The Fifth Sorceress

34

Tristan, Geldon, and Wigg held their breath as they lay on their stomachs in the grass upon the short rise, surveying the scene below. The sky had finally cleared to reveal a sun-filled morning, and the wind was calm. For the second time today their noses were assaulted by the acrid, sickening smell of burning flesh. Human flesh.

Their wagon ride from the Recluse had been harrowing, if for no other reason than the speed at which Geldon drove the horses and the constant veering to avoid the great number of people who were on the road, fleeing the area of the smoldering Recluse.

There had been absolutely no sign of the Minions along the way, and in this Tristan had been disappointed. Not because he and Wigg would have tried to stop and kill them—there was no time for that. But because it would have meant the troops had already left the Ghetto, their job there over. The fact that they saw no Minion troops increased even further his concerns for their safety. He instinctively knew that the wizard and the dwarf were thinking the same thing, and the silent dread in their hearts was palpable as they sped along the primitive, twisting road.

Shailiha had stirred more than once in Tristan’s arms as a result of the bumpy ride, but blessedly remained asleep. She was still asleep now in the back of the wagon while the three of them crept up to the short rise to look down over the city below.

The Ghetto of the Shunned sat in a rather large bowl, surrounded on all sides by a sloping, grassy hillside. Geldon had explained to them that before the arrival of the Coven the city had been constructed in the center of the bowl for reasons of defense. Men lining the top of the rim could see for miles in every direction and easily warn the city below of danger, allowing the gates to be shut quickly and the drawbridge to be immediately taken up. Until, of course, the arrival of the Coven.

But that same strategic advantage was now making things very difficult for the three of them as they tried to take in the scene. It was impossible to tell what or who might be on the other side of the bowl, and the prospect of the Minions being either inside the city wall or camped around the bowl’s perimeter was a distinct possibility. There was no time to scout the area—it was just too large. Faegan’s portal would soon open up for the last time, and that was where they needed to be, regardless of the danger.

Inside the Ghetto. In Ian’s aviary.

The city had apparently been under siege from the Minions for the last several days, as the flying warriors carried out the last of Failee’s orders to Kluge and searched for conspirators who might have helped the Chosen One. The huge iron gates that had once barred entrance just past the drawbridge had been broken apart and dangled drunkenly off their hinges, the drawbridge itself innocently lowered as if beckoning them to enter. Although from this distance and angle little could be seen of the inside, it was apparent that a great many people had already died at the hands of the Minion troops. The traditional funeral pyres had been lit outside the city walls, the charred smoke rising lazily into the sky, carrying with it the remains of the dead. But those pyres could hold few bodies of the Minions, Tristan realized. The starved, weakened citizens of the Ghetto would never have been able to overcome many of the winged soldiers. The fires must have been burning the corpses of their victims, as the Minions made sure that the bodies of both those with and without leprosy alike were reduced to ash.

So many have died, Tristan thought in horror, simply because Failee was looking for conspirators. And there was in actuality only one. Ian, the keeper of the birds. I pray that he still lives.

“It is impossible to know whether the Minions are still there without going inside,” he whispered to the other two. “No matter how quickly we try to take Shailiha by wagon through the front gates we will be immediately detected, but I see no other way.”

“We must know if the interior is deserted,” Geldon said with finality. “And there is only one way to do that. You must allow me to swim under the moat and look inside. If I see nothing, I will signal you from atop the wall closest to the aviary. Come directly through the gates as fast as you can and go to the aviary without diversion. Turn immediately to the right and go as far as you can. Then, when you reach the eastern wall and can go no farther, turn left and continue for a few blocks. The aviary will be on the left. Stop for nothing. However, if the reverse is true, then there will be no signal, for I will certainly be dead. The smoke from the Recluse can only mean one thing to Kluge and he will know that his mistresses are gone, giving him license to do as he pleases.” The dwarf paused, and silence lay thick between the three of them.

Tristan looked at the wizard, tacitly asking for his opinion. After a moment, Wigg reluctantly nodded. Without giving them a chance to think any longer about it, the dwarf gathered up the chain to his collar and ran quickly down the hillside and around the edge of the wall, toward the area where he would find the underwater gate.

In an instant he was gone, the only trace of his presence the slowly calming ripples of water that closed in around the place where he had gone in.

Such great courage in such a small body, Tristan thought. We already owe him more than we could ever repay.

And then they waited. The moments went by slowly, and for a time Tristan feared that he might never see Geldon’s face again.

Then, suddenly, there he was, atop one of the walls and soaking wet, waving them forward. As quickly as they could, Wigg and Tristan jumped onto the wagon and charged it toward the city gate, Wigg taking the reins, the prince keeping one eye on Shailiha still asleep in the back.

The way down was harrowing since there was no real road, but they couldn’t stop for anything, or dare go any slower. Finally they were across the drawbridge and inside the Ghetto of the Shunned.

Wigg wasted no time as he galloped the charging horses down the main street. Buildings and corners flashed as Tristan looked around for signs of trouble, but the streets were completely empty.

Following Geldon’s directions, the wizard reached the eastern wall, careened the wagon to the left, and charged down the street. Finally, after several more blocks had flown by, Wigg skidded the horses to an abrupt stop in front of the building that housed the aviary.

Except the aviary was no longer there. And there was no trace of Geldon. Tristan jumped down from the wagon, his dreggan already in his hand, and stood agape at the silent, awful scene that lay before him.

The buildings in this part of the Recluse had all been razed and burned. The ashes were still warm, the dark, pungent smoke curling up into the sky. Of the building that had once housed the aviary, only the fractured, fragile skeleton of its foundation remained, rising a few awkward feet into the air. And all around the base lay the remains of Faegan’s enchanted pigeons, their wings and heads cut off, their bodies scattered.

The Minions had transformed this entire area into a sickening graveyard, a testament to their butchery. Dead bodies lay everywhere, just as they had in the streets of Tammerland, and in the center of the square were two separate piles of naked women, presumably raped and piled as trophies. The Pentangle of the Coven could be seen smeared in blood on each of the few standing walls, the severed arms and legs that had served as the Minion’s paintbrushes cast aside after having completed their grisly purpose. The air was hot and humid, with no trace of a breeze, leaving nowhere for the stench of death to escape to as the birds of prey began to wheel effortlessly in their lazy circles above the carnage, waiting for their turn to feed. A palpable, deafening silence reigned as the moments crept silently forward, taking the sun urgently higher in the sky.

Tristan turned to see that the wizard had climbed down from the wagon and was standing silently in the midst of the rubble that had been the aviary. Wigg beckoned to the prince to join him. Walking over, Tristan looked down and saw a mutilated corpse.

Ian lay dead in the ashes, his eyes gouged out, his arms and legs severed, the yellow leper’s robe torn and burned.

The gentle keeper of the birds, Tristan thought sadly. Kluge found him here and probably forced him to talk. The madness never ends. Looking around, he found a singed blanket and used it to cover the body.

He looked worriedly at the wizard. “I know,” Wigg said tensely. “We can only assume that he told them everything. He wasn’t strong enough to stand up against very much.” He looked around the small square. “But where is Geldon?” he murmured, half to himself. He looked to the sky, thinking. “There is less than an hour remaining.”

Tristan walked to the back of the wagon and lowered the gate. Gently lifting Shailiha from the straw, he carried her to a shady spot by the destroyed wall of the aviary. Her eyes opened partially and looked up into his face, but there was still no sign of recognition, and she did not speak. Come back to me, he begged her silently as he gently stroked her hair. Come back to me from the Chimeran Agonies, or I shall have to leave you in this place!

He looked around, wondering what had happened to the dwarf. The answer arrived with the sound of wings.

Looking up, Tristan saw the sky darkening. The air was soon filled with the sound of many thousands of pairs of swiftly beating wings. At first he could not see, the sun in his eyes, but then winged monsters settled in to cover the walls, rooftops, and streets that surrounded them.

Thousands upon thousands of them came, so many there was no longer any place for them to land. Only a small space was left between the escapees and the growing horde of Minion warriors. Finally they stopped, those that had landed standing silently at attention as if waiting for something. Then, as if by command, those still in the air suddenly flew off, as if trying to find a better vantage point from which to observe what they apparently thought was about to transpire.

Wigg took two steps back to join Tristan in front of Shailiha. The prince looked quickly to the sun. There were only minutes left now.

Despite the thousands of beings crammed into this area of the Recluse, nothing moved. No one spoke.

Tristan looked into the face of his friend and mentor and knew that Wigg, too, realized this was the end. Even the power of the Lead Wizard could not overcome such numbers. This was the place in which they would both die.

And then, finally, the hated voice came, clear and sharp, cutting through the air over the great number of warriors and traveling directly to the prince’s heart.

“Chosen One!” Kluge called from atop the wall directly facing them. “Is this what you have been looking for?”

Tristan and Wigg looked up to see the commander of the Minions of Day and Night standing with Geldon, holding the dwarf’s chain. He smiled wickedly down at the prince. Traax, his second in command, stood obediently next to him. Geldon, still wet from his swim beneath the moat, stood plaintively on the other side of Kluge, looking frantically into Tristan’s eyes, knowing that he had unwittingly condemned them all to a certain death.

Laughing wickedly, still holding the dwarf’s chain by his heavily muscled right arm, Kluge kicked Geldon off the wall.

The only thing that kept the dwarf’s neck from breaking was the quick-witted way in which he reached up to grab the chain. He dangled helplessly, his arms losing strength as the commander of the Minions continued to hold him there, laughing, waiting for the dwarf to lose his grip and finally choke to death before them all. But then suddenly Kluge let go of the chain, and Geldon fell crashing into the midst of the Minion warriors, who erupted into raucous laughter.

Looking down on his troops, Kluge shouted, “Let the dwarf through to join his friends, so that they may all die together! It is somehow more fitting!”

Immediately Geldon ran through the obediently parting warriors to stand with Wigg and Tristan, tears in his eyes. “There was no one here when I arrived,” he said quickly. “And then Kluge himself came flying out of the ruins of the aviary to gather me up and make me climb to the top of the wall. Unknown to us, there were Minion patrols flying very high in the sky, staying between us and the rising sun. It is no surprise we did not see them. Kluge knew we were here, and after my coming into the Ghetto alone it was a simple matter of logic for him to deduce that you were waiting for a signal.” He hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry Tristan,” he whispered. “I am the death of us all.”

“Tristan,” Wigg whispered urgently, “I can kill Kluge if you will let me. But I must know now, while he is out in the open. I cannot save us from what will eventually happen—you must see that as well as I do. Even with the help of the craft I cannot defeat such numbers. And because the Paragon is still in the locket, I am without my powers. I must open the locket and remove the stone. I’m sure that by now it has rejuvenated. If we act in unison I can kill Kluge while you give Shailiha a quick death before the rest of them overcome us. It is the only way,” the old one whispered, looking into Tristan’s eyes with absolute candor. “We will be dead soon, and this is the only way I can see us sparing your sister from that monster on the wall, and still kill him at the same time.”

He put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Remember,” he added sternly, glancing behind him at the inert Shailiha. “No endowed blood can remain in Parthalon.”

Tristan considered the wizard’s words for a moment, but in his heart he knew he could not agree, no matter how certain Wigg was that he could actually kill Kluge. Kluge had no magic to use when we first met, he thought, looking with hatred at the winged butcher that had killed his family. He made no use of the craft. Therefore I will make no such use of the craft now. Live or die, I will meet this man on my own terms, wizard or no wizard.

But before the prince could respond to Wigg, Kluge called out to him again from atop the wall. “Chosen One!” he screamed, his voice alive with hate. “See the present I have brought to you this day!”

Looking up, Tristan thought his heart would tear in half. Narrissa was standing next to Kluge, naked. She was crying, the tears running blatantly down her face, and it was more than obvious that she had suffered every kind of abuse. Bite marks and bruises could be seen on her face and body, and dried rivulets of blood trailed down both inner thighs from her groin to her feet. She cowered with fear before the Minions and the prince, shamefully aware of her nakedness. Tristan felt the blood rise in his veins as never before and took a step toward the wall, starting to draw his dreggan.

“Come no closer!” Kluge immediately ordered. “This Gallipolai has been rather disappointing to me. I never did care for women who called out another man’s name while they were being taken! In fact, there is much to discuss before you and the wizard die. Allow us to come to you!”

Lifting Narrissa as though she were weightless, Kluge snapped open his leathery wings and flew down to land in the center of the square, his back to his troops, directly facing the prince. Taking a few steps closer, he threw the terrified woman roughly to the dirt at Tristan’s feet. She landed hard and curled up into a protective ball, crying. Kluge spat on her as though she were just so much garbage.

Tristan lifted his eyes back up to his enemy without immediately bending over to help Narrissa, despite how much he wanted to. He could not be too careful with this man.

“Don’t worry,” Kluge said, as if reading his mind. “The time will come shortly for you and me, but first there are things I wish to tell you, so that I may see the look in your eyes before you die. Go ahead, Chosen One. Pick up your white-winged whore.” He smiled. “I am done with her.”

Tristan lifted Narrissa into his arms and carried her back to the wizard. Wigg sat her up against one of the wagon wheels and began trying to tend to her wounds as best he could. Tristan removed the blanket from Ian’s body and wrapped it around the quivering, terrified Narrissa, giving her his best look of hope. She smiled back up at him, saying nothing. There was no need, for Tristan already knew what she felt.

Wigg looked quickly up into Tristan’s dark eyes. “You must let me kill him now, before it is too late!” he insisted in a stern whisper.

Tristan gave the wizard a hard look. “No,” he said simply. “I do this on my own terms. And you are not to interfere in any way, including the use of the craft.”

“Tristan, you cannot kill him!” Wigg whispered back. “Forgive me, but he is just too strong. The only reason we are not dead already is because of his intense hatred for you. He obviously wishes to toy with us. Use that to your advantage and at least make some small use of the craft yourself, to help you live through this!”

“I have given you my answer,” he said flatly. He handed Wigg one of the razor-sharp dirks from his quiver. “And now I am going to give you yet another order. It is obvious that either Kluge will kill me, or the others will. When I am dead, use the knife first to take Shailiha’s life as quickly as you can. Then Geldon, Narrissa, and finally yourself, if there is time. And above all keep the stone hidden beneath your robes and do not use your powers. The Paragon is of no use to them without knowledge of the craft and the endowed blood to command it, but we must not show Kluge that we have it. Let him think that it perished with the sorceresses in the destruction of the Recluse. There is no other way.” He paused, gathering the courage for his next words. “We are lost, and there can be no endowed blood left in Parthalon,” he whispered, quoting the wizard. “Including yours or mine.”

Tristan looked again into the craggy, intelligent face of the man he had loved and trusted for so long. “Good-bye, my friend,” he said. He turned and walked out into the center of the square to face his death. Raising his face, he looked directly into the Minion commander’s dark, piercing eyes.

Kluge towered over him, waiting, his arms crossed over his chest, obviously enjoying the situation. “Now it is time to enlighten you, Chosen One, and finally tell you of all the things you have done for me.” His smile broadened at Tristan’s look of puzzlement. “Oh yes, you heard me correctly, the things you have done for me. You don’t realize it yet, do you? Then we shall start from the beginning.”

Kluge pointed to the sky north of the city, to the smoke that still lingered in the air over the demolished Recluse. “Any fool can plainly tell that the sorceresses are dead,” he said menacingly. His face darkened slightly. “I loved the second mistress, it is true, and now she is no more. But there is little I can now do about that. How you managed to kill them is of no concern to me. All that matters now is that she and the rest of them no longer exist to give me orders. And, despite my once-unshakable allegiance to them and the loss of the one I loved, recent developments have persuaded me not to grieve too terribly for them.” A wicked smile began to spread across the monster’s face. “You see, Chosen One, you have now freed me to take control of the entire nation, with the Minions at my command. Something I could never have dreamed of if any of the sorceresses, including Succiu, still lived.”

Unsurprised, Tristan continued to listen cautiously, braced for the huge warrior’s imminent attack. He watched hatefully as Kluge began to pace triumphantly back and forth in front of him.

“But there is still so much more to thank you and the wizard for, I hardly know where to begin. My scouts tell me that not only have the two of you dispatched the Coven, but the entire wiktor colony, as well.

Again, I salute you. They would have proven to be a difficult though not impossible challenge to my reign.”

Tristan silently stood his ground, the sun rising ever higher in the sky, the time growing shorter. It no longer matters, he thought sadly, for we are already dead.

Kluge’s face suddenly turned serious again, and he walked closer to the prince, his sword still sheathed. “And lastly, you ignorant, royal bastard, I want to thank you for the greatest prize of all.” He paused, letting his words sink in for a moment. “Thank you for handing me the kingdom of Eutracia.”

Kluge reached into the belt at his waist and withdrew some pieces of paper, which he carelessly let go, watching as they fluttered to the ground. For a moment, Tristan’s heart stood still. He immediately recognized what they were: the parchments from the aviary. The collected correspondence of Faegan to Ian, the keeper of the birds.

Tristan froze, his blood running cold in his veins. Eutracia, he realized in despair. Kluge knows about the portal!

“That’s right,” Kluge whispered to him evilly. “That weak little leper named Ian talked. It’s amazing how persuaded one can become while having one’s eyes gouged out. In any event, we also found the parchments, which illuminated far more than our conversation with the diseased bird boy. Apparently the fool was born here, and was so enamored of the outside world that he foolishly took to saving Faegan’s correspondence. I now know how you got here, and how you planned to go back. I also know more of the wizard named Faegan who guards the other side in the place called Shadowood. Once you and the Lead Wizard are dead, I plan to send my troops through to subjugate him. Despite his knowledge of the craft, due to our sheer numbers he will eventually find himself in the same position you are now in. Completely overpowered. I shall use his talents to come and go between the two nations as you have done. We will then also be entrenched in Eutracia, and I will stand astride not one nation, but two.” He smiled again.

“Since there is no longer any semblance of the Royal Guard in your feeble country,” he sneered, “it shouldn’t be all that difficult. I doubt Faegan’s gnomes will provide much of a challenge.” He broke into laughter.

Tristan stood before the winged freak, stunned. Had Kluge chosen that moment to attack him, he would surely have died on the spot. But the commander did not, instead relishing the pain he could see in the prince’s eyes.

“And still there is one other thing, Chosen One,” he said, stepping even closer. Tristan could almost smell the foulness of his breath, just as he had that day in the Great Hall when Kluge had slaughtered his family and the Directorate of Wizards. The first day he had learned of the horrors that the Coven and the Minions could bring. The day his life had changed forever.

“I must also thank you for what may indeed prove to be the ultimate gift,” Kluge continued. “During my reign I shall need a queen, and since I have already tasted women without wings and find them to be highly superior to Minion whores, I believe I shall not only have such a woman again, but also one of royalty, as well. Your sister shall make me a wonderful queen, don’t you agree?” He looked hungrily at Shailiha as she leaned up against the foundation, oblivious to the scene, completely unaware of the fate that loomed before her.

“Given her condition, I doubt whether she will be of any mind to object to whatever I choose to do to her,” he gloated nastily. “After she gives birth to the weakling growing in her belly I will dispose of the child, because it is not of my seed. I will then make Shailiha mine. Perhaps our children may even have both wings and endowed blood. Such an interesting combination, don’t you agree?” The monster leaned in conspiratorially to smile slyly at the prince. “I am most anxious to discover whether she tastes as sweet as her mother.” He paused, relishing the obscene luxury of his words. “And thanks to your stupidity I shall have that which I have wanted for so long: to see your endowed blood running into the dirt of the square, and to possess a woman of equally endowed blood, indeed of blood that surpasses even that of my dead Succiu.”

Kluge’s jaw hardened, making it clear he was close to finishing what he had to say. “Your life, your family, your Directorate, both Parthalon and Eutracia, and your only sister—in one way or another I shall have taken each of them, and all because you were weak enough to hand them to me, you ignorant bastard.”

He finally backed away, drawing his dreggan from its scabbard, the blade’s familiar ring slowly fading away in the confines of the square. “Gifts,” he whispered, “given to a simple warrior born of a Minion whore’s bed, from an irresponsible man across a supposedly uncrossable sea. A man who did not want to become king.”

The commander of the Minions of Day and Night backed away from the prince cautiously, taking a quick look at the sun. “Faegan’s portal arrives soon, Chosen One,” he said quietly. The shiny tip of his dreggan pointed menacingly at Tristan’s face. “It is at last time for you and me to settle our differences.”

Kluge backed farther away from the prince in the hot, sunny confines of the square, his winged troops standing anxiously all around him. Smiling, he touched the tip of the dreggan to the front of his left shoulder where it lay bare next to the leather vest and cut a small incision into it. Blood ran slowly down his arm and onto the dirt. The challenge had been made.

Tristan took a step forward, and pulled his dreggan from its scabbard, the blade repeating the same deadly song. Slowly he lifted the scabbard and baldric over his head and dropped them to one side in the dirt. He raised the shiny, curved blade to the sky and looked at it for what he knew would be the last time.

Despite being the instrument of my father’s death, you have always been true to me, he thought, looking at the blade as it twinkled in the sunlight. I ask only that you be true to me one more time, and help me slay the thing that stands before us. After that, may the Afterlife do with me as it will.

He lowered the sword to his side, and he and Kluge began to circle each other in the little square.

Kluge wasted no time, screaming as charged, cutting a wide, angled swath through the air, designed to take Tristan’s head from his shoulders. Rather than block the blow with his sword the prince rolled to one side and, coming back up along Kluge’s left arm, tried to slash a circle low to the ground to take off the warrior’s feet. But Kluge was too fast and jumped into the air, allowing the prince’s blade to cut harmlessly beneath him. The two combatants faced each other again, only several feet apart, their breathing coming more heavily now as they continued to take stock of each other.

Again Kluge came, this time his dreggan whistling through the air from straight overhead. The blade came down with such force that despite the fact that the prince blocked it with his sword, the blow literally took him off his feet, slamming him down viciously on his back in the dirt. Seizing the opportunity, Kluge quickly slashed the sword straight down again, but Tristan rolled to the side and out of the way. For a moment, he stumbled as he tried to get up. The mistake cost him a precious second, and Kluge’s sword came around again, the tip catching the prince in the upper right shoulder as it whistled violently through the air. The wound was short but deep, and blood began to pour out of it and down the length of the prince’s arm, making his grip on the dreggan more elusive.

He is just too strong, Tristan realized, the heat growing in the confining square, the sweat running maddeningly down into his eyes. I have never felt such power.

He lunged then at the monster before him, and the two of them crossed swords, their faces only inches apart. Tristan was straining with everything he had; but Kluge simply smiled, took one hand from the hilt of his sword, gripped the prince’s face, and threw him backward into the dirt.

This time Tristan was quicker, and thrust his dreggan straight ahead and upward, aiming for Kluge’s groin. Although Kluge was fast enough to dodge most of the blow, the dreggan went straight through his inner thigh and out the other side, blood spurting. Screaming more from rage than from pain, Kluge backed away, Tristan’s dreggan sliding from the wound, and began hacking maddeningly at the prince as he lay there in the dirt.

Get up! Tristan told himself. Get up or you will die in the dirt before this creature!

As the heavy blows rained down on him one after the other there was simply no chance to retaliate, and the best Tristan could do was to try to stand again. Finally, in between the insane, swinging strikes, he somehow once again found the earth beneath his feet and stood there, dazed and dizzy, blood flowing openly from his shoulder.

Kluge then unexpectedly backed away from the prince and reached for the returning wheel at his side. In a flash it was in the air and heading for Tristan’s throat. At the last moment Tristan twisted wildly to the side, but the wheel grazed the side of his right cheek, putting him badly off balance.

The point of Kluge’s dreggan came directly at the prince, only to suddenly stop a short distance from his throat. Stunned, the prince almost didn’t realize the danger as Kluge depressed the button on the hilt of his dreggan. Just as the last foot of sharpened steel launched itself forward, Tristan wheeled to one side, the tip of the dreggan slashing through the space where his face had just been.

I cannot defeat this man, he realized, his arms so heavy that he could hardly raise the sword in his own defense, much less mount an attack against the screaming, half-insane monster that wanted to take his life. For some reason his oxygen-deprived mind flew back to the day upon the dais, when he had used his dirks to kill several of the Minion attackers. At least I killed the one who murdered Frederick, he remembered. Frederick, my friend…

And then some long-forgotten memory of the past began to tug at his mind. Something about that day in the royal courtyard when he and Frederick had been fencing in front of the Royal Guard. The same day they had killed the screaming harpy. The same day his mother had given him the medallion he wore around his neck. What is it? he asked himself, trying desperately to dodge Kluge’s blows and raise his leaden arms to strike back. What is it my blood is trying to tell me?

And then he remembered. Frederick’s technique… the one he finally used to defeat me… The way he caught me off guard…

The last of his strength was almost gone. It is the only thing I have left, he realized. May the Afterlife grant me the strength for this last act.

Tristan backed away from Kluge as fast as he could, mournfully lowering his sword. As expected, the commander of the Minions of Day and Night rushed forward, but that tiny instant of time without being continuously attacked was what the prince was looking for. As Kluge dashed in and raised his sword, Tristan purposely left his dreggan pointed to the dirt as if accepting his impending death. Then, suddenly looking up and over Kluge’s shoulder, he dropped his jaw with a total look of surprise.

As Tristan had hoped, Kluge quickly turned to look over his shoulder, briefly turning his attention away from the prince to look for what was coming after him from behind. Exposing his neck.

With a great effort, Tristan swung his sword in a perfect, curving arc, cutting across the monster’s throat.

For a moment Kluge simply stood there, looking at him in amazement as if frozen in time. Then the ghastly line of red began to surface across his throat, and the blood stared to pour from it and down the front of his chest.

With a last measure of strength he didn’t know he had, Tristan raised his dreggan again and cut across the monster’s lower legs, slicing through them at the knees. Kluge collapsed to the ground on his back, one hand still holding his sword, the other reaching to his throat to try to stem the loss of blood.

Breathless, barely able to hold his dreggan, Tristan stumbled over to look down into the face that he hated so much. He had intended to strike fully across Kluge’s throat and behead him, but his swing had fallen short and instead cut shallowly across the windpipe and jugular vein, leaving the monster alive. Tristan looked down into the dark eyes of the murderer of his family, watching emotionlessly as the blood ran from the cut throat and into the thirsty dirt of the courtyard.

And then the commander of the Minions of Day and Night spoke. “Our struggle is not over, Chosen One,” he said, his voice gurgling. He coughed up blood. “Even in death it shall go on for me. There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete.” Somehow, even now, Kluge managed a wicked grin of defiance. “Our battle goes on, even from my grave.”

His arm covered with blood, his mind barely conscious, Tristan pushed the button at the hilt of his sword. He felt the dreggan jump in his hand as the blade launched the extra foot into the air. He looked down into the hated, dark eyes for the final time.

“As you forced me to do to my father,” he said quietly. “With the same sword.”

He swung the blade in a high arc and brought it down with everything he had left, severing Kluge’s head from his body. He stood there for a moment, listening as Kluge’s lungs expelled their final death rattle.

Then, thrusting the tip of his sword into the dirt before him, he leaned weakly on the hilt of his dreggan and closed his eyes for a moment, the only sound in the little sunlit square the intermittent rush of the wind as it wandered through the charred destruction of the city.

Rest in peace, my father, he called silently. For we shall be joining you soon.

Exhausted, Tristan looked up to the wall where Kluge had stood, knowing that at any moment the Minions would descend upon them. Traax, Kluge’s second in command, immediately snapped open his long wings and jumped off the wall, flying menacingly down in a straight line toward the prince.

Finally, this is where I die, Tristan thought. I am too weak even to lift my sword, much less defeat another of these creatures. Dying here is as good a place as any.

He tried with both hands extended to raise the now impossibly heavy dreggan in his defense but could only manage to bring it as high as his waist, his weak, trembling legs bent at the knees. He stood there abjectly, the blood still running from his shoulder and down to the handle of his sword as he finally accepted the fact that he was about to die.

Traax landed lightly in front of the prince and drew his dreggan, its clear, harsh ring seeming to call out the prince’s death knell. The curved blade twinkled momentarily in the sunlight.

And then Traax did something that would change the Chosen One’s life forever. Placing his dreggan in the dirt at the prince’s feet, he went down on one knee before Tristan and lowered his head.

“I live to serve,” Traax said obediently.

Stunned, the prince raised his face to see an entire ocean of Minion warriors doing the same thing. As they simultaneously drew their swords from their scabbards the air rang overwhelmingly with their blades’ combined songs, and then the troops laid their dreggans on the ground. There was a great rustling sound as they all went down on bended knee and simultaneously uttered the simple, all-encompassing oath of the Minions.

“I live to serve,” they said, as if of one mind. The combination of so many strong voices literally shook the weakened foundations of the buildings around them.

Wondering if he was dreaming, Tristan looked down to see that Geldon had run up to stand alongside him.

“It’s true!” the dwarf exclaimed excitedly to the leader, “and they will do anything you say!” He was grinning so widely that it looked as if his face might burst. Tristan stared at him, confused. “Minion tradition says that whoever kills the commander becomes the new commander of the Minions of Day and Night.” He smiled sheepishly, his face scarlet. “I had forgotten all about it, since the custom of Minion succession by death had little meaning for me. Had I remembered, I would have told you sooner.”

“Is it really true?” Tristan whispered, half to himself, as he looked out at the sea of kneeling troops. He couldn’t believe that his eyes were not lying to him somehow.

“Oh, yes, it is!” Geldon exclaimed. “In fact, they know no other way. You are their new lord.” He was obviously enjoying seeing the Minions in this position. “I suppose you should tell them what to do before their wings begin to wilt.” He snickered.

Tristan looked down at the still-submissive figure of Traax and then out to the vast hordes of kneeling, winged troops before him. Thousands upon thousands of them. The thought staggered him. My sworn enemies, the butchers of both my nation and my family. What am I to do with such numbers?

He again looked back down at Geldon, and a brief smile crossed his lips as he continued to lean weakly against the hilt of his dreggan. Shaking his head, he snorted a disapproving, unbelieving laugh down his nose at the dwarf. “You forgot?” he asked.

“Uh, yes, I mean, no, uh, I’m sorry, Tristan… I know it would have made a big difference, but it was just that there was so much happening…” He nervously started up his old habit of fingering his jeweled collar. Not wishing to engage the embarrassingly dark gaze of the Chosen One, Geldon’s small eyes suddenly began examining his equally small toes.

Tristan looked back at Traax, his eyes narrowing, wondering what it was he should do. “Rise, Traax,” he said finally.

Traax quickly came to his feet, leaving his dreggan in the dirt before the prince’s feet. “Yes, my lord,” came the quick reply. The man was younger than Kluge, almost his dead commander’s size, and clean shaven. He looked at the prince with calm but inquisitive green eyes. His face was handsome, his intelligence apparent.

But just as the prince was about to order the Minions, he heard Wigg’s urgent voice calling out from behind him.

“Tristan, come here quickly. I need you!” the old one shouted.

Tristan turned to run back to the wizard, wondering what was wrong. When he reached the wagon he found his answer, and his knees began to buckle.

Narrissa rested against one of the wagon wheels, her lower abdomen covered with blood. Kluge’s returning wheel lay on the bloody ground next to her. Wigg looked up into Tristan’s face with a mixture of sorrow and finality.

“She was struck by Kluge’s wheel,” he said, standing up and pulling Tristan to one side. “I tried everything, including the use of the Paragon, to help her, but even my strongest healing incantations were not enough. I have stopped her pain, but the wound is too grievous.” Wigg’s face was pinched and serious, knowing how much Tristan’s heart was aching.

“She has little time left now,” he said compassionately. “Use it well. There is nothing else I can do for her, so I will attend to your sister.” With that, the Lead Wizard reluctantly turned and slowly walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

As if in a dream Tristan sat down on the ground next to her, cradling her in his arms. He took in the bright-red blood that had splattered against the fluffy white wings, and her tiny, bound feet. No, please! he wailed silently. I cannot lose you, too. Not like this!

Her expression was calm as she managed a light smile up at him. His shiny eyes took in the honey-blond hair and sapphire-blue eyes, richly lit by the warm sun as it approached its impending zenith.

“Tell me, Chosen One,” she asked him quietly, “what is the color of your heart?”

Tristan swallowed hard and looked away, the tears coming freely as he struggled to regain his voice. “It’s gray,” he whispered finally. “My heart is gray.”

She placed a fragile hand against the worn leather of his vest and gazed into his eyes. “No,” she said simply. “Your heart is golden. It does not feel that way to you now, but I can tell. You have won. You have your sister, and now you can go home.”

But I still do not possess what it is I truly want, he thought as he watched her fade. I cannot take you and Shailiha with me. We will never know what the future could have held for us.

“Remember me,” she whispered, “but also remember that your heart is too special to keep from another.” She smiled again.

Reaching up, she wiped a tear from his cheek. “Odd, isn’t it, Tristan?” she asked. She paused slightly as if trying to gather her breath to form her last few words, then continued in an even more faint voice. “Had I been able to choose a place to die, it would have been in your arms.” Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again, more slowly this time, the light in them already beginning to fade. “There will be another for you, Chosen One,” she whispered finally. “One whom you shall truly have the chance to love. Find her. Then plant your love and let it grow.”

Stay, his heart called out to her. Gently, quietly, she closed her eyes, and was gone. And then he screamed. Screamed aloud at the true, unrelenting insanity of it all.

It was a blind, overpowering, plaintive scream that seemed to go on and on and live in his heart forever as he sat there uncaringly in the dirt, holding her in his arms. An angry scream that rang out not only for Narrissa but also for his family, for the Directorate of Wizards, and for his countrymen. And for the nations of Eutracia and Parthalon, which had virtually perished at the hands of the Coven and the grotesque, winged monsters that now stood before him, impossibly calling him their lord.

She never knew I was a prince, he realized as he looked down into Narrissa’s face. The only woman who loved me for who I was, and not what I was. She was so hard to find, and now so much harder to lose.

And now I feel truly lost, he thought. Lost in the arms that once held me. Then from all around Narrissa’s body light began to gather, finally coalescing into an aura of radiant illumination. It slowly condensed into a small, twinkling amber sparkle of light that revolved in the air before his face as if somehow trying to say good-bye. And then the amber, sparkling light that was Narrissa’s soul came yet closer to his face and brushed his lips once, and then twice. Finally, reluctantly, the fragile, amber sparkle ascended into the sky, vanishing forever.

Fly to the sky, his heart cried as he looked to the heavens. Go and join your brothers and sisters in death, the Specters of the Gallipolai.

He might never have moved from that spot had he not heard the sound of a baby crying.

He looked back at the old wizard, his heart and mind struggling to deal with all that was happening. Wigg was getting to his feet, holding something in his arms.

“Shailiha’s child,” the old one said, smiling. “Her daughter is here. The truly firstborn of the Chosen Ones.”

Gently laying Narrissa’s body down, Tristan stood shakily to look at the baby Wigg held. His eyes opened wide.

From all around Shailiha’s newborn daughter came a dazzling, azure light. The baby gazed up at him, exuding a calm, quiet consciousness that the prince had never before seen in one so new, almost as if the child were already aware of her place in life.

Tristan turned to look at Narrissa’s body lying there on the bloody ground, and then once more looked into the face of the newborn child. A life that I cared for has left me, he thought, but another that I will love has somehow found me.

“… and the azure light that accompanies the births of the Chosen Ones shall be the proof of the quality of their blood …” Wigg quoted as he rocked the child gently. He looked into the prince’s eyes. “It is from the Prophecies. The Prophecies that you will soon read.” Holding the newborn in the crook of one arm, Wigg looked to the sky, taking note of the position of the sun. It was directly at its zenith in the bright, Parthalonian sky. He then reached beneath his robes with his free hand and removed the Paragon from the locket, placing it on its chain about his neck. As soon as he did so, Tristan could see the sparkle of the gift returning to the old wizard’s eyes.

And then, almost immediately, the wizard’s face darkened, and Tristan knew why. He could feel it in his blood, and it seemed almost as if his entire body was in some kind of harsh, stark awareness of it.

He turned with the old wizard to see Faegan’s portal starting to form at the base of the destroyed aviary.

On and on it came, swirling in a magnificent circle of azure, turning faster and growing in strength. Tristan could feel the warning of its arrival rising in his blood. Finally the portal stopped growing, and its turning slowed. The sky-blue light beckoned to them.

Realizing what the appearance of the portal meant, Tristan went directly to where his sister was sitting on the ground, her eyes still lifeless, unseeing. Her hair was soaked with perspiration, and her black, bloodstained gown was torn. Her medallion, the duplicate of his own, still lay upon her chest, suspended from the chain around her neck. Tristan’s heart went cold, knowing that the time had finally come to take the responsibility for her into his hands.

Wigg handed the baby to Geldon and quietly walked up behind the prince. “She has shown no improvement,” the old one said. “She cannot go back with us, Tristan. You must see that now. To infect Eutracia with one who was once a sorceress and still so overcome with these remnants of one of Failee’s incantations would be unforgivable.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.

“And I’m afraid the child must now be dealt with, as well,” he continued, his heart heavy. “Although the baby appears normal, there is no way to tell for certain, and there may never be until she has matured. Only if the princess were to show some awareness of her former life could I then in good conscience take with us both her and her daughter.” Wigg hung his head as a tear came to the corner of one eye; he brushed it away, trying to keep command of his feelings.

“It is time,” the old one said.

As much as he wished to contradict the old wizard and simply take his sister back through the portal, the prince knew he could not. Wigg was right. But the reality of it all made Tristan’s endowed blood feel like ice in his veins, as if he were no longer human.

Because the task he had to perform was so inhuman.

“How do you wish to proceed?” Wigg asked softly.

Tristan looked away. “I will tend to Shailiha,” he said, his voice shaking. “She is my twin, and my charge. You do what you must with the baby.” Biting his lip, he paused.

“I will bury the bodies of my sister, her child, and Narrissa in the cemetery of my family, and in this I will hear no disagreement.” He gave the wizard a cold, resolved look. “I wish to speak no more of it until it is done.”

He walked back to Shailiha and knelt down before her, looking her in the eyes. Stroking her wet hair, he pulled some strands of it off her face and looped them behind an ear. Then he spoke to her for what he knew would be the last time.

“Know that I did all that I could,” he said, the tears once again starting to come. “We were fortunate to have come this far, but now your journey with us is over. I promise you that in my remaining days I will see Eutracia whole again, and restored to her past glory. You are and will always be my sister, and I shall love you with all of my heart until the day I die.” He kissed her softly on the lips.

He stood, taking the dreggan from his scabbard, knowing that a clean strike with his sword would be the most painless way. The sword sang its usual, oftentimes reassuring, song as it came out of its sheath. But this time the sound was one of sadness, rather than one of protection.

Raising the dreggan high into the air, he held it there and momentarily closed his eyes against the pain. The sword’s blade caught the midday sun just before beginning its deadly path downward. His gold medallion, the gift from his mother, dangled off his chest as he bent forward, its glossy surface reflecting the light across his sister’s blank, emotionless eyes.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

And then Shailiha blinked.

Gasping, Tristan was just able to stop the downward cut of the blade as he stood there in shock, looking at his sister.

She blinked again, and then she looked down at the medallion upon her chest, and back up at the one the prince was wearing.

Tristan dropped his sword and fell to one knee before her. Grasping her jaw with one hand, he held up his medallion, forcing her to look at it.

“You know this!” he half asked, half exclaimed, as he continued to hold it in front of her eyes. “Tell me you know this symbol!” She looked directly into his face.

“It is somehow familiar to me…” she said, blinking in the sunlight. She looked into his dark eyes, searching his face.

“Tristan…” she said weakly. “Your name is Tristan… I do not know who you are, yet your face is so familiar…”

The joy he felt at hearing her speak his name was cut short by the grisly image of the task that the Lead Wizard would be performing right now.

“Wigg! Stop!” he shouted. He stood up and whirled around, in a panic to find the wizard and stop him from destroying the child.

“Over here,” Wigg said calmly. “There is really no reason to shout.”

Tristan ran back to where Wigg was standing, still holding the baby in the blanket. With a great gasp of relief, he smiled into the wizard’s eyes.

“You didn’t kill her,” he breathed. “Thank the Afterlife.”

The old one’s infamous eyebrow shot up into its familiar arch of annoyance. “Of course not.” He winked. “The truth is, I was watching you. Watching and waiting to see if, at the last moment, there might be a miracle.” He smiled, continuing to rock the baby.

“And we got it. Sometimes one does not need the craft to produce the greatest of victories.” He smiled again and handed the baby to the prince. “Take the child to her mother. Given all that she has been through, I think it is exactly what she needs most right now.”

Tristan took the baby, walked over to where Shailiha was sitting, and knelt in front of her once again. His sister’s eyes went to the new baby, in that ages-old way that only a new mother’s can.

“Whose child is this?” she asked, still dazed.

“She’s yours,” Tristan said, handing her the baby girl.

Shailiha took her daughter in her arms and instinctively started to rock her, cooing slightly as she did so. Then she looked at Tristan again. “What is her name?” she asked him rather blankly.

Tristan thought for a moment of the sad little grave that he had been forced to abandon at the edge of the Recluse and then said, “Morganna. Her name is Morganna the Second, of the House of Galland. Named after her grandmother.”

“Hello, Morganna.” Shailiha smiled.

Suddenly remembering the waiting Minions, Tristan reluctantly took his eyes from his sister and looked back to the square, to the hordes of winged warriors who were still obediently kneeling before him in the heat of the midday sun. He had to address them, he thought. Give them orders. He could not leave them to run amok in Parthalon. He had to think of something to tell them—even though the mere idea of addressing the murderers of his family and nation revolted him.

Beckoning Wigg to join him, he walked back to where Traax and Geldon were standing, the Minion second in command still at attention before the dwarf.

“You may all rise,” the new lord ot the Minions ordered. The entire Minion force stood, their dreggans still at their feet. Tristan knew that all of the troops could not be here in the square; the others must have been standing outside the city walls, thousands and thousands of them, waiting for the orders to be passed.

“They are a very potent and well-trained force,” Wigg whispered into the prince’s ear. “Despite their bloody history, it is still a fact that they were obediently following orders, and did so exceedingly well. You would also do well to remember that the Eutracian Royal Guard is no more, and we cannot be sure of the conditions we will find upon returning home. Circumstances have changed dramatically, and we have no choice but to change with them. As difficult as it may seem to be at this moment, do not let your hatred of the Minions color the judgment of what you do here today.” His eyes narrowed. “I suggest you put them to good use,” he added slyly.

Tristan thought for a moment. The old one is right, he realized, trying to adjust to the magnitude of all that had had happened that day. He always is.

“I am Tristan of the House of Galland, ruler of Eutracia,” he began awkwardly, finding it difficult to use such grand words in his own description. He pointed to the headless corpse of Kluge where it lay in the blood-soaked dirt of the square. “I am also your new lord. The orders I am about to give you are to be followed to the letter.” He took another step forward and stood next to Traax, motioning to the second in command to turn around and face the legions with him. To the astonishment of the warriors, the prince bent down, picked up Traax’s dreggan, and gently handed it to the man. The same dreggan Tristan had been so sure was to have been the instrument of his death.

“In my absence, Traax is to be your undisputed leader. First, I wish all of the Minion brothels to be opened, and the women there to be freed. They are to live among you as equals. The warriors of the Minions are now allowed to take wives, providing the women are in agreement. They are in no fashion to be coerced. In addition, no permission is needed to have children. However, birth and death records are now to be kept.”

He could see the looks of astonishment gathering in their faces, as they first stared at him and then at one another. He gave them a moment to let his words sink in before continuing.

“Second, the areas holding the Gallipolai are to be opened. They, too, are to be freed to live among you as equals. Unions between Gallipolai and Minion are now to be allowed, following the same rules that I have just described. No longer are their wings to be clipped or their feet to be bound. In this there is to be no room for disagreement. Anyone of you who violates these orders shall be subject to punishment.”

Upon hearing this, even Traax turned and looked at him in disbelief. Tristan continued to regard the legions sternly, as they stood absolutely speechless in the confines of the square.

“No more violence is to be visited upon the population of this country,” he added, shouting more strongly so that there would be no possibility for misunderstanding in his words. “The people here have suffered enough. Although you are to remain a fighting force, you are forbidden to take up your swords against anyone without explicit orders from myself, and the custom of succession by death is hereby outlawed. To that end, you are to commit part of your legions to rebuilding the Ghetto as a proper Parthalonian city, freeing the people inside and tending as best you can to the leper colony that exists here. All of the people who died here this day you are to burn, rather than bury.

“The Recluse is to be rebuilt, and all signs of the Pentangle and the existence of the Coven are to be eradicated,” he continued. “We shall one day perhaps use the structure for the common good, and I will expect it to be finished before the turn of the year.”

“And lastly, know that I will soon return here, to Parthalon, to see that what I have ordered this day has come to pass.”

He turned to Traax. “Face me,” he ordered his second in command.

Traax obediently turned to look his new lord in the eye. Despite the fact that this warrior had been one of the butchers of his family and his nation, Tristan was beginning to realize that he would also be completely loyal to whomever he recognized as his lord.

“Do you understand the orders that I have given you this day?” Tristan asked him sternly.

“Yes, my lord,” Traax responded.

“Good. You are dismissed. I wish you and the legions to return to your various fortresses and make plans for what I have ordered to come about. Go now.”

“I live to serve,” the short reply came. Immediately Traax sheathed his dreggan and took off into the air, followed first by his officers, and finally by the rest of the legions. As the sky began to darken with their numbers, Tristan stood there, almost speechless, trying to become accustomed to the fact that he was their new lord.

Once they were gone, the wizard took a step closer to him. “Well done,” he said dryly. “It should be interesting one day to see the results of their labors.”

“Yes,” Tristan said blankly, the sadness of Narrissa’s death suddenly revisiting him. So much had happened so quickly that not only his head, but also his heart had been overwhelmed—lost, swimming through the concurrent mazes of new life and sudden death.

Wigg laid an understanding hand upon his shoulder. “We have the stone, Shailiha, and her firstborn. In addition, the Coven is destroyed, it is all we could have asked for.”

Tristan turned to look at the body covered with the blanket, thinking not only of the woman with the white wings who had cared for him so much, but of the little grave that lay next to the Recluse.

“Perhaps not all,” he said softly. With a blank look on his face, he went to Narrissa’s body and sat on the ground beside it, his back up against the wagon wheel, looking out at the awful carnage in the square. Taking her in his arms, he pulled the blanket away from her face and began to rock back and forth gently, as if he and Narrissa were the only two people in the world.

Wigg looked cautiously at the glowing vortex as it continued to revolve. He could easily envision Faegan as the rogue wizard sat in his chair on wheels on the other side, waiting anxiously to see whether anyone could be coming through as he held the vortex open for the last time.

The Lead Wizard then turned to Geldon, the hunchbacked dwarf who had been so brave and true. He paused for a moment, smiled knowingly to himself, and then pointed a long, bony index finger at the dwarf. A narrow azure bolt of pure energy immediately scorched through the air and onto Geldon’s collar. With a snapping, cracking sound, the iron collar split instantly in two and fell to the dirt.

His eyes wide as saucers, Geldon unbelievingly rubbed his neck where the collar had been, finally free of it after more than three hundred years. “Thank you, Wigg,” he said, crying unashamedly. His voice was breaking, and he was barely able to get the words out. “Now I can live as a free man, and no longer a slave.”

Wigg placed his hands into his sleeves. “It is we—the nations of both Eutracia and Parthalon—who should be thanking you,” he said simply. “For your services to this cause.”

Then the Lead Wizard looked down at Tristan, still sitting in the dirt. “It’s time to leave,” he said quietly.

“You, Shailiha, and the baby go now,” Tristan said gently, without looking up at the wizard. “And take Geldon with you. He deserves a better life, a life away from this awful place. I have almost an hour before the vortex closes. I wish to stay here for a time, and be alone.”

Wigg was about to speak again and order the prince to come, but then he stopped himself. I can no longer give this one orders, he realized.

“Very well,” the old one said reluctantly. And, at that moment, his eyes widened in disbelief. Tristan’s blood, still trickling from the wounds in his shoulder and side, was glowing.

No longer red, the prince’s blood was a radiant azure that twinkled and sparkled as it dripped from his body. And the wizard instinctively knew that it was due to the fact that the Chosen One had made his first real use of the craft.

Wigg’s mind was immediately sent back in time to that night in Faegan’s tree house, just before the rogue-wizard had sent the two of them to Parthalon, and to the words Faegan had whispered after giving the Lead Wizard the locket of water from the Caves.

“It may be possible for the prince to perform some small use of the craft, despite the fact that he is untrained. If you are dead or incapacitated, it may be his only salvation. Although they do not say how, the second volume of the Tome affirms that after he has accomplished it, he will be forever, inalterably, changed. You must stay on the lookout for this change, whatever it is to be…”

Wigg continued to look down at the prince, thinking of the Tome of the Paragon, the book that he had so long ago found with the stone, and to one of the many lines written therein: “The azure light that accompanies the births of the Chosen Ones shall be the proof of the quality of their blood…”

He placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder once again, and Tristan turned his face up to him, smiling slightly through the pain in his heart. “I know,” the prince said quietly. “This feeling has been with me for several hours, although I could not discern its meaning until just now. It began when you first opened the locket and removed the Paragon, exposing it to my blood. And I could feel the change strengthening even further just now, as the Paragon came closer.”

With fresh, tearful eyes Wigg took a newfound look at the man who sat before him and then, without speaking, went back to gather up the princess, the baby, and the dwarf. Without looking back, Wigg, Shailiha, her baby, and the dwarf named Geldon walked into the vortex… and vanished.

It was only then, as Tristan sat finally alone in the dirt, holding Narrissa in his arms, that the full realization came to him. Not gently, as if upon silent cat’s feet, or whispering softly upon the flutter of the afternoon breeze, but suddenly and fully, from his blood.

And then he understood.

Understood what his mind had come to accept, but until now his heart had not. Understood, finally, that those things his family and the Lead Wizard had been asking of him, he had ultimately achieved. You have survived, and ascended to manhood, he heard his endowed blood call out to him. Your careless ways are no more. And you have become, truly, the Chosen One.

He looked down to the brilliant azure blood that dripped from his shoulder. It was his transformed, endowed blood and his transformed, matured heart that spoke to him, he now knew. Speaking, somehow, from the Prophecies of the Tome, the great book that he still knew so little about, but was nonetheless tuned to -come, but shall be preceded by another, he could hear it saying to him. And the Chosen One shall take up three weapons of his choice and slay many before reading the Prophecies, and coming to the light…

Looking down at the gentle woman who lay dead in his arms, his mind was taken back to what the monster Kluge had said, just before he died. “There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete…”

Tristan sat there silently, hugging Narrissa, and looked out at the charred and broken landscape, and upon the bodies that lay there. And then, just as he had sworn to avenge the deaths of his parents that rainy night in the graveyard, he made a new covenant with himself.

I will not rest until I have discovered who has poured such endowed blood into my veins, and why. I shall know why I have become the vessel that contains the blood of the fates. And the answers lie with the Tome.

Looking down into the soft, gentle face of the Gallipolai, he felt the tears once again begin to roll down his cheeks.

Picking her up, he turned and walked up the little knoll, into the swirling light.