle, their chosen symbol as illustrated in the volume of the Vagaries. I’m sure you have seen it embroidered upon their clothing. In the center sits a white marble altar, upon which rests the goblet that was taken that day in the attack on Eutracia—the same goblet that Wigg found in the Caves, along with the stone. A small amount of blood is taken from each of them, about one-fifth of the total volume of the goblet. Their blood is then mixed, and the goblet filled with it. The Paragon is then hung by its chain directly over the center of the Pentangle. The Vagaries tell us that when all is finally in place, a stream of light from the night sky descends and strikes the Paragon, called down by the very act of having five such highly endowed people standing upon the points of the Pentangle. This light is refracted through the stone, much like a prism, separating into individual beams of colored essence. Each colored shaft of light descends into the blood in the goblet. The five then take turns drinking from it. At this point, the Paragon has united and empowered their blood. All five are as one, sharing the potency of Shailiha’s blood, though alone, none of them will ever command the raw power that she does.” Faegan paused, running a worried hand down the length of his hawklike face. He closed his eyes before continuing. “Still,” he said quietly, “this is nothing but preparation for what is yet to come.”

Tristan looked at Wigg, speechless. This is insane, he shrieked silently. Shailiha would never do such a thing. He looked at Wigg for a comforting gesture or kind word, but none came. The Lead Wizard’s face had become as hard as granite.

“And what is it that is yet to come?” Wigg demanded.

Faegan stiffened, his eyes still closed. “The Reckoning,” he said simply. “It immediately and irrevocably follows the Blood Communion. It is the supreme, undeniable control of all things—people, creatures of the land, sea, and sky; even the weather. Both Eutracia and Parthalon will no longer exist as we now know them but as mere possessions of the Coven, populated by mindless, wandering slaves who were once the citizens of those lands. With the stone and the princess, and the knowledge that Failee tortured from me, they can literally possess the world, and the minds of everyone and everything in it. They will only need to think a thing for it to happen. I don’t believe I need to describe what life would be like under their complete control.” Faegan opened his eyes, and Tristan once again found himself adrift in that deep, impenetrable grayness.

The room had become as silent as death, the only sounds the gentle rustling of the curtains against the open window frames and the soft, endless rush of the ocean beyond.

Wigg lowered his head in frustration and rubbed his brow with his fingertips, as if trying to force himself to understand better. He gave a deep sigh and then said, “You mentioned earlier that you gave Failee only some of the information contained in the Vagaries. Does that mean that she is not in possession of all of it?”

“That is correct.”

“How is it that you were able to keep any part of the Vagaries from her, if the Chimeran Agonies, as you say, are irresistible, even for someone of your quality blood?”

“I was able to shield part of my mind from her through a supreme effort of will. To this day I am not sure how I accomplished it. My family was dead, and at that point in my life I had nothing more to lose. It ultimately came down to who could last the longest. The Chimeran Agonies worked on me, but not to the extent that Failee believes. Her knowledge of the spell was only fragmentary, and when it was applied to me it was only partially effective and I was able to withhold much of the Tome from her. There is a good chance that to this day she still does not realize this.”

“But this is a good thing, is it not?” Tristan quickly asked, sensing the first ray of hope since this frightening conversation had begun. “If the Coven is only in partial possession of the Vagaries, perhaps there are other parts of it that we can use against them, parts unknown to them. Parts that they have no knowledge of how to stop.”

Faegan looked sadly into Tristan’s eyes. “If only that were the case,” he said quietly. “Actually, I fear that by withholding some of the Vagaries from her, I may have created an even worse dilemma than we first thought.”

Tristan’s heart sank, and when he saw the devastating look that crossed Wigg’s face, his heart sank farther still. How could keeping such powerful information from the Coven possibly be injurious to us? he wondered.

“I can see by the look on your face you can now imagine the scope of the problem, Wigg,” Faegan said. “Would you like to tell the prince, or shall I?”

“No,” Wigg said. “We wish to hear it from you.”

Faegan sighed. “Just as the technique of the Chimeran Agonies was only partially imparted to Failee, so were the parts of the Vagaries that I had read, because I was able to shield my mind from her for a time. She believes she has all of the information but does not, and she will therefore most certainly be forced to make disastrous mistakes in their application. The Blood Communion may be correctly performed, because she was given all of it. But the Reckoning itself will be another matter. The information she has regarding the Reckoning is fragmentary at best. Therefore the odds are overwhelming that she will conduct it incorrectly.”

Tristan felt another shiver go up his spine, and it wasn’t because of the cool night breeze that blew in through the window. He almost dared not ask the painfully obvious question. “And if the Reckoning is not performed perfectly?” he asked tentatively. “What happens then?”

“Then the world as we know it will cease to exist. Completely and irreversibly. The incorrect application of the Reckoning, due to the combination of the Vigors and the Vagaries, will result in the complete and total destruction of the entire world, and everything and everyone in it. This is why the Vigors and the Vagaries are housed in separate volumes of the Tome. The combination of their knowledge and their use was only to reside in the mind and heart of one person, the Chosen One. You, Tristan. As the Ones Who Came Before intended it to be. But if the Vigors and the Vagaries clash in combined or even simultaneous use by anyone but you, the result is cataclysmic. And she will doubtless attempt to combine them, because her knowledge is limited.” He paused to look into each of their faces in turn. “It is no longer just a struggle to save Shailiha. It is now also a struggle to save our world.”

“I have learned from Wigg that combining the two schools of the craft would have a disastrous effect,” Tristan said. “And after witnessing the orbs myself I can understand that. But how can you be so sure that what Failee intends to do would mean the end of the world? I cannot conceive of any reaction that powerful.”

Faegan turned his attention to the Lead Wizard. “So you have shown the two sides of magic to the prince?” he asked simply. “Not simply their effects, but what the orbs of the Vigors and Vagaries actually look like?”

“Yes,” Wigg answered.

“Then, Tristan, you must think back to the actual appearances of the orbs. Do you remember the lightning-like strikes of energy that shot to and fro inside each of them as if trying to escape? In order for Failee to invoke her ritual, she’ll need to call forth so much magic from each of the orbs that she will create a massive tear in each of them such as has never been seen. This phenomenon alone would be bad enough, I assure you. But then not only will she call forth these gigantic amounts of energy from both sides, but she will join them—something only the Chosen is to do, as foretold in the Prophecies. Believe me, both of you, when I say that if she succeeds, she will then immediately fail. And when she does, there will truly be nothing left. Not even the Vigors or the Vagaries themselves. Just emptiness, with no hope whatsoever of redemption.”

A deathly pall came over the room. Finally Wigg broke the silence.

“But surely Failee herself knows that combining the two sides of the craft will result in this calamity,” he interjected. “She is, after all, very skilled and immensely knowledgeable. And yet you believe she will try, risking such a disaster?”

“Of course,” Faegan said softly. “If she were not intent upon trying the incantation she would not have risked everything to cross the Sea of Whispers to abduct Shailiha, her fifth sorceress. She would not have needed her. Never, never forget the fact that she is quite mad. Her practice of the Vagaries has taken her insanity to the very edge, and it is my opinion that she now lives in a world unto herself, in complete denial of the possible consequences, and considers herself to be infallible.”

“And the other sorceresses do not know of the risks?” Wigg asked.

“Probably not,” Faegan said, narrowing his eyes. “Remember, their expertise in the Vagaries is far less than Failee’s. They trust her, and believe what she teaches them. They are most probably not aware of the fact that she will be forced to combine the two sides of the craft. In addition, their own, lesser practice of the Vagaries has started to lead them down the road to dementia as well, which to a certain degree makes them more willing followers.” He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. “A true case of the blind leading the blind,” he whispered, almost to himself. “It is also the reason for their bizarre sexual needs.”

Tristan was immediately taken back to the night on the banks of the river, when the one he knew as Lillith had suddenly become Natasha, and tried to rape him. “What do you mean?” he asked Faegan.

“Their dementia has tricked them into believing that those sexual acts of depravity they are so well known for actually increase their power—that the craft itself is calling them to do these things. During the use of some arcane teaching of the Vagaries, Failee may have felt something akin to this sexual enhancement of her power, as may have the others. For the practice of the Vagaries can, when strong enough, actually feel that way in some respects—a sense of total ecstasy. I know, for I have felt it myself. The volume of the Vagaries makes brief mention of it. But now her madness strengthens the belief that the craft demands these acts. Even Succiu and the others, schooled in the basics of the Vagaries under Failee’s misguided teaching, also believe it to be true. Thus the need for the Stables.” He looked sadly at Tristan for a moment, knowing that he was about to add greatly to the prince’s pain. “And Shailiha, once trained by Failee, will no doubt also be prone to these sexual depravities and may ultimately become the most wicked of them all, due to the purity of her blood.” He sat back in his chair, resigned to the fact that Tristan would probably fight him on this point, and not want to believe.

Tristan stared at him, stunned. Then he slammed his fist down on the table with all his strength. “I don’t believe you!” he shouted. “How could you be sure of all of this, anyway? At least part of what we are talking about happened over three hundred years ago! How can you possibly be so sure?”

“You are forgetting something, my young friend,” the rogue wizard replied calmly. “I have the gift of Consummate Recollection. Every single thing I have ever seen, heard, learned, or read is automatically and flawlessly ensconced in my mind, and can be retrieved at any time of my choosing. Sometimes it is more of a curse than a blessing, I assure you. Few wizards are born with the gift. I am one of those wizards. And I was there when the first feelings of ecstasy came upon Failee. It was when I was still their prisoner, and her experience in this resulted eventually in the sexual depravities of that war that Wigg may have told you about. They carry this sickness with them to this day, except it is now much worse.” He looked to the Lead Wizard knowingly, and then continued.

“After my daughter, Emily, first put the stone around her neck at the age of five and began reading the Tome, I was, because of my gift, the one selected by the other wizards to read it first. With the rest of the Directorate dead, Wigg and I remain the only two persons in the world to have read both the Vigors and the Vagaries. Of course, neither of us have read the third volume, the Prophecies, but certain sections of the first two volumes deal in some small ways with what will happen in the future. That is how Wigg, myself, and the others knew beforehand of your coming, and of how and when you were to be trained.” Faegan looked hard into the prince’s eyes, the strange green motes once again swimming in Tristan’s vision. “As distasteful as it may seem to you now, believe that what I have told you is the truth.”

Tristan, feeling completely beaten and alone, stood from his chair and walked on trembling legs the short distance across the room to stand looking out the window. My sister, my only remaining family, is somewhere across the sea, he thought to himself, and I have no way to get there, and no training in the craft with which to fight for her life, even if I could. He lowered his head in silence, and then a thought came to him. He turned back to Faegan.

“There is something that has always bothered me, and I feel that now is the time to ask it. If Emily was of your blood, and your blood is of such high quality, then why did the Coven not simply keep her and train her as one of their own, rather than kill her? Why wait three hundred years for the birth of Shailiha?” The prince immediately saw the look of fury that crossed Wigg’s face, but he didn’t care.

“I was married to a woman of unendowed blood, Tristan. Her name was Jessica, and Emily was our only child. Emily’s endowed blood was of good quality, but not of sufficient worth to accomplish what the Coven had planned. So they simply used her for what they could. Emily was a wonderful child. Happy and intelligent. I would have endowed her with time enchantments, just as you shall one day be. Perhaps the two of you would have met one day. You would have liked her.”

Tristan glared across the table at Wigg and finally walked back over and sat down. “Are you going to do it, or shall I?” he asked.

Wigg glowered at him. “I don’t think that this is the time to—”

“But I do!” Tristan interrupted. He had had enough of secrets, riddles, and games. “The fact is I did know your daughter,” he said gently but firmly to the crippled wizard. “She had stayed alive for all of these years, living in secret as the duchess of Ephyra, among other things. She had also become a Visage Caster, and her identity was never truly known until that day on the dais when my entire family died. She was not killed by the Coven in Florian’s Glade as they led you to believe. Someone else died that day, instead. She was one of them. I am sorry to have to tell you of this, but my sister’s life hangs in the balance.”

The prince sat back heavily in his chair, not proud of the pain he had just caused the already crippled wizard, but glad that the truth was finally out. He looked across the table at Wigg and countered the disapproving stare with an equally defiant one of his own. He opened his palms and held them both up, revealing the freshly healed scars that had been created that night on his knees in the rain when he had dripped his own blood over the graves of his family and the Directorate, swearing vengeance against the ones who had taken their lives.

“I have sworn with my blood to bring my sister home, and so I shall, one way or another,” he said menacingly. He looked at Faegan before speaking again. “Each of us has his own scars. I have mine, Wigg has his, and you have yours. I am sorry to have been the one to tell you this, and add to them.”

Faegan’s face had become ashen. He looked to Wigg, then to the prince, and then back to Wigg again, all the while his mouth working soundlessly up and down. He was obviously in shock. At last, he spoke to Wigg.

“Emily—Emily has been alive all of this time?” he stammered.

Wigg glared at Tristan, hoping that the prince would keep quiet and at least let him finish the story in his own way. “Yes,” he said gently. “But she is no longer alive.”

“She was one of the Coven?” Faegan asked, staring out into the space over the table, looking at nothing. “For all of these years, living here and waiting for their return?”

“That’s right. We knew her as Duchess Natasha, of the house of Minaar. Wife of Baldric, duke of Ephyra. I believe the marriage was her means of making sure she would be accepted at court and have access to the coronation ceremonies. She killed her own husband on the day of the attack.”

“Tristan said she was also a Visage Caster. She was undoubtedly trained by the sorceresses to employ that power,” Faegan said weakly, as if to himself.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “She surely held many different stations, titles, and husbands during the three hundred years since her birth, apparently changing her appearance and moving on whenever it started to become apparent to those around her that she did not age, or ever become ill. She also knew when the attack was to start, and I believe she had some type of telepathic link to Failee, indicating the precise moment when the stone was in the water and all of the wizards of the Directorate would be without their powers. It was very well thought out. It was just then that the winged killers descended through the stained-glass roof of the Great Hall, and our world as we knew it was forever changed.”

“The Minions of Day and Night,” Faegan said weakly, a lone tear tracing its way down his cheek toward his long, gray beard. “Kluge. And Traax, his second in command. The taskmasters the Coven uses for their dirty work. Geldon tells me in his notes that they number in the hundreds of thousands.”

At the mention of Kluge’s name, Tristan’s hands curled tighter around the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. I will kill that hideous thing one day, he again swore to himself. And as many of the others like him as I can before they finally strike me down.

“What are these creatures?” Wigg asked. “Do you know? Are they indigenous to Parthalon? I had never seen anything like them before.”

“I truly do not know, but they are a fighting force of unparalleled efficiency. It is said in Parthalon that rather than face one of the Minions in battle, most men simply cut their own throats, instead. Geldon has also written me that the Minions even train to the death among themselves, because there is no one else of sufficient caliber with whom they can compete. I get my information from the gnomes. They are very stealthy. They listen at windows or hide in the thick foliage of trees that overhang the roads, gleaning everything they can. As far as I know, they are never seen. It was one of those in the trees who first heard of the attack on Tammerland, as the many refugees came pouring down the road. My elder of the gnomes, Michael the Meager, informed me that the Minions swept through the Royal Guard like a plague of locusts through a wheat field.”

“And how is it that the gnomes choose to stay in a place where the Berserkers threaten their existence?” Wigg asked. “One would think they would leave.”

“And go where?” Faegan countered. “Remember, they were once hunted for sport. Which would you think was the better choice, eh? To be hunted by an entire population, or to live here with the relatively few Berserkers, hopefully protected by a wizard?”

The crippled wizard had begun to regain his composure. He looked at Wigg, and Tristan knew that the most difficult of questions regarding Emily was about to be asked.

“How did she die?” Faegan asked simply. “Do you know?”

“Yes,” Wigg said hesitantly. “I do know how she died. It was at my hand. Mine and the prince’s. Emily, the one we knew as Natasha, had stationed herself at a tavern and taken a new identity. We thought we were helping an innocent young woman escape a difficult situation, but later discovered that she was only waiting to find the right place in which to kill us without raising suspicion.” He paused, wondering how far he should go with all of this, finally deciding to press on. “She was trying to rape Tristan and take her unborn conception back to Parthalon when I killed her with a wizard’s noose.”

For a long moment Faegan stared out into space. “You said that the prince also played a part,” he whispered eventually. “Tristan, what was it that you did?” He turned, and his gray eyes seemed to be looking into the prince’s very soul. Tristan had the impression that Faegan was asking not only to learn about the death of his daughter, but for another reason, as well. But the prince had no idea what that reason might be.

“During Wigg’s application of the noose she continued to struggle, and I knew that the only answer was for her to die. I finished her with my dreggan,” Tristan said simply. He felt sorry for Faegan, but at the same time was not ashamed of what he had done. The woman had been partly responsible for the slaughter of his entire family, and he would kill her again in an instant, if necessary. Faegan or no Faegan.

Faegan cast his gray eyes up to the dreggan and baldric that hung over the back of the prince’s chair. “Is this the sword?”

“Yes.”

“The same one that killed your father?”

“Yes.”

“And the same one you hope to use to kill the Coven and Kluge?”

“Yes.”

Faegan lowered his head and closed his eyes as if lost in time for a moment. Without opening them again, he began to speak. “ ‘And the Chosen One shall take up three weapons of his choice and slay many before reading the Prophecies and coming to the light,’ ” he said.

“A quote from the Vagaries?” Wigg asked, puzzled.

“Yes,” Faegan said, looking at the dreggan as it hung peacefully behind the prince. “I can only assume that the second weapon mentioned is the collection of knives that hangs behind his right shoulder. But as to what the third one shall be, only time will tell. The Vagaries make occasional mention of many things that will come to pass. But only the Prophecies will tell Tristan the course of action he is to take. And only he is to read them.”

Faegan took both of the prince’s hands in his and looked at the angry red scars on his palms for what seemed to be a long time. “It is true, each of us carries his own kinds of scars. You, I am afraid, will be subject to a great many more before it is your turn to rest. As regards my daughter, the one you knew as Natasha, I forgive both you and Wigg for what you did. It was necessary, and in truth, despite how much I loved my Emily, Natasha was as far removed from me as any of the sorceresses could have been. I prefer to believe that the Emily I knew died that day in Florian’s Glade, despite what I now know to be the truth.”

Tristan was about to speak when one of the gnomes knocked on the door of the hallway from which they had entered the room.

“Yes, Michael?” Faegan asked.

Michael the Meager, the gnome elder, was about the same size as Shannon the Small, but appeared to be much older. Bald and rotund, he stood at the door holding a strange box with several holes in it. His face was intelligent, his manner sincere.

“Begging your pardon, Master,” he began, “but another has just come. We thought you would want to see it right away.” After a nod from Faegan, Michael the Meager walked the box into the room and set it on the table in front of the crippled wizard. Tristan shot a quick, questioning look at Wigg, but it was evident the Lead Wizard was also puzzled about the strange container that lay on the table between them.

Faegan indicated to Michael to proceed. The gnome opened the top of the box, reached in, and produced a sleek-looking gray bird. Its wings were long and tapered, and it seemed to be quite content in the hands of the gnome, as if well accustomed to being handled. He automatically looked to the bird’s leg and saw that a scroll of oilcloth was wrapped around it; also, a cylindrical object had been tied around the bird’s breast with a leather string. One of Faegan’s enchanted pigeons, Tristan realized. A note from Geldon.

As if reading his mind, Faegan looked at Tristan and said, “Yes, it is what you think. The whistle tied to the bird makes a sound as it wings through the air to us, keeping flying predators away.” He looked down at the pigeon and gave it an unexpected, short kiss on the top of its head. “This is the fastest of them,” he said seriously. “The message must be important for Geldon to have risked this particular bird.”

Faegan untied the oilcloth from the pigeon’s leg and unwrapped it to reveal the parchment hidden inside. It was rolled into a scroll, and red sealing wax rejoined the end of the note to itself. Faegan quickly broke the wax seal, unrolled the note, and began to read.

Hungry for a word, a scrap of information, anything that he might learn about his sister, Tristan tried hard to decipher the look in the crippled wizard’s eyes. But as he did so, his heart sank. He watched Faegan’s hopeful expression change rapidly to one of extreme worry and concern. Faegan then raised his eyes from the note and looked at the prince. “I think you had best read this for yourself,” he said sadly.

Tristan eagerly snatched the note from the hands of the wizard and barely noted the odd, rather exotic handwriting as his eyes tore across the page:

Master Faegan,

I wish with all of my heart that there was some other way to inform you of this, but what we have feared most has come to pass. Princess Shailiha has finally been turned. The last of the three Chimeran Agonies have successfully rid her of her past life, and she now believes herself to be one of the Coven. In fact, in many ways she has quickly become the worst of them all. To the delight of the others, she has already committed several acts of voluntary depravity. Her hunger knows no bounds in its quest for both the Blood Communion and the Reckoning, and her thirst for her training to begin as a sorceress is without equal. Mention is often made of her soon becoming their leader. Her unborn could come at any time, another innocent of endowed blood for the sorceresses to corrupt.

You told me that once there was a fifth sorceress, Failee would need nine days to mentally prepare for the Communion. I can only assume that at least three have passed since the releasing of this bird. That leaves only six. Time is of the essence.

As you have told me, the possibility is great that instead of being performed correctly, the Reckoning may be compromised and the entire world may perish. After three hundred years of slavery, I must confess that sometimes I do not know which of the two outcomes I would prefer.

I await your word. Whatever you choose to do, Master, it must be soon.

Geldon

Speechless, Tristan dropped the note to the table in front of Wigg and rose from his chair, once again walking to the open balcony doors that faced the Sea of Whispers. Shailiha is a sorceress of the Coven, he thought in disbelief. All is lost. Even if we could get to her, there is no way to stop what she is doing, or what she has become. Once I thought that if I went to her and she was at least still one of us, we would have a chance. But not now. Her torture began the instant she watched her husband murdered on that dais. And although she does not know it, her torture will now continue for all of eternity. He wiped a tear away from one eye. Only six days left. No one other than the sorceresses has ever sailed farther than fifteen days into that sea. And even worse, we have no way of knowing how long the complete journey takes.

The sound of Wigg’s commanding voice brought Tristan’s mind back into the dining room. He turned to see that the Lead Wizard had apparently read the note and was handing it back to Faegan. “What is it that Failee must do to prepare herself for the Blood Communion?” Wigg asked. “Geldon’s note speaks of nine days.”

Scowling, Faegan worriedly rubbed his hands together. “She will go into virtual seclusion, except for making a daily visit to the place in the Recluse where the Blood Communion is to take place. It is she who must call the light from the sky that passes through the stone, thus beginning the process. The preparation of the incantation is very complex, and demands total concentration for that number of days before she is able to call forth the light.” He looked over at Tristan.

“I tend to forget that the only members of the Coven you have actually seen are Succiu and my daughter Emily, or as you knew her, Natasha. I know you have witnessed some of the evil that they are capable of. But make no mistake, even though you are the Chosen One. Despite what you have seen from Succiu, she is nothing compared to Failee. Not only is Failee the most powerful of them because of her mastery of the Vagaries, but she is also quite mad, and is largely the cause of all of this. Without her, there would have been no Coven, and no other sorceresses to follow her.” At these words, Wigg’s countenance became quite dark, and Tristan made a mental note to ask the usually secretive Lead Wizard to tell him more about the history of the Coven one day. That is, he reflected, if we have many more days left.

Wigg stood, walked to the window where the prince was standing, and put an affectionate hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “I see no way to continue,” he said quietly. “I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but it is in Shadowood that our journey apparently ends. The Sea of Whispers is probably much more than fifteen days’ sail, even if we knew the secret to getting across. And we don’t. I fear, without help, that we have failed. I can see no way to get to Shailiha, and that is obviously what must be done.” Tears were starting to come to his eyes. “I have failed you, Tristan. And your father. Please forgive me, but I see no way that our quest can be accomplished.”

“You were always too much of a pragmatist, Wigg,” Faegan suddenly said from his chair at the end of the table. The strange, dark-blue cat was once again in his lap. “That is why I became the more powerful of the two of us. Sometimes you just have to let your imagination flow.” He smiled at them both as he stroked the contented cat.

“What are you trying to say?” Wigg asked, his infamous left eyebrow arched.

“I can send you to Parthalon. Both of you. Immediately. And I suggest you let me, because each second that ticks by is one more second closer to the Communion.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded. He walked back over and sat down. Wigg followed. “If there is a way to get to Parthalon, I suggest you tell us right now.”

Faegan relaxed and took a deep breath. “Listen carefully, both of you, to what I am about to say. There is a portal that can be summoned, but only by me. Even Failee does not know of it. Remember when I said that she does not possess all of the teachings of the Vagaries?” He sat back in his chair, still holding Nicodemus. “This portal I refer to is just that—part of the teachings she still knows nothing of. Had she suspected such a thing could exist, I would have been dead hundreds of years ago.” He smiled. “By the way, it is also the reason that Nicodemus is blue. Think to yourself, Tristan,” he asked, pursing his lips. “Have you ever seen a blue cat before?”

“What in the name of the Afterlife are you talking about?” Tristan snarled. “You talk the way a drunkard walks—in every direction save the one in which he should truly be going! And as far as your cat is concerned, I doubt that very little could surprise me anymore. Certainly nothing that involves a wizard.”

Faegan raised an eyebrow at Wigg. “Stubborn, isn’t he?”

“More than you could ever know,” Wigg returned. “But if there truly is a quicker way to Parthalon, we must know of it now.”

Faegan smiled. “Very well. Tristan, I’m sure you remember me speaking of an aura that surrounded you at your birth. What color did I say it was?”

“Azure.”

“When Wigg killed the screaming harpy that day in the palace courtyard, what color was the wizard’s cage that he employed?”

“Again, azure.”

“And when Wigg was forced to kill Emily, what was the color of the wizard’s noose?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Azure, of course. What of it?”

Beginning to catch on, Wigg entered into the questioning. “That day on the mountain, when you first discovered the Caves and I killed the blood stalker, night fell and I used a powder to illuminate our way back down. What color did the path become?”

Tristan frowned. “Azure, of course. You know that as well as I,” he said.

“And what does that tell you?” Faegan asked.

“What I have always known. That when a wizard employs the gift, an azure color is created.”

“Not quite,” Faegan corrected. “Have you seen Wigg or any of the others of the Directorate use their power and not create this color?”

“Yes.”

“Then your answer needs to be modified.”

Tristan thought for a moment, and then suddenly looked at them both. “When a wizard employs a great abundance of his power, or the action he is attempting to undertake is particularly difficult, the azure glow is created in one form or another. But if the action taken is relatively easy to perform, then it is not.”

“Well done,” Faegan said. “And what does this tell you about Nicodemus in relation to the portal I have mentioned?”

Momentarily confused, Tristan sat back in his chair, wondering. He had never seen a blue cat before, but this line of reasoning was maddening. He looked up at the smiling, crippled wizard and wanted to wrap his hands around his throat, forcing the answers out of him. A quick glance at Wigg told him that he was to do this Faegan’s way. Realizing he had no choice, Tristan grudgingly resolved to play the wizard’s game. Then, suddenly, the answer came to him.

“You sent him through!” Tristan exclaimed. “The cat has been to Parthalon and back! That is the only thing that could explain his color! But why did he stay that way?”

“Excellent,” Faegan said happily. “But the truth is I have no idea why he changed color. Perhaps it was because the cat is a less intelligent being, or because he obviously has no endowed blood. Either way, he has stayed that way.”

“Why did you do it?” Tristan asked.

“To be sure that the portal worked, of course,” Faegan said. “Then I would open it again, and Geldon would put Nicodemus back through from the other side, with a note confirming that the transference had indeed happened, proving Nicodemus had not simply been wandering about somewhere in between.”

“Tell me more about the portal,” Wigg asked cautiously, taking another sip of wine. “The Directorate tried long and hard to find such a way to travel, especially during the war, but we were never successful. How does it work?”

Faegan smiled. “I open the portal, you walk in, and in a matter of seconds, you are there.”

“That’s impossible!” Tristan objected. “Traveling across the Sea of Whispers is the only way to Parthalon, if such a place even exists. No one can travel that distance in a matter of seconds! You’re insane.” But Faegan just continued to smile.

Wigg put a finger to his lips in thought, now obviously intrigued. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said to Faegan politely. “How does the portal work?”

The crippled wizard picked up his cloth napkin and laid it flat upon the dining room table. Pointing one of his long fingers at the center of the left half of the napkin, he burned a small hole in it. He then pointed to the center of the right half, doing the same thing.

He indicated the hole on the left. “This hole represents Shadowood,” he said. Then gesturing to the hole on the right side, he added, “This hole represents Parthalon.” He then picked the napkin up at each end and held it out stretched out flat, parallel to the table. “The way the portal works is by temporarily compressing the space between the two places.” He brought the ends of the napkin together until they touched, the folded center of it dropping in the middle toward the table. The holes were up against each other and could be seen through. “Once this has been accomplished, all one has to do is walk through to the other side and arrive at his destination.” He let go with one hand and unceremoniously poked a finger through the two holes. “A distance of hundreds of leagues crossed with only a few steps, proving that the shortest distance between two points is not a straight line, but rather, no distance at all.” He smiled while scratching one corner of his mouth. “If you don’t believe me, ask Nicodemus.” He opened the napkin and put it back down flat on the table as it had been before he started, then stared at them as though he had just discussed something as simple as what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.

Tristan looked up to see Wigg looking spellbound. “Amazing,” the Lead Wizard said quietly, his gaze transfixed by the sight of the burned napkin that lay before him. “We had been working on the problem, but this solution never occurred to us. Closing the distance between two points by eliminating the space between them, rather than crossing the distance itself. Ingenious.”

“As I said, Wigg, you were always too pragmatic.”

Tristan stared at the two of them, stunned. “Do you actually propose to have the three of us go through this portal?” he asked.

“Two,” Faegan said calmly. “And the sooner the better.”

“Then perhaps you could be so good as to tell us where it comes out on the other end, how we are supposed to know where to go, and what to do once we get there?” The prince defiantly sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And I take it you will not be accompanying us?”

“No,” Faegan said, serious now. “I cannot.”

“And why not?” Tristan was becoming more suspicious by the second.

“There are two reasons. First, if I were to go with you, who would then reopen the portal on this side for our return? I can only hold the portal open for an hour or so at a time, and I have never had the strength to do so more than once a day. We must have a prearranged time each day that I will open the portal, so that you can be in a position to return if you are able. And second, look down at my legs, Tristan. Have you forgotten? Even I have been unable to undo the damage that the Coven caused, despite over three hundred years of trying. You and Wigg pushing me around Parthalon in this chair isn’t going to prove to be much of an advantage.”

“But your powers would be invaluable to us there. You are supposedly even more powerful than Wigg.”

“Faegan and I wouldn’t be able to use our powers, anyway,” Wigg said from across the table. “At least not right away.”

“Why not?”

“Because Failee would sense our presence. As it is, my powers will be strained to the utmost to conceal our endowed blood from her while we are there. 1 must not use the craft in an obvious way until the very instant that it is needed to stop the Communion. That much is apparent. No, Faegan is right. He belongs here.”

“You’re the Lead Wizard—why can’t you open the portal for us on the other side, whenever we may need it?” Tristan asked Wigg.

Faegan smiled slightly. “This incantation took me ten years to perfect, Tristan. Ten difficult years. And despite how talented I know Wigg to be, it would take me at least fifteen days just to teach the formulations to him, plus another two or three months of practice for him to perfect the technique. You read Geldon’s note. He estimates we have only six days left.” His amazing eyes slowly became sad once again. “We simply don’t have that kind of time.”

Wigg raised an understanding eyebrow at the prince before again addressing Faegan. “And just where in Parthalon would you be sending us?”

“The only place that makes sense. The Ghetto of the Shunned—the only place the Minions do not bother to enter. You will be safe there until Geldon can get to you and take you to the Recluse. If Geldon is unable to be there at the moment of your arrival, one named Ian will be. He is trusted, and helps Geldon tend to the birds. He will help hide you until Geldon can arrive.”

“How will Geldon know that we are coming?” Wigg asked cautiously. “If we go now, as you say we should, we will arrive well before any note to him could be received.”

“He already expects your arrival.”

Wigg’s eyebrow arched. “Sure of yourself, weren’t you?” he asked.

Faegan smiled compassionately. “Even though you gained Shannon’s permission to cross, I could detect the unusually violent moving of the bridge. And since all the others of the Directorate were killed, I knew that the only one who could be crossing was you, Lead Wizard. I immediately sent the fastest of my birds to Parthalon.”

“And once we get there?” Tristan asked. “How do we stop the Communion?”

“Failee needs two things to ensure the Communion: First, the Paragon. And second, the fifth sorceress, Princess Shailiha. Return the stone and the princess to Eutracia and you will have thwarted her, at least for the time being.” Faegan gave Wigg a cryptic look. “But finding a way to kill the four original sorceresses would be the optimum choice, ensuring no further such attempts,” he added.

“Killing the sorceresses sounds impossible,” Tristan said glumly. “Especially when they can combine their powers, and Wigg will be the only one able to employ the craft against them.”

“If you can manage it, be close to them during the commencement of the Communion,” Faegan told them. “During the Communion, while the stone is refracting its light into the blood, Wigg and the sorceresses will be powerless, because the stone will be without its color. Just as the wizards of the Directorate were powerless during the coronation ceremony while the stone was in the water. That is the only time that you should even conceive of striking against them. This narrow opportunity will be your greatest weapon, but you will only have the chance to use it once. If you successfully stop the Communion, then the Reckoning cannot follow.”

The fire in the fireplace had begun to die out, and the room had gradually begun to darken and chill. They had been talking a long time. Faegan narrowed his eyes, and a log from the pile near the hearth levitated and floated over to land upon the fire. Almost immediately, the room started to lighten and warm again.

“There are a few more things that need to be said,” Faegan began. “Unpleasant things, but you both need to hear them nonetheless. First, there are dangerous creatures other than the Minions that roam Parthalon, creatures spawned by the Coven. I do not know their exact nature, but Geldon has alluded to them a few times in his notes. They are apparently used to help retain control over the population by inspiring terror. You must be very careful, or you may not reach the Recluse at all.”

The crippled old wizard then gave Tristan a hard look, which began to soften slightly as he started to speak. “You have been out of touch with the news of Eutracia for several weeks. My gnomes bring me back all kinds of gossip and news, some trustworthy, some not. However, something has happened that, unfortunately, I believe.” He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands as though not wanting to continue. “Tristan, when you get back home, if you get back home, there will probably be a price on your head. You will likely be the most highly sought—after criminal in all of Eutracia.”

Tristan felt the blood draining from his face even though his heart was racing as fast as it ever had in his life. He stared at the old wizard, his mouth hanging open. “Why?” he asked breathlessly. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

“For the murder of your father, the king of Eutracia.”

“But I was forced to kill him!” Tristan objected in horror. Memories of that awful day flooded his mind. “If I had not killed him quickly, Kluge would have tortured him to death! Both my father and the Lead Wizard ordered me to do so!” The image of his father being held down upon the altar of the Paragon by two of Kluge’s winged monsters floated mercilessly before his eyes. Then had come the descent of the blade, and everything Tristan had known and loved had irrevocably changed. Tears welled in his eyes, and he brushed them angrily away. This simply couldn’t be happening.

“There were witnesses in the Great Hall! How could they think me responsible?” he shouted.

“Hundreds of people saw you take a dreggan and apparently willingly kill your father. There was a great deal of noise and confusion in the room. Very few of them probably heard your father or Wigg. All they saw was you killing him, and you and Wigg watching what was done to your mother and the others. And then, despite your harsh treatment by the Minions, you and Wigg both somehow seemed to escape. I believe the story has been enhanced by the sorceresses, and by the Minions as they raped their way through Eutracia. And I believe the price on your head is being provided by the Coven, as well, along with payment to many of the witnesses to spread lies about what really happened. It would be yet another clever way for them to help ensure your death, since they weren’t able to accomplish it on their own before they sailed.”

Tristan sat in his chair like a broken doll, speechless. There is simply no end to the insanity!

Seeing the prince’s grief, Wigg took up the conversation with the crippled wizard. “What else do you need to tell us?” he asked.

“You and I both know that the odds on your being able to stop the Communion or destroy the four sorceresses are not good.” Faegan turned his gray eyes directly on Tristan. “If you are unable to stop the Communion, kill the sorceresses, or remove the princess or the stone from the Recluse, you must, at the very least, kill Shailiha. Even if it comes at the cost of your own lives.” He sat back in his chair, exhausted at what he had just spoken aloud.

At the mention of his sister’s name, Tristan’s mind snapped back to reality, leaving behind the visions of his father on the altar of the Paragon. “You would have me kill my own sister?” he whispered. He stared back at Faegan in utter disbelief. “It is true,” he said then, his eyes narrowing. “You are mad. Or you are in league with the Coven and are trying to use me as your agent. Either way, it won’t work.”

“Tristan, you must listen to me,” Faegan said. There was a pleading in his voice now that neither Wigg nor the prince had heard before. “If you are unsuccessful in the undertakings I have described, Shailiha must die for two reasons. First, she may be the only one you can kill, since she is the only one who is untrained in the craft. And second, she is pregnant, so killing only one of the other sorceresses will still eventually leave five, as according to Geldon, her baby will be a girl. If that proves true, in only a few short years we will be right back in the same position we are now.”

Tristan stared dumbly down at the highly polished table, lost in his thoughts. He understood what the wizard was telling him, but he just couldn’t believe it. Nothing in this world could make him harm his sister.

“I know how you feel, Tristan,” Faegan said. “We have all lost loved ones to the Coven. But you must trust me when I tell you that Shailiha is no longer your sister. She belongs to them now, heart and soul. And you must treat her just as you would any of the other four, no matter how difficult.”

Silence reigned for a long moment in the dining room. Wigg finally was the one to speak. “How do we return, if we are lucky enough to be able to do so?” he asked. “How will you know when we are ready?”

“There are approximately six days left until the day of the Communion. I will open the portal each of the five days before, in case you need to escape Parthalon sooner than predicted. Each day, starting with tomorrow, I shall open the portal for one hour, beginning at high noon in Parthalon. That is as much time as my powers will allow. Because Parthalon is so much farther to the east, this time of day will be earlier for me. You must rely on Geldon to help you with that part of it. I will try to hold the portal open for several more days after the sixth, as well. But there will probably be no need for it.”

“Why not?” Tristan asked.

“Because by then, one of three things will have happened. Either you will have returned, or the Communion and Reckoning will have taken place and we all will be slaves to the Coven. Or the third, most likely possibility: Failee will have mishandled the incantations, improperly joined the two sides of the craft, and the world will have ceased to exist. In which case we will all be quite dead.” His words hung in the air with great finality. To Tristan it seemed there was little more for any of them to say.

But the look in Faegan’s eyes told the prince that the rogue wizard had yet more to reveal.

“The only contact I have ever had with the one who calls himself Geldon are the notes I receive tied to the legs of the pigeons,” Faegan said thoughtfully. “It is quite possible that there truly is no Geldon, and these notes are simply another way for the Coven to get you—or all of us—to Parthalon, to be killed. I therefore feel it is important that before the two of you depart we attempt to discover the truth. If we are unsuccessful, then I am not sure that I can in good conscience send you there.”

“And just how do we accomplish that?” Tristan asked. He appreciated what he was now beginning to recognize as the wizard’s honesty, but he couldn’t fathom how such a thing might be managed. Looking over at Wigg, the prince could see that the Lead Wizard himself was looking intrigued.

“Assuming that Geldon indeed exists, I plan to search out and find the true intentions of his heart,” Faegan said softly.

Wigg’s eyebrow came up. “I have never heard of such a thing. Just how do you intend to do it—especially from this far away?”

“There is an incantation of the Vagaries, one that actually allows another to feel the intentions of the subject. This is not the same as telepathy. We will not be speaking to his mind, only probing it. He will feel our presence but will be uncertain of what is happening. If all goes as I hope, I will be able to enter the heart and mind of Geldon, and then we shall know. And, as proof to you of my actually doing this, Wigg’s mind shall accompany my own in this practice of the craft.”

“But if the incantation is of the Vagaries, will Wigg not then die?” Tristan pressed anxiously. “He has both taken the wizard’s vows and accepted the death enchantments.”

“Wigg will not be harmed because it is not he who will be performing the incantation,” Faegan said with another smile. “Only I shall be doing that. Wigg’s mind will simply be feeling the same things my mind is, and also sensing my thoughts.” The rogue wizard’s smile broadened a bit. “Wigg’s mind will be, as they say, simply along for the ride.”

Tristan remained highly skeptical. “If this so-called testing of Geldon’s heart can indeed be accomplished, then why didn’t you do so before you started sending him messages?” he asked the wizard in the chair. “Surely that would have made more sense.”

“Well done.” Faegan smiled at the prince. “But it was not so simple a choice as that. You see, I was hoping that you and Wigg would make your way here. I could have tested Geldon earlier to set my own mind at ease, but then I would not have dared risk doing it again for your benefit. It is conceivable that the Coven may detect the intrusion, especially Failee. If that is the case, then doing it once is all we can afford. To do otherwise might tip our hand. Failee is nothing if not brilliant, you know.”

“And how is this accomplished from such a great distance?” Wigg asked. It was apparent that his curiosity was now in full bloom.

“I must be either touching each of you or touching something that is personal to each of you, such as one of your possessions.”

“You can certainly reach out and touch Wigg,” Tristan responded, “but how can you touch anything of Geldon’s? We have nothing like that.”

“Oh, but we do,” Faegan said. He reached out and picked up the parchment scroll. “We have his handwriting. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.” The crippled wizard looked across the table at Wigg. “Shall we begin?”

Wigg raised his eyebrow. Then he sighed slightly in resignation. “Very well,” he answered.

“Bring your chair next to mine and take my hand,” Faegan ordered. Feeling across the scroll’s handwritten words, he stopped his fingertips upon Geldon’s signature at the bottom. With Wigg’s hand in his own and his fingers touching the scroll, the rogue wizard closed his eyes.

“Shut your eyes,” he said to Wigg. “There is nothing else for you to do,” he added drily, “except to make sure you do not interfere. To do so is to invite the wrath of the Vagaries. Otherwise, I think you will find this to be most interesting.”

Almost immediately the familiar azure aura began to engulf them both as it slowly grew in size and intensity, its light eventually blotting out almost everything else in the room. Tristan could barely see the two wizards through it, and sat there spellbound as it increased even farther.

Wigg felt his mind begin to drift slowly, as if it were traveling somewhere, leaving his body behind. Despite the fact that his eyes were closed he could see haze of the brightest azure, and blue and lapis clouds billowing all around his consciousness. What an extraordinary sensation, he thought as he took in the added sensation of his consciousness gaining speed, rushing intently toward something, soaring through the billowing, parting azure clouds.

And then, quite suddenly, the Lead Wizard could also sense the presence of Faegan’s mind as their separate consciousnesses seemed to search each other out in the luxurious turquoise mist and finally join. Then, as one, they sensed yet a different energy, a separate and distinct intelligence apart from their own.

Will this be the heart of Geldon? Wigg wondered as he rushed blindingly forward into the lapis fog. Or is Faegan indeed a traitor and I have allowed him to deliver my mind to the twisted, demented soul of Failee?

Emotions began to pour over him. Powerful, male emotions. Geldon, he suddenly heard Faegan’s mental voice say. We have found him.

As he felt Faegan begin to probe Geldon’s mind and heart, the emotions coming to the Lead Wizard became overpowering. But they were not his feelings, he realized. Rather, they were those of the other there with them. The one they had been seeking. And it was one sentiment, single and irresistible, that surpassed all others: hatred.

A hatred of women. No, Wigg realized. Not hatred of all women, but only several. Only four. The four sorceresses of the Coven.

But not for Shailiha.

Then, from out of the turquoise mist, another seething emotion erupted into the wizard’s consciousness. Pain. But what kind of pain, and why? The agony kept coming and coming, as if it had been there for centuries and its owner never had the slightest hope of ever being released from it. And then Wigg recognized it.

Slavery. The pain, both mental and physical, of being placed into servitude and bondage, with the hideous prospect of it continuing for all eternity.

We have touched Geldon’s heart, and his motives are true.

Yes, Faegan’s mental voice responded. Our task here is complete.

Wigg felt Faegan’s mind detach itself from his own, and the magnificent azure cloud banks began to retreat. He opened his eyes to find himself at the rogue wizard’s dining table.

Wigg’s breathing was short, and his vision was taking its time readjusting to the light of the room; but otherwise he felt fine. He turned his ancient, aquamarine eyes to Faegan’s. “Magnificent,” he whispered. “I believe you. And I believe in the dwarf who sends you messages. He hates both the Coven and his bondage as much as any one person ever could.”

Faegan smiled. “I believe him also,” he answered. “An interesting experience, is it not?”

Tristan sat there stunned, still unsure of what had just transpired. “Is it true?” he asked quietly. “Did you really find his heart, from across the Sea of Whispers?”

“Yes,” Wigg answered simply. “This much of it I believe.”

He turned toward Faegan and looked him hard in the eyes. “But if the prince and I are to put our lives in your hands, there is still one more thing of which I must be sure.” He stood from his chair and looked down meaningfully at the crippled wizard. “I’m sure you know what it is,” he added. “And if everything you have said is true, you won’t mind my request.”

Perplexed, Tristan watched Wigg as he stood there waiting for the rogue wizard’s response. “I fully understand,” Faegan finally said. “Tristan, you might want to brace yourself for what you are about to see. I have had only small success in solving my problem. Even the waters of the Caves did little to heal me of the results of the Coven’s cruelty.”

Wigg calmly reached down to grasp the hem of Faegan’s robe and slowly lifted it up and over the old wizard’s knees. It was at that moment that the prince fully understood in his heart what he had known in his mind. And what it was that Wigg wanted to be sure of.

Faegan’s legs were a gruesome sight. The skin was gone completely, and much of the muscle mass looked as if it had been literally shredded away by someone or something, as if some awful beast had repeatedly attacked both legs with its teeth and claws. The remaining bright red muscles throbbed visibly, and Tristan could see what he took to be exposed nerves and blood vessels running up and down their lengths. In truth the legs were more than half gone, and the prince initially wondered how the wizard could possibly stand the pain, much less keep from dying of infection. And then he remembered. This was Faegan, the rogue wizard, protected by the life enchantments. “Master,” his gnomes called him. Since first meeting Shannon the Small and Michael the Meager, Tristan had realized that the term “Master” was given by them only out of great reverence. Tristan suddenly had a newfound and even deeper respect for the crippled old wizard in the chair, the one who loved riddles so. Wigg replaced the robe and slowly stood back a little.

“I had to know,” he said softly to Faegan. “Even now, as it is, I cannot be completely sure you are telling us the truth. But we have no choice.” Wigg looked over at the prince. “We go. Now. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Tristan said.

“You realize this could be nothing more than a ruse to put us into the hands of the Coven?”

“Yes,” Tristan said firmly. “But I believe him.” He looked at Faegan. “I have a request before we leave.”

“Yes?” Faegan asked.

“I would like to speak to Shannon the Small.”

“Very well,” Faegan agreed. He turned his chair to face Michael the Meager, who had been standing dutifully in the corner all of this time, hearing everything. “Run and fetch Shannon,” Faegan said simply. “Hurry.”

“Yes, Master,” Michael replied. In a heartbeat, he was gone.

Almost immediately Michael returned with Shannon in tow, and the two of them entered the room. “The Chosen One wishes to speak to you,” Faegan said. He turned his chair so that he could look at each of them at once, curious about Tristan’s request.

Tristan looked down at the gnome, the same one who had challenged him at the bridge, bitten into his leg, and led him into the Tunnel of Bones. He smiled at the little one. “Wigg and I are going away for a while,” he said, taking a step closer to Shannon. “But we will be back soon. I called you here because I want to know you will take good care of Pilgrim for me while I’m gone.”

“I already am,” Shannon said eagerly, typically puffing out his chest with pride. “Pilgrim is already settled down in our stable. I brushed him real good, and gave him extra oats. I think he likes me.” The little man beamed.

“I know he does.” Tristan smiled. “Make sure to exercise him, and treat him well. He’ll do anything for a carrot, and likes to have his ears rubbed.”

“Yes, Prince Tristan,” Shannon said.

The prince smile broadly and then narrowed his eyes, deciding. “Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he said sternly.

“Yes?”

“If I should never come back, Pilgrim is yours. Yours to keep.”

Shannon looked as if a storm had just passed through his little face and body. His eyes began to tear. No one had ever given him anything as wonderful as Pilgrim. The horse of the Chosen One, he thought, amazed.

“Thank you, Master,” Shannon said to the prince. “But I truly hope I never claim that right.”

“You called me ‘Master,’” Tristan said, smiling to him. “I don’t think you meant to say that. There is only one master here.”

“Pardon me,” the little one said, looking sheepishly at Faegan and then to the prince. “But I’m not sure that’s true anymore.”

Tristan smiled and walked over to his chair, gently lifting the baldric and dreggan from it and lowering the sword back into place over his right shoulder. He checked his dirks to be sure they were all there, and then slowly walked back to the window to look at the ocean. They had been talking all night, and the sun was just beginning to come up in the east. His nostrils took in the smell of salt that came in on the sea breeze.

Automatically reaching over his right shoulder to grasp the hilt of the dreggan, he felt for the hidden button there. The sword felt good in his hand, despite the fact that it was the same weapon that had killed his father. Will it also become the sword that kills my sister? he wondered. He pulled out the medallion that lay beneath his black leather vest and looked at the lion and broadsword engraved upon it. The last gift from his parents. He tucked it back into his vest.

He turned around to see Faegan quietly handing Wigg a pewter locket on a silver chain. It was square, small, and rather flat. Wigg put it around his neck and tucked it into his robes. Too tired to ask, Tristan once again turned his attention toward the sea.

“Where will the portal appear?” he asked without turning around.

“Right in front of you,” he heard Faegan say. And no sooner had the words come to the prince’s ears than a swirling azure vortex began to appear directly in front of him, only two steps away. It was beautiful.

It revolved constantly before him, an incredible swirling mass of color and light, and he could feel it beckoning, pleading with his endowed blood to enter it.

He then felt as much as saw Wigg standing next to him, also looking into the vortex. He felt the Lead Wizard take his hand, and the two of them stepped forward into the swirling mass and were gone.