The Gates of Dawn

46

“It is not only for our personal safety that we ask this thing, Princess,” Wigg said solemnly. His face was a mask of concern. “It is also for the safety of the Paragon and the Tome, and those who live here in the Redoubt. But most importantly, it is imperative that you, the female of the Chosen Ones, continue to survive. Should Tristan perish, your existence becomes more important than the survival and welfare of anyone else—including Faegan and myself. I realize you don’t want to hear this, but it now seems virtually certain we shall lose the prince, either to the impending battle, or to the poison running through his veins.”

Wigg knew his words were hurting Shailiha terribly, but if the strong-willed young woman would accept them from anyone, it would be from him.

Shailiha, rocking a fussy Morganna in her sling, had spent the last two hours in the Archives of the Redoubt, listening to what Wigg and Faegan had to say. Their words had stunned her at first, making her angry.

Above all, they went on to tell her, it was paramount that the prince not be privy to this meeting. Even Celeste, Wigg’s daughter, was not to be a party to what was discussed here on this so very important of days. For the immediate future, only the three of them in this room were to know what the wizards were trying to convince the princess to do.

Abandon her brother. The brother she loved more than her life, the same man who had risked his life time and time again to return her from the grasp of the Coven.

She simply could not believe her ears.

Wigg and Faegan had reiterated to her how truly desperate their situation was, hoping that she would eventually come to her senses and agree with them. Their powers of the craft were almost gone. Even worse, the Gates of Dawn would by now probably be completed. There seemed to be no way to keep Nicholas from bringing forth the Heretics from the Afterlife.

They had to act now. While Tristan led the Minions to battle, a battle in which he would most probably die, the rest of those living in the Redoubt should leave this place. The wizards insisted on putting as much distance between them and Nicholas’ hatchlings and carrion scarabs as they could. The sooner the better, they said. In fact they wished to leave tomorrow.

Again and again she protested, telling them that they were all stronger together than they were apart. That they should all make a last stand here, in their home city of Tammerland, no matter the outcome. What had come over these two mystics that would make them want to turn and run away?

Have I been wrong about them all of this time? she wondered, feeling as if her heart were cracking in two. Without their powers, are the wizards craven?

And then her patience finally turned to anger. Anger at the entire world for bringing these awful events upon them, and anger at the wizards for what she saw as their cowardice. She didn’t want to run—she wanted to stand next to her brother and fight back. She looked up at them both. Her hazel eyes were resolute and defiant.

“I will not go with you,” she said, her jaw clenched. “Even if it means my death, and the death of my daughter. You may run away if you want, to protect your precious art of the craft. And take with you your famous magic stone and your unreadable sacred book, for all I care! For me, all that matters is the fact that Tristan is my brother, and our blood bonds us in a way that even the two of you shall never fully understand. Just as he was willing to go to the far corners of the earth for me, I will now stay with him until the end. And if that means dying by his side, then so be it.” She clamped her mouth shut.

Sitting back in his chair, Wigg let out a great sigh. “I told you she would never agree,” he said drily in the direction of Faegan. “She and her brother were truly cut from the same cloth.” The first smile she had seen from him all afternoon finally crept into the corners of his mouth. “So much like their mother,” he added softly.

“So it would seem,” Faegan replied.

Reluctantly, Faegan reached into his robes, producing a parchment. He rolled it out flat on the table as Shailiha skeptically watched.

And then he began to talk to her in quiet, measured tones, trying to make her understand. It was to become perhaps the single most important conversation of the princess’ life.

47

Tristan stood on the balcony of one of the great rooms of the palace, Traax and Ox on either side of him. Light, fluffy snow was falling gently through the slowly brightening sky; he hoped the weather would warm as the sun rose. Pulling his gray fur jacket closer to him, he stared down intently at the war maps that covered the marble conference table before him. He had been studying them most of the night, trying to discern the best strategic point at which to attack Nicholas’ hatchlings. He knew that his first, highly concentrated assault would have to be as devastating as possible.

For as outnumbered as he and his warriors were, they would most likely be denied the opportunity of a second one.

He reached out to bite down into one of the rich, brown rolls he had requested from the gnome wives, following it with their strong tea. The comforting warmth felt good going down. One corner of his mouth came up as he remembered Shawna the Short berating him for remaining out in the cold when he could have just as easily been inside. “You’ll catch your death,” she had said, one of her small fingers waggling before his face. He had simply smiled, knowing that standing here on the snowy balcony was surely not what was about to kill him.

Remembering a technique from his days at the royal war college, Tristan had remained here to try to become more accustomed to the frigid temperatures. He would need every advantage possible if he was to lead the Minions in the manner to which they were accustomed. They will expect me to endure all the hardships that they must.

Taking his eyes away from the maps for a moment, he looked out over the balcony and to the amazing scene outside. In the last two weeks it seemed the entire world had come strangely alive with the winged warriors he had once so hated.

Their campsites now stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Yesterday the wizards had sadly informed him that there would be no more Minions arriving from Parthalon. Due to his vastly decreased powers, Faegan could no longer hold the portal open. The truth, Tristan realized, was that the wily wizard was trying to preserve his remaining powers to help those still living below escape. And with this the prince had no argument.

Tristan rubbed his sore, severely weakened right arm. Each of our warriors must kill two of the enemy, simply to survive the struggle, he realized. And to win, many of them must kill three. Long odds against our survival, indeed.

It was his plan to attack the following day. Unless, of course, the hatchlings appeared earlier, forcing him into action. But in his heart, Tristan knew there was another, even more compelling reason that was keeping his son from unleashing his creatures against them.

Nicholas was waiting, still hoping that Tristan would join him in his struggle to return the Heretics to the earth.

For the thousandth time he attempted to fathom how things could have ever come this far. Both his family and the Directorate of Wizards were now many months dead, and he, impossibly, was the new lord of the ones responsible for their murders. The land he so loved had been made virtually barren of the craft of magic; the only remaining wizards willing to help him had become mere shadows of their former selves. And all of them here, at one time deadly enemies but now wary allies, were struggling to defeat a son he had believed to be dead.

“Chosen One all right?” Ox asked. He looked concernedly into the prince’s face.

Tristan smiled slightly. “Yes, Ox,” he answered. He and the two Minions had spent most of the night talking about their battle plans. Hearing footsteps in the adjoining room, Tristan turned. Wigg and Faegan were making their slow way out to the balcony, Wigg holding weakly onto Faegan’s chair for guidance.

As he looked at them, Tristan felt a great measure of sadness. The once-vibrant, powerful wizards appeared much older now. Their faces were sallow, and their bodies seemed sunken, almost hidden beneath their robes. The Paragon’s power will soon be gone, and then they will turn to dust, vanishing forever. And no doubt I will shortly follow them into the Afterlife.

Tristan, Traax, and Ox spent a good deal of time showing the wizards their plans. Wigg and Faegan listened intently. On more than one occasion the two wizards gave them advice resulting in a few minor changes in geography and tactics. But overall the wizards agreed with the strategies.

At last Faegan cleared his throat, something else apparently on his mind. “If you would be so good as to leave us,” he said to Traax and Ox, “we have private business with the prince. It shall not take long.”

The Minion warriors looked to Tristan. When he nodded, they each went to one knee. “We live to serve,” their strong voices said in unison. Then they flew off the balcony and were gone.

Tristan beckoned the ancient wizards into the adjoining room and closed the cracked, stained-glass doors to the outside. After guiding Wigg to a dusty chair, he took one himself.

“We have made a decision,” Wigg began softly. “One that we are hoping you can agree with. But agree or not, we still feel it must be done.”

“I will make it easy for you, old friend,” Tristan answered before the wizard could continue. He leaned forward in his chair, placing his arms upon his knees. “You are going to flee the palace, and take everyone, including Shailiha, with you.”

“Yes,” Faegan said. “How did you know?”

“Your usefulness here is now very limited,” Tristan answered. “And I have long believed that you would eventually want to get the Paragon, the Tome, and my sister as far away from the danger as possible.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, trying to find the words. “Given the fact that my death is certain, your first concern, and rightfully so, must be the preservation of the craft.” He looked back up to the wizards. “But if there are additional reasons for your leaving,” he added, a hard edge to his voice, “I would like to know what they are.”

Tristan did not mean to be harsh with them, but he had long been of the opinion that they were not telling him everything. And if they were indeed holding anything back, he was determined to find out what it was, and why.

“Our reasons are exactly as you have just described, and no more,” Faegan replied. He coughed—a small, ragged sound—and pulled his gray robe closer about him. “First and foremost is the preservation of magic, if such a thing is still possible. To help protect us, we request that you grant us litters, and a host of Minions to carry them.”

Tristan thought for a moment. “It’s a pity the portal has become so unstable. You would no doubt be safer in Parthalon.” He remained silent for a moment. “You just mentioned my fate,” he finally said, looking down at the ominous veins running through the back of his hand. “There will be no antidote, will there?” Already knowing the answer, he did not immediately look back up.

“No,” Faegan answered sadly. “I am truly sorry.” He looked away, one of the few times in his long life he was completely unsure of what to say. It seems I have failed yet again, he thought sadly.

Wigg lowered his head and rubbed his white eyes, then leaned his forehead on his fist in obvious despair. “And ironically, I will actually be glad to have lost my sight,” he said softly. “The death of the Paragon is not something I wish to watch.”

Tristan sat back in his chair and regarded his friends—the once-imposing practitioners of the craft. They had changed so much it almost seemed as if he no longer knew them. “You will go to Shadowood, will you not?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Wigg answered. “We will flee to Tree-Town. That makes the most sense.” He looked into Tristan’s dark eyes, not knowing how to say farewell to the one he had loved for so long.

“We have also come to say our good-byes.” Wigg continued haltingly, “for we think it prudent that we leave as soon as possible. In fact, the Tome is already transformed, and ready to go. Shailiha and Celeste have asked to see you next, so that they might say good-bye in private. We all know you will do your best to keep Nicholas and his creatures at bay for as long as you can. You are the last hope Eutracia has. Fare thee well, Chosen One. Please know, for as long as you have left, that you shall forever remain in my heart.”

Wigg raised his arms, beckoning the prince to come to him.

Tristan rose from his chair, tears in his eyes. But with his very first step toward the wizard came the horrifying, sinking feeling.

He fell to the floor, tremors jangling his body like a marionette. Spittle foamed from his mouth as his tongue slipped down the back of his throat.

Then everything went black.

48

Nicholas, his white robe billowing gracefully around him, sailed effortlessly above the Gates of Dawn, reveling in their beauty. The magnificent archways had been finished the evening before. As he gazed upon their soaring majesty, he knew he was close, so close now, to bringing home his parents of above. But still his other father, the father who had supplied the seed of his making, had not come to him.

But he would, Nicholas knew, if he desired to live.

Joyously, the voices of the Heretics had revealed themselves to his mind again, just as dawn had crept over the hills. You have done well, they whispered. The Gates of Dawn are perfect. You have also collected into yourself almost all of the dynamism of the stone, thereby rendering the Chosen One’s wizards nearly powerless. But you must wait two more days before our coming, for he of the azure blood may still bow to you. This he must do freely. We must either have him come willingly to our bosom or see him dead. If he does not come to worship you, it shall be time to destroy all that he holds so dear, before we descend to rule again.

After that the morning had broken cold and clear. The fresh snow below him was pure and unadulterated, just as he knew the Gates were. Rising two hundred meters into the air and curved at their tops, they had finally taken the form of three great archways. The azure veins running through them glimmered with the promise of an ascendancy that had not been seen for eons.

Satisfied, he looked above him to see that his second-generation hatchlings were still guarding the sky over the Gates. And looking down, he was equally pleased to see that his other powerful creatures of the Vagaries—the carrion scarabs—were arriving to guard the ground around the bases of the Gates, marching across the snow in an undulating, teeming mass of life. Covering the area surrounding the Gates for hundreds of meters in every direction, their greatly magnified numbers fanned out like an encroaching stain upon the ground.

Hovering closer to the Gates, the young adept laid his brow on the coolness of the stone, then caressed it with his cheek as if in the grip of some ravenous, sexual need. The marble seemed to welcome his touch, as if the blood of the Heretics trapped within could already sense the power he possessed. With the final construction of the Gates the three majestic arches literally called to him, silently begging him to perform the spell this very morn. Groaning softly but knowing he must wait, he finally spoke.

“Parents,” he whispered. “It is now to me that the most difficult part of the burden falls—the agony of waiting to enact the Confluence. I must desist for two more dawns. In your infinite wisdom you never taught me that the call would be so wondrously irresistible. But wait I shall, for you order it.” Nicholas continued to hover there, lovingly pressing his face against the coolness of the marble.

“It is to you I owe my allegiance and no one else, including the untrained one of azure blood who did nothing but unwillingly create me. Obey you I shall. In two more days, the Confluence shall be yours.”

He finally pulled himself away and soared off to the embankment where the blood stalker was waiting.

Standing in rows behind Ragnar stood the hundreds of consuls who had initially resisted the young adept, before his greater powers came to control their consciousnesses. Mindless, staring out at nothing in their dirty, torn robes, they waited silently for his word.

“The Gates are completed, my lord?” Ragnar asked. He pulled his fur coat closer, then sampled some of the fluid from his ever-present vial.

“Yes,” Nicholas answered softly. “All that remains is for the Chosen One to come to his senses, and join me. If he has not prostrated himself before me by tomorrow’s dawn, I will send my hatchlings to destroy his Minions. The following morn I shall enact the Gates.”

“And the rest of the consuls?” Ragnar asked hesitantly. “Those who joined us willingly—are they safe?”

“Again, yes,” Nicholas answered. “They are some distance from here, waiting for the return of the Heretics. I have also used the Forestallment necessary to test the quality of their hearts, just as my parents of above ordered me to do. They are mine, body and soul. You need neither fear them, nor fear for them.”

Nicholas glided behind the stalker to face the ones in the dark blue robes.

At the adept’s signal, Scrounge called a squadron of hatchlings down.

“Take them,” Nicholas said simply.

Nodding, Scrounge signaled for the hatchlings to begin the slaughter.

The great birds swooped down with their swords drawn and sliced the helpless consuls from neck to groin. The endowed blood of the Brotherhood poured out everywhere upon the white, snow-laden ground. Every remaining member of the Brotherhood of Consuls who had tried to remain true to the practices of the Directorate and the preservation of the Vigors fell dead.

Scrounge smiled, wheeling his bird around to face the young adept. “As you have ordered, Master,” he said.

Nicholas nodded once more.

Scrounge then ordered the hatchlings to rip away the dead consuls’ robes and organs. Once done, they flew the corpses toward the newly constructed Gates of Dawn, where they dropped them directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs.

The females immediately began to crawl up and over the corpses and deposit their eggs into the still-warm body cavities. The males stood guard nearby, their antennae sensing the air, their tiny, black eyes missing nothing.

Scrounge flew his bird back to his master’s side, awaiting his next orders.

“Well done,” Nicholas said softly. “You are to return to Fledgling House, to rest. Do not leave there for the remainder of the day, or the coming night. Tomorrow you lead the hatchlings against the Chosen One and his Minions. I will discuss my battle plans with you this evening.”

“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered. He nodded his leave, then wheeled his bird around and took flight for Fledgling House.

Nicholas turned his dark, exotic eyes upon the stalker. “Joshua is dead,” he said simply.

Ragnar stood in the cold morning sun, wide-eyed for a moment, his mind trying to digest the news. “How?” he finally asked.

“No doubt by way of the rather crude weapon you so kindly supplied him with,” Nicholas answered. “My blood felt the shudder of his passing into the Afterlife the very moment it occurred.”

“But how did the Chosen One’s wizards discover him?” Ragnar asked, nervously tasting yet more of the thick, yellow fluid.

“Never forget that Wigg and Faegan are exceedingly clever,” Nicholas answered. “I do not yet know how they discovered Joshua’s true intentions, but it is of no consequence. Nothing can stop us now. And as for you, my friend, at last your day has come.”

Thinking of his next mission, of perhaps finally reclaiming Celeste, Ragnar could hardly contain himself. “Where is it in your service you are sending me this time?”

Nicholas took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. “To the Afterlife.”

Ragnar stumbled backward, almost falling. The vial of brain fluid spilled onto the ground, hissing as it burrowed into the melting snow.

“But why?” he whispered, his voice cracking with fear. “You said as a reward for my loyalty I was to serve you always, even with the coming of the Heretics!” His breathing was heavily labored; his knees had begun to shake.

Nicholas smiled slightly as a sudden gust of wind blew through his long, dark hair. “The answer is simple, stalker,” he whispered. “I lied.”

“But why?” Ragnar repeated even more desperately.

“Your blood is tainted by your own brain fluid, don’t you see?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “This makes you clearly inferior, and unworthy of life in what shall soon be our fearless, uncompromising new world. The wizard Wigg has finally succeeded, however obliquely, in releasing you from your torment after all.” The young adept shook his head, contemplating the unique, centuries-old maze that lay before him.

“Ragnar,” he said softly. “Once a respected wizard—one who would have surely become a member of the Directorate. Partially turned to a stalker by the same woman who was once Wigg’s wife, you went on to become addicted to your own fluids due solely to Wigg’s actions. The onetime wife of Wigg, now controlling you, left their child with you for safekeeping. Later, believing the mother to be banished forever, you abused the sorceress’ progeny for centuries in order not only to satisfy your sick desires, but also to take silent revenge on the wizard who had been the sorceress’ husband. And then you finally die at the hands of the one left behind in Parthalon by the Chosen One himself—an act made possible due to the ministrations of Failee, that same sorceress.” Nicholas paused for a moment, his dark gaze boring its way into the back of the stalker’s brain. “It seems that Failee, by way of the Chosen One’s seed, is about to take her revenge upon you after all,” he added quietly. “How fitting, wouldn’t you agree? The circle is about to become complete.”

As the stalker’s desperate breathing ignited the cold air into puffs of vapor, a trail of urine emptied from his body, running down the inside of one of his legs to join with the odorous brain fluid already on the ground. The two vile substances of similar color snaked their way down the embankment, melting the snow before them.

“But Scrounge!” Ragnar countered. “He will surely know that you have killed me, and will perhaps even refuse to follow you!”

“How will he possibly know?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “I have sent him into seclusion at Fledgling House, ordering him not to depart until he leads the hatchlings against the Chosen One on the morrow’s dawn. And by the time he notices your prolonged absence, he too shall be dead. Even the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs shall be disposed of after they have rid the world of everyone but myself, my parents of above, and the consuls who have chosen to serve us.” Nicholas leveled his eyes at the stalker, sending another shiver of terror through him.

“So you see,” the adept finished quietly. “None of my servants were ever meant to live, much less serve me for eternity.”

Without further discussion Nicholas pointed a slender, white finger toward the stalker. Almost immediately Ragnar’s robes, jacket, and boots began to rip apart. Wigg’s ceremonial dagger fell to the ground with the tatters of clothing. Ragnar stood naked and exposed in the snow.

A thin, scarlet line appeared down the entire length of his torso, from his larynx to his exposed groin. It quickly became a ribbon of bright red blood.

With a wet ripping sound, the stalker’s abdomen and breastbone split wide open, exposing the still-living organs within. As his endowed blood rushed out, his organs were pulled from his body, collecting into a hideous pile of offal in the snow just before him.

Stunned, Ragnar looked for the last time into the eyes of Nicholas. He then fell forward, dead.

With a twist of his outstretched hand, Nicholas sent the steaming organs and dead body directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs. The shiny black beetles immediately clambered over them, rendering the stalker’s body virtually indistinguishable from the other corpses lying there. The females started to burrow their way into the freshly steaming body cavity to lay yet more of their eggs, while others of their kind began to feed on the bloody viscera.

Smiling, the adept took flight toward Fledgling House.

49

Throbbing wracked Tristan’s every limb and joint. He tried to raise himself up, but strong hands eased him firmly back down into the luxurious depths of a bed. He could see little, his vision blurry and off-center. Unable to fight his way out of the gloom, he allowed the blackness to overcome him again.

Pain still greeted him when he finally came around again, but his vision was better. Looking up, he saw the faces of Traax, Shailiha, and Celeste. Each of them smiled hesitantly down at him.

“You were gone a long time,” Shailiha said, her voice cracking. “Almost twelve hours. We thought that we might have lost you for good this time.” A tear crowded its way into her right eye, and she brushed it from her cheek.

He tried painfully to sit up, but his right arm wouldn’t move.

Shailiha turned her eyes away, then forced them back to him. “The veins have blackened up the length of your neck, little brother, and they cover your arm and hand.”

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said quietly. “There was no need for you to see this.”

Traax took a step closer to the bed, his dark green eyes looking intently down at his stricken master. “Forgive me, my lord,” he asked. “But now that you are conscious, there is a question I must ask you. The wizards claim you promised them litters, and a host of warriors to do their bidding. I wished to confirm these facts with you before granting their requests.”

Tristan smiled weakly. “Give them whatever they desire,” he said softly. “And any other aid they may need. I shall join you later.” He paused. “But first tell me, given the fact that you have now seen the effects of my illness, do you still accept me as your lord?” He held his breath for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. Above all, he must continue to command the loyalty and respect of the warrior standing before him.

Traax’s answer was both immediate and unequivocal. “I continue to serve you, and only you,” he said. “And as for your illness, it only makes me want to destroy the ones responsible for inflicting it upon you even more.” His hand tightened on his dreggan. “But I must also tell you that I am very glad the entire body of warriors did not see this. In truth, I cannot be sure how they would have reacted.” And then an unexpected smile spread across his face. “I shall now go to the wizards. They stand just outside the castle entrance, bickering at each other. Get well quickly, my lord, for we have some well-deserved killing to do.” Clicking his heels together, he turned and walked from the room, leaving Tristan alone with the women.

Tristan couldn’t remember ever having been so tired in his life. “Where is Ox?” he asked his sister.

“Just outside your door,” Shailiha answered. “I know of nothing in this world that could move him from his post.”

Then Celeste leaned over the bed, placing an affectionate hand on one of his cheeks. As she did so, her dark red hair fell down over one shoulder. He could smell the myrrh in it, just as he had that first night when he had saved her from diving off the cliff.

“I shall leave the two of you alone,” Shailiha said quietly. “When Celeste is done saying good-bye, I will return.” With that his twin sister quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

Celeste picked up Tristan’s stricken right hand, holding it gently.

“I want to thank you,” she said, her voice dark and husky. She reached out with her free hand and smoothed back the usual, dark comma of hair from his forehead.

“For what?” he asked.

She smiled. “For saving my life, thereby making it possible for me to find my new one. Despite the fact that we may never see each other again, I shall never forget what you did for me.”

Tristan looked into her eyes and held her gaze. “If that is true, then promise me something,” he said.

“Anything.”

“If you should somehow survive all of this, and you truly value your new life as you say you do, then make sure you deserve it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise.

“My life was once golden, with no worries or cares,” he said. “I foolishly took it all for granted, and for a very long time. I lost almost all of my family and friends before realizing how precious they were. Your father tells us that your blood is inferior only to Shailiha’s, and Shailiha’s only to my own. Therefore, should I die, your blood shall become the second most powerful in the world. I can see that you have your father’s strength and courage. You must, to have survived all that you did. Listen to your father, and learn the craft well. Be one of the strongest of people ever to master it, for I know in my heart you will be able. But follow the teachings of Wigg and Faegan only, and do so strictly for the sake of the Vigors, keeping the ethics they deem so important alive for future generations of the endowed—generations that I shall never see.”

His eyes lingered on the graceful curves of her face. “There is something else I wish to tell you.”

Celeste placed her fingertips on his lips. “I know,” she said. “I may be new to your world, but I still see much, including the way you look at me.” She closed her eyes, choking back a sigh before opening them again. “But for now, I must leave.”

With that she touched her lips gently to his and then stood. Removing a scented handkerchief from the bodice of her gown, she placed it on his lap, then walked to the door. For a moment, she paused, her head lowered. And then, without turning back, she left.

Several moments later Shailiha reentered the room. She sat on the edge of his bed and smiled bravely. “It is now my turn to say good-bye,” she whispered. Her voice seemed very small. “And there is so little time. The Minions have already granted the wizards’ wishes, and everyone awaits me.” She looked down at Morganna in her sling. “I hope you can watch your niece grow up.”

Resolutely, then, she grasped the gold medallion hanging around her neck, the exact duplicate of his, and looked directly into his eyes. “I shall always wear mine, no matter what,” she said softly. “You came to the ends of the earth to find me, and if I must, I will one day do the same for you.”

“I know,” he whispered. There was so much more he wished to say, so much more he knew he would later greatly regret not saying. But just now, the words wouldn’t come. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.

Shailiha closed her eyes, nodding gently.

And then she took a deep breath and stood up. Looking seriously into his face, she said, “Trust the process, Chosen One.”

Tristan’s brows drew down in confusion. “W-What?” he asked.

“Trust the process, Chosen One,” she repeated. With that, she kissed him on the forehead and turned to the door. Before he could speak to her again, she too was gone.

Tristan lay back in the bed, exhausted, wondering what she had meant. But he was asleep before any answer came.

As Shailiha stepped up into one of the several Minion litters, Martha smiled at her.

Wigg turned his head anxiously in the direction of the princess. “Did you tell him? Are you sure he heard you clearly?”

“Yes,” Shailiha answered, holding her baby close. “He did.” Tears came again, and she closed her eyes.

“Then tomorrow we shall know,” Wigg answered.

Gently rising into the sky, closely accompanied by the several thousand Minion warriors sworn to protect them, the litters turned north, toward Shadowood.

50

When Tristan finally awakened again, it was to find Ox looking down at him.

“It almost dawn,” the Minion said. “Chosen One all right?”

His head still swimming, Tristan got out of bed, testing his abilities. He hurt everywhere, especially in his right arm and shoulder. He found that he could move it, though it remained stiff. He shook his head. Bad as it is, it will simply have to do. For today we go into battle.

“I’m able to fight.” His grin to Ox was stark and determined. He dressed as quickly as he could, then placed the dreggan and scabbard over his back against the gray fur jacket Shailiha had given him and donned the leather quiver that held his dirks, adjusting it so that the handles of the weapons would not interfere with one another. He reached back to check that none of the weapons would stick, though the movement caused his shoulder to burn in agony.

And then he saw the brain hook.

He picked it up from the night table and turned it this way and that. Its pearl handle and the hook at the end of the blade gleamed quietly in the light of the chandeliers. For a moment he smiled, wondering how many secrets it held, and how many more it would yet participate in. Finally he concealed it within his right knee boot. Then, remembering another item he would like to have, he retrieved the handkerchief Celeste had given him and tucked it into a pocket.

Another table was laden with food and drink: tea, long since cold; dark bread; and cheese. The first few bites reminded him how long it had been since he’d had nourishment, and he ate and drank greedily. Finally feeling more refreshed, he squared his shoulders and walked to the door with Ox at his side.

As they neared the field to the north Tristan slowed, amazed at the sight before them.

All of the Minion warriors, some eighty thousand strong, were standing in the cold, white snow, awaiting his orders. The sun was just coming up, and its orange and golden rays illuminated the warriors one seemingly endless row at a time. When he saw what some of those in the forward areas were holding, it took his breath away.

At Traax’s sharp order, battle drums began to sound. Fifty of the warriors walked forward, each holding a long pole. At the end of each pole was a blue-and-gold battle flag carrying the heraldry of his family, the House of Galland.

The gold field of each flag had superimposed upon it a blue Eutracian broadsword and a roaring lion. The sight strengthened Tristan’s heart. They march to their deaths under my family’s flag. I could never have asked for more than this.

For the first time since he had seen them violently crashing through the roof of the palace on his ill-fated coronation day, he felt genuinely pleased to have the savage, winged warriors in his presence.

As Tristan watched, they all went to one knee in the snow, lowering their heads in submission. With a single, unified voice, they shouted, “I live to serve!” Several moments passed as Tristan looked down at them, the snow lightly falling on their bodies and wings.

“You may rise,” he said, finally finding his voice.

Traax approached him, smiling. “We didn’t think you would mind, my lord,” he said. “We asked the wizards where we might find these, and they gladly obliged us. We march for you, and you alone. Under your banner—the banner that is now also ours.”

“Thank you, Traax,” Tristan answered softly. “And I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”

Just as the prince was about to address the warriors again, some of them began looking upward, pointing to the brightening sky. Tristan, Traax, and Ox raised their eyes to behold what was taking shape above them.

Writing.

Spellbound, Tristan watched as a single hatchling with a rider, high over the royal palace, somehow began tracing words into the sky. With every turn the bird made, a flowing line followed gracefully behind it, leaving azure letters. Slowly, the letters began to spell out words. As he watched the twisted, sick poem continue to form, Tristan’s hands balled up into fists. The rider must be Scrounge, but he knew that the power would be coming from Nicholas. Finally the verse was complete:

Traax turned to Tristan and saw the look of hate in the prince’s eyes. “This one called Scrounge waits for you,” he said quietly. “And it is now time for you to go to him.”

Tristan took his gaze from the sky just as Scrounge and his mount began to soar away to the northeast. “Yes,” he answered, his eyes dark. “There is much between him and me that needs to be put right. But first I will address the warriors.”

Looking to the thousands of winged ones before him, he thought for a moment. Many, if not all of them, were about to die in his service. He wanted to make sure as best he could that his address would count for something.

“Warriors! Minions of Day and Night!” he shouted. “When you first came to my land, you came as attackers. This time you come as defenders of Eutracia. I am honored by your presence here today, for you are the most skilled warriors I have ever seen. Follow my instructions and those of your officers to the letter, and you may survive. If I should fall in battle, know that for as long as the struggle reigns, you are to take your orders from Traax. But following the conflict, no matter how it ends, you are to seek out the wizards Wigg and Faegan and submit to them as your new lords. Do you understand me?”

Again came the thunderous chorus. “I live to serve!”

Tristan reached painfully behind him and drew his dreggan. The deadly, familiar ring of the blade leaving its scabbard reverberated a long time in the cool, dry air before finally fading away.

“I also charge each of you with something else this day,” Tristan shouted. “It is no secret that we are greatly outnumbered. But if each of you kills at least three of the enemy, we shall win!”

With that thousands of dreggans came out of their scabbards, their blades ringing through the cold air amid eager cheering.

Tristan looked at the warriors for a time, and then over to both Traax and Ox. They were smiling broadly. “Remember our battle plan,” he said. “And may the Afterlife have mercy upon us this day.”

Saying nothing more, he replaced his dreggan into its scabbard and checked his knives. His hatchling was waiting nearby, and Tristan climbed into its saddle and strapped himself in. He wheeled the bird around to face his warriors a final time. And then a thought came to him.

He reached into a pocket and produced the scented handkerchief that Celeste had given him. As the myrrh hidden there came back to him for what would almost certainly be the final time, he smiled fatalistically and tied it around his left arm. Then he launched his bird into the sky.

The thousands of warriors took flight to follow him, their huge numbers blotting out the rising sun. As one, they turned north, to what would soon become the killing fields of Farplain.

51

As they soared through the sky, Shailiha clutched Morganna with one hand. Her other hand gripped one of the rough-hewn handles fastened to the inside of the litter. She had never traveled in this fashion before, and was already quite sure she never wished to do so again. She was terrified that either she would fall out, or the warriors would eventually drop them from sheer exhaustion. Neither, to her complete amazement, had yet happened.

Wigg, Shailiha, and Martha were in one litter. Faegan, the Tome, the Paragon, and Celeste were in another, while Geldon and the gnomes rode in the third. Faegan’s fliers of the fields flew alongside. Several empty litters were also being carried along.

Faegan, still in his chair on wheels, would occasionally pop his head out, shouting the necessary course corrections to the warriors as they sped along. Wigg, on the other hand, seemed very self-absorbed, his mind lost in wizardly contemplations.

To distract herself from her fear, Shailiha tried to remember what Wigg had told her of their destination, Shadowood, which was inhabited by gnomes and had served as Faegan’s home since his crippling by the Coven three hundred years ago. It had been created by the Directorate, using the craft, and had been intended as a refuge for those of endowed blood, should the Coven have won the war. Now it was about to serve the same purpose should the hatchlings burst through Tristan’s lines.

They were exceedingly fortunate to have the Minions and litters, Wigg had said, since the normal trip to Shadowood on foot was very difficult and time-consuming. The secret place was surrounded on all sides by a deep, invisible canyon that only the trained endowed could see. To others all that could be seen was an expansive field of grass lying before a great pine forest, and if they came too close, they would fall into the canyon and perish. If one succeeded in navigating the bridge across the canyon, a deadly forest and deadlier tunnel awaited.

There was only so much to ponder about the place, though, and curiosity finally overcame Shailiha’s fears. She handed her child to Martha so that she could brave the cold and look outside as their litter soared through the sky.

The experience was both wondrous and terrifying.

The white, snowy ground flashed below them. Although she was already too far away to make out the banks of the Sippora River or the capital city of Tammerland that now lay far behind them, she was just able to distinguish the outskirts of the city of Tanglewood as their litter passed by to the northeast. Soon the southern edge of the great, flat expanses of Farplain would come into view.

Reminded of Farplain, she thought about Tristan, and the battle that he might be fighting this very moment. She felt guilty that she had teased him to get him to ride his hatchling into the sky that first time, since she found herself frightened merely to sit here in her litter, speeding along to the relative safety of Shadowood.

If only Tristan can survive the conflict, she thought to herself. And then, in the distance, she saw it.

Tree Town.

The Minions descended, carrying their precious cargoes with them. They landed carefully and surrounded the litters protectively, dreggans drawn. Some of them remained circling in the sky, keeping a lookout.

Shailiha took Morganna from Martha and stepped out onto the snowy ground, her knees trembling slightly. Martha emerged and helped Wigg out. Shailiha turned to look down the sloping knoll before her, and her eyes came upon one of the most curious sights she had ever seen: hundreds of tree houses, each one seeming more ornate than the last, painted a dazzling array of colors. Some several stories high, they were connected by a series of wooden walkways. Shailiha smiled. It was like something from a dream.

By now Faegan, Celeste, Geldon, and the gnomes traveling with them were all by Shailiha’s side. The fliers of the fields swooped down, congregating into a riot of color directly over their mistress.

The snow fell softly upon them as they continued to look down at the sleepy village. Strangely, there was no one to be seen.

“They are without doubt quite frightened,” Faegan said wryly. “They have never seen the Minions before.”

“Do they know we are here?” Shailiha asked, trying to keep the snow off of Morganna.

“Oh, indeed,” Faegan answered. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Without question the alarm has already gone out.”

“Faegan, I need to get the baby inside,” Shailiha said worriedly.

“Of course,” he answered. “Let’s go. But let me take the lead, so that they can see me. Otherwise there might be trouble, and I certainly don’t want any of them harmed.” He looked behind, regarding the rest of the very strange group. A smile came to his face. “We shall be quite a sight to them, I can assure you.”

With that, he levitated his chair above the snow-covered ground and started down the knoll. Martha took Wigg’s hand. The giant butterflies soared overhead, and the huge number of Minion warriors followed warily behind.

They had only taken a few paces when a crowd of male gnomes came running around the corners of the houses, brandishing knives, axes, and bows. Shailiha recoiled, fearing for Morganna.

But the gnomes ran to Faegan. He landed to embrace them, and then they joyously hoisted him into the air, chair and all, amid great cheering and laughter.

Faegan finally became more serious, and called for Shannon the Small and Michael the Meager.

“Escort Celeste, Martha, the baby Morganna, and your wives to my mansion,” he told them. “Find for Martha anything she might need for the welfare of the child. As for the rest of us, including the Minions, there is much work to do.” He then gave the compressed, repaginated Tome to a warrior and told him to go with Shannon and Michael. The Paragon remained hanging around Faegan’s neck.

“And now,” the old wizard said sadly, “I suggest everyone say their good-byes.”

Tearfully, Shailiha kissed her baby and handed her to Martha, bidding the kindly matron farewell. Celeste walked to Wigg, holding him close. “Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, I shall never forget you.”

“I know, my child,” Wigg answered, his voice cracking. “But you must go quickly, for time is now the only remaining ally we possess.” For what seemed an eternity, he held his daughter close. Then finally, reluctantly, he let her go.

With that, her splinter of the group walked down the knoll toward the houses of Tree Town.

Faegan turned to Shailiha. “It is time,” he said solemnly.

Shailiha nodded. Closing her eyes, she raised her right arm. Caprice flew down to land upon it.

Go and do as I have ordered you to, Shailiha thought. And may you all return to me safely.

Caprice fluttered up from the princess’ arm and flew back to join the squadron of twelve fliers especially chosen for this most important of tasks.

And then, Caprice in the lead, they soared away.

Those remaining—human, gnome, Minion, and flier alike—waited there for a moment, watching the butterflies disappear into the sky. Then, at a gesture from Faegan, those who were to be carried reentered their litters, the gnomes clambering into the many extras that had been brought. Snapping open their leathery wings, the Minion bearers gently lifted the litters.

Their numbers darkening the sky, both the warriors and the cargoes they carried disappeared against the horizon.

52

“We are outnumbered, my lord,” Traax said calmly. “But we will do all we can to prevail. You have my word on it as a Minion.”

Tristan’s hatchling hovered high in the sky, just below the clouds. Traax and Ox, their breath coming out in little columns of frosted vapor, hovered next to him. Thousands upon thousands of other warriors fanned out around them. The blue-and-gold banners of Tristan’s heraldry, which had been carried aloft, snapped back and forth with the cold gusts.

Here, on this bizarre battlefield several thousand feet above the ground, the wind sliced into the exposed skin of Tristan’s face like invisible icicles. The blustery, raw day had developed into one of very dense, gray cloud cover—just what he had been hoping for. But as he looked down to the overpowering numbers of Nicholas’s hatchlings swirling below, his heart sank.

There were so many of the enemy that they literally blotted out the earth beneath them.

Tristan took a deep, cold breath, thinking. Farplain lived up to its name in every respect. It was a vast, flat, barren expanse. Even at the height of the Season of the Sun it contained little more than dry, low-lying grasses, with nowhere to hide. Tristan planned to keep the battle in the sky, where his troops could make use of all three dimensions of movement.

And then, as he watched, the hatchlings below them slowly began to form airborne columns, their lines stretching almost as far as the eye could see. Then, led by a single bird and rider, as a great, disciplined army they began to soar to higher altitudes. Their formation was so perfect it seemed they were somehow bonded together. Finally they stopped, and the entire hatchling force, armed with swords, axes, and in some cases shields, faced the Minions in the sky about one hundred meters away. The tens of thousands of red, glowing eyes were unnerving, seeming to light up the sky around them. Holding a white flag, the base of its pole lodged into one stirrup, the rider on the lone bird spurred his mount toward Tristan.

The prince’s hands tightened on his reins to the point that his knuckles became the same color as the snow. He reached back as best he could, tugging on the hilt of his dreggan, and then the first of his throwing knives.

The flag-carrying rider was Scrounge.

Pulling his bird to a stop about five meters from the prince, the assassin smiled. He looked quite out of place, holding his white flag of peace as it fluttered there in the unforgiving wind.

Tristan took in the sallow face, lean torso, and sunken eyes. The assassin was still wearing the miniature crossbow on his forearm, and had a broadsword at his hip. The arrows and sword tip were both stained with yellow.

“And so the day has finally come, Chosen One,” Scrounge sneered. He leaned his forearm on the pommel of his saddle as his feline eyes scanned the columns of Minion warriors.

“Your fighters are most formidable,” he continued. “Although there aren’t as many of them as I thought there would be. Such a pity. That fact just seems to make this all too easy. I also find it highly interesting that you somehow ride upon one of my master’s hatchlings. But it is of no matter, for you shall die this day anyway. And I see you go to that certain death under the heraldry of your ruined kingdom—the same colors that fared so poorly in their last battle. Such an ironic turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?

“But surely even you can see that you are hopelessly outnumbered,” he continued. “Therefore, I shall grant you a compromise. Surrender now, and I will promise each of you a quick and painless death. Resist, and each of you will die horribly. Also, know that this offer does not come from me, Chosen One. For I would rather see you all perish by my hand personally, if I could. Rather, this offer comes from my lord himself, he who is your only son. The choice is yours.”

“Minion warriors never surrender,” Tristan answered calmly. “A fact with which you are about to become painfully familiar.”

One corner of Scrounge’s mouth came up as he shook his head. “My lord, your son, was quite sure that was what you would say. And so, he has another message for you.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?” he asked.

Scrounge spurred his bird closer. So close that Tristan could almost reach out and touch him. “The Gates of Dawn are finished, Chosen One,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “Tomorrow at the break of day your son shall activate them, and the Heretics will return. Your wizards are useless. And your fabled stone, the so-called Paragon, is all but without life. Even the consuls of the Redoubt have turned against you. The world as we know it will soon be forever changed. For the final time, my lord asks that you, the only other being on earth with azure blood, come and take your rightful place at his side, and at the side of those who shall soon descend from the heavens. To do so, my master tells me, is to live forever within the perfect ecstasy of the Vagaries. But refuse him, and you shall die either this day by the sword, or very soon due to the poison that runs through your body.” The assassin paused, looking at the veins that lay darkly on the back of Tristan’s right hand. “Tell me, Chosen One,” he asked, the wicked smile returning. “How is your sword arm? Can you even lift it?”

“Well enough to see you die by it,” Tristan whispered. It was all he could do to keep himself from unleashing a throwing knife right then and there. But he held himself back, knowing he must stick to the strategy he and Traax had so carefully formulated. And then there was the unsettling memory of how fast the assassin had been that day in the Caves. How his crossbow had deflected Tristan’s throwing knife as if it had been mere child’s play. Tristan knew himself to be an amazingly fast warrior, but Scrounge was clearly his equal.

Scrounge glanced curiously to the handkerchief tied around Tristan’s left arm, and again he smiled. He took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. “I see you carry into battle a token given you by a woman,” he said. “How quaintly gallant. And the familiar scent of myrrh reveals the identity of the one who gave it to you. Don’t tell me, Chosen One, that you actually have designs on Celeste?” He shook his head again, as if tutoring a particularly ignorant schoolboy. “After all of this is over and you are quite dead, Ragnar will be very pleased to have her back. And I imagine the things he will do to her in punishment for abandoning him will pale in comparison to what she has already suffered. Perhaps even I will finally be allowed some private time with her.” His tongue emerged to touch his upper lip. “After all, she is quite beautiful,” he added wickedly.

Tristan had endured all that he could. He urged his bird closer, bringing his hatchling little more than inches away from Scrounge’s. “I grow tired of all your talk,” he whispered. “It is now time for us to do this thing. And when it is over, your guts will be splashed red upon the earth below me.” He drew his dreggan. The ring the curved blade made lasted a long time in the dry, cool air before finally fading away.

“Very well,” Scrounge answered. He reached down to his hip, and slowly drew his own sword. Tristan could easily identify it as a broadsword of the Eutracian Royal Guard.

“But before you die, there is something else I must tell you, Chosen One,” the assassin added. “It is about the children.”

Tristan froze. Please, not the children, too. They, more than anyone, are the innocents in all of this madness.

“That’s right,” Scrounge said. “The children of the consuls. Their blood is the mortar that built the Gates of Dawn. And they will be needed further—perhaps even forever.”

With a final, cold look of superiority, Scrounge wheeled his bird around and flew back to his troops.

Tristan turned to look at Ox. The giant warrior smiled grimly back.

“Remember your orders,” Tristan said to him. “Go now.”

A combination of disappointment and worry crowded onto Ox’s face as he remembered the orders Tristan had given him back at the palace.

“But my lord, Ox want—”

“No buts!” Tristan ordered sternly. “We have been all through this. I can take care of myself.” His face softened a bit. “So much of what happens here today depends on you, my friend. We need you.”

His chest puffing out with pride, Ox finally smiled. From a string around his neck a silver bugle hung down the center of his back between his wings, out of sight of the enemy. Upon its bell were the markings of Tristan’s heraldry, indicating that it had once been a tool of the Eutracian Royal Guard. Ox slowly, stealthily hovered backward into the towering clouds that lay directly behind and above them, until only the outline of his face could still be seen.

Tristan turned to Traax. “Scrounge is mine, and mine alone,” he said menacingly. “But should I die before that bastard has met his fate, you must kill him. If I go to my grave this day, I want to do so knowing that he will not survive.”

Traax looked into the dark blue eyes of his leader. “It will be my honor.” He grinned. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Tristan answered. “And remember, if our plan fails, I intend to save whatever troops we have left and regroup, rather than sacrifice them all here, in this one place. Despite what the Minions may have believed up until now, there is little honor in suicide.” He turned his eyes back to the overwhelming force behind them. “Wars are not won by those who die for their cause, Traax. They are won by making the enemy die for his.”

Traax bowed his head. “I live to serve,” he replied solemnly.

Looking up and thinking for a moment, the prince took a deep breath. For the first time in his life he truly did not fear dying, for he knew in his heart he was already dead. It was such an amazingly clear awareness that he actually smiled as he took in the beautiful sky and clouds around him. It was almost as if he were looking at them for the very first time. He could fight today with absolute abandon, caring nothing for his personal welfare, for he had already said his good-byes to the ones he loved.

Raising his left arm to his face, he took in the light scent of myrrh. Then he looked down at the gold medallion around his neck, thinking of his twin sister, and the identical one she wore.

His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing, insane noise—the shrieking calls of the hatchlings readying themselves for battle.

And then, their thousands of swords waving back and forth like wheat stalks in a summer field, the legions of hatchlings flew toward the Minions.

Tristan raised his sword.

“Now! For Eutracia!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he spurred his mount. All at once, weapons at the ready, Tristan’s Minion warriors started to move.

Gathering speed, both hatchling and Minion alike tore across the sky, covering the distance between them in mere moments. Amid relentless battle screams and the brutal sounds of smashing bodies, the two forces tore into one another.

Tristan immediately went high, pulling his bird up at the last moment, just before the armies clashed. He turned around in his saddle, waving his dreggan.

Almost at once, Ox’s bugle rang out.

Tristan looked down to the battle. It was progressing exactly as he had anticipated, the bulk of the hatchling legions attempting to hack their way through the center of his forces, separating them into two parts. For now, the Minions were holding their ground, their front lines uniform. But he knew that not all the hatchlings had reached the fighting. From each side of the struggle blood, bodies, and severed limbs and heads went flying into the cold air, falling almost in slow motion, bathing the ground below in red.

Tristan heard the bugle ring out for the second time, and he turned to stare at the towering clouds behind him. Now! he ordered silently. You must come now!

On cue, twenty-five thousand Minion warriors—almost a full third of Tristan’s forces—came pouring from the clouds, Ox in the lead. Their wings folded back, their bodies pointed straight down, and their weapons held out before them, the Minions dove directly at the rear, still-uninvolved lines of unsuspecting hatchlings at full speed.

Tristan held his breath.

Nearly twenty-five thousand hatchlings died on the spot. Most of them never saw their attackers as the Minions came plummeting out of the sky, the sun at their backs. Rent apart by dreggans, daggers, and axes, blood flying, the mangled bodies of the grotesque birds fell in convoluted postures of instant death.

The idea had actually been Traax’s, based on one of the strategies the Minions used to capture the swamp shrews in Parthalon. Tristan and the wizards had agreed.

But the prince could also see that the Minions remained badly outnumbered. With the scattering of the hatchlings’ rear lines, the battle was quickly decaying into individual struggles, each fighter for himself. With the two foes filling up what seemed to be the entire sky, Tristan continued to hover, his anxious eyes trying to find Scrounge. And then, in the midst of the melee below, the prince finally saw him.

Scrounge was diving his bird toward the back of an unsuspecting Minion. Raising his broadsword in his left hand, the assassin took the warrior’s head off with a single stroke, only to wheel his bird around and approach yet another of his enemies from the rear.

Although tempting, this deceitful approach was not for Tristan. You shall know it was I who killed you, he swore. He swung his bird around and dove. “Scrounge!” he screamed as he approached the assassin.

Scrounge wheeled about and raised his broadsword. As the two men met, he struck a vicious blow that Tristan just barely parried; only the thigh straps saved the prince from falling off. Tristan countered from overhead with his dreggan, but the weakness in his arm and shoulder made him too slow. Dodging, Scrounge raised his right forearm and snapped his wrist; a poisoned arrow flew straight for Tristan’s breast. The prince whirled his bird at the last moment. The arrow just missed him, going on to bury itself deeply into the neck of an unsuspecting hatchling behind him, sending it crashing to the earth.

Tristan dropped the reins and tossed the heavy dreggan into his left hand. Then he reached back with his right, grabbed one of his knives, and sent it end over end toward Scrounge’s heart.

Twisting in his saddle at the last moment, the assassin was able to keep the spinning blade from entering his chest, but not the shoulder of his sword arm. The dirk buried itself into his flesh up to the handle. Screaming wildly in pain, Scrounge yanked out the bloody weapon and sent it tumbling to the ground.

Tristan dug his heels into the sides of his bird, directing it to hover just above and to one side of Scrounge. Trying to ignore his pain, he raised his sword with both hands and began hacking at the assassin with everything he had.

Wounded, and his broadsword too heavy for overhead fighting, Scrounge lifted his crossbow and let go another of the yellow-tipped arrows. It missed widely. In desperation, he wheeled his bird around, trying to dive to safety by outrunning the prince. Tristan followed him down.

The intense coldness of the wind slammed into Tristan’s face and eyes, blurring his vision so that he could hardly see. They approached the lower levels of the fighting, but Scrounge descended even farther, actually soaring beneath the battle. Then he pulled his bird up at a seemingly impossible angle, in an attempt to hide among the massive numbers of warriors and hatchlings above him.

Tristan tried to follow suit, but the pain in his arm kept him from pulling back on the reins as hard as he wanted. He lost sight of the assassin almost immediately. Before he could continue in his pursuit, a hatchling was upon him, its sword held high, its red eyes gleaming. Just as it approached, Tristan reached back and threw a dirk, burying it into one of the awful thing’s eyes. It died screaming, blood and vitreous matter spurting violently from its head as it tumbled to the blood-soaked ground. Two more birds died at the prince’s hand before he had a safe opportunity to look around and take stock of the battle.

The Minions were losing.

For what Tristan assumed to be the first time in their history, the winged warriors were giving ground. Many of the hatchlings continued to fall, as well, but it was clear that if the situation was not reversed, the Minions would soon lose the struggle altogether.

Not yet ready to signal a retreat, Tristan swooped down, trying to find Traax and Ox. But neither of them came into view. Yet another hatchling bore down on him, and he found himself locked into swordplay. For what seemed an eternity the advantage harrowingly seesawed back and forth, Tristan’s right arm growing weaker by the moment. Finally seizing his chance, the prince leaned forward, placing the point of the dreggan against the bird’s breast and simultaneously pressing the hidden button in the hilt. The tip of the dreggan launched forward, slicing directly into the bird’s rib cage. Tristan retracted the bloody blade, and the hatchling helplessly pawed at its fractured chest with its strangely human arms, turning over free fall.

The screams of the dying resonated in Tristan’s ears. Looking around, he still could not locate Ox or Traax. He would have to alter the course of the battle by himself.

Rising higher into the sky, he tried to rally the Minions. He wanted to get as many of them as possible to retreat, in order to regroup into a cohesive fighting unit again, at a far greater altitude. But before he could get the attention of his officers, his hatchling rebelled.

Disobeying his commands, it flew straight down into the battle, swooping and darting among the struggling fighters with unmatched speed and dexterity. Tristan tried desperately to control the bird, but nothing he did worked. It flew unerringly through the worst of the havoc, seemingly searching for something. Several harrowing near misses later, they finally came upon Traax and Ox, fighting grimly back to back.

Tristan pulled on the reins with all his might, trying frantically to get Traax’s attention. But his rebellious hatchling swooped quickly by without pause, and the prince’s raging words were drowned out not only by the wind of his swift passage, but by the screams and shouts coming from the carnage all around them.

The hatchling climbed with amazing speed up through another sky-blue gap in the fighting, heading high in the air over the carnage. Then it slowed to a hover in the cold, blustery air, momentarily safe from the raging battle below, and turned its head around to face Tristan as best it could, its glowing orbs staring directly into his.

“Trust the process, Chosen One,” it said in a deep, controlled voice.

Stunned, Tristan thought he might be hearing things, or that the fourth of his convulsions was upon him, making him hallucinate. But no convulsion came. Raising his dreggan higher, he looked around to see if someone or something was playing a trick. But there was nothing near. The bird’s head was still turned toward him; its glowing eyes continued to bore their way into his own. The hatchling could speak!

“Trust the process, Chosen One,” the bird repeated. With what seemed to be a strange kind of finality, it turned its head forward once again.

The hatchling had just said the same words that Shailiha had so cryptically whispered to him while he was recovering from his third convulsion. But what is the “process”? he wondered frantically. What is it I am supposed to trust?

“Speak to me!” he shouted at the bird. “I command you! In whom or what is it I am supposed to trust?” But the bird refused to acknowledge him, and it still would not move.

From below, Tristan heard the peal of four bugle calls. Ox! They understood my meaning, and are sounding a retreat!

Then, as if at the behest of the bugle but still in defiance of Tristan’s direct commands, the hatchling started to move. As it circled lazily in the sky, Traax and Ox neared, followed by what remained of the Minion army. Then, just when Tristan was about to shout orders, the bird turned and flew off again.

Tristan pulled back on the reins with all of his strength. He had to speak with Traax and Ox! But whenever the two Minions gained on them, the hatchling would speed up. Then it turned east.

We are in a full-fledged retreat! Tristan realized with growing horror.

Sensing imminent victory, the entire hatchling army, with Scrounge at the lead, chased after them.

“Trust the process, Chosen One.” He wondered what it meant.

Finally bowing to the inevitable, Tristan leaned forward a little in his saddle as his hatchling mysteriously continued on its way.

Shailiha stood with her back to the magnificent pine forest; before her, to the west, lay the barren, snow-laden fields of Farplain. Her eyes were closed, her face raised, her arms outstretched. The only sound she could hear was the soft brushing together of the pine needles in the boughs of the trees behind her as the cold wind moved them about.

And then, suddenly, she heard it—the mental call of the flier, Caprice. Dropping her arms to her sides, she opened her eyes.

“They come,” she said softly. “Tristan, Ox, and Traax remain unhurt.”

“It is Caprice who has told you this?” Faegan asked.

“Yes,” the princess replied.

“And the hatchlings follow?” Wigg asked.

“Yes.”

“How long?” Faegan demanded.

“One hour, perhaps a bit more.”

“Then it is time to make ready,” Wigg replied.

The wind blew the snow back and forth into little drifts of ever-changing shape; the deceivingly calm, blue skies overhead were soon to be full of the coming fury. Behind Shailiha stood the most magnificent forest she had ever seen. And just before her, though she could not see it without proper training, lay the invisible canyon guarding the borders of Shadowood.

Within that dark, enchanted forest, the Minions and the gnomes had hurriedly begun to go about the tasks the wizards had given them. The various sounds coming to her ears from their work seemed strange, and foreign-sounding.

Everything else seemed so peaceful here in this place of the craft, but in her heart of hearts she knew all of that was about to change.

Tristan held tight to both his reins and his saddle pommel as the snowy ground below him flew by at an astonishing speed. Almost an hour had passed since they departed the battle scene. By now it was abundantly clear that they were heading for the coast, or at least as far as Shadowood.

In sheer desperation he pulled once more on the reins, trying to change the bird’s direction and thus veer the monsters behind them off course.

But still it was no use. Exhausted not only by the poisoned blood swirling through his veins but also by the recent battle, he carefully replaced his heavy dreggan within its scabbard and slumped forward. The bird carried him across the sky at what now seemed to be an even greater speed.

They are here,” Shailiha said, opening her eyes. She looked up to the sky, where tiny dots were beginning to form. “First come Tristan, then Ox and Traax, the Minions, and finally Scrounge and his hatchlings.” Her voice was cracking with the strain. “They will be over us in moments.” She closed her eyes once more.

Wigg turned his own white, unseeing eyes toward where he knew Faegan to be. Desperation showed clearly in his face. “Are they ready?” he asked.

“If they are not,” Faegan answered softly, “then all that we know is truly and finally lost.”

With Shailiha and Wigg standing quietly in the snow to either side of his chair, Faegan reached out and linked hands with the princess and Wigg. He turned his eyes to the sky before speaking again.

“May the Afterlife have somehow granted us the wisdom to be right.”

Tristan clung to his hatchling as it tore across the sky. Looking up, he could just begin to make out the edge of the dark forest protecting the western border of Shadowood. He still didn’t know precisely where his bird was taking him, but one thing was now blindingly certain: It was no use trying to get the hatchling to change direction.

But then, quite unexpectedly, it did on its own.

Pointing its head down in an incredibly steep dive, the bird plummeted headlong toward the white, cold earth. Turning around as best he could, Tristan was able to see that all of the Minions were obediently following him, with hatchlings still in relentless pursuit.

It was then that the insidious realization gripped him.

It was a trick! His hatchling had not been successfully tamed by Wigg and Faegan. It was one of the enemy still—and it intended to dive straight at the ground, killing Tristan along with itself. How could he have been so blind and mistrusting? And what about the Minions? Would they follow him to their deaths, as the hatchlings driving them onward pulled up at the last moment?

He tried to raise his hands to wave the Minions off, but the force of the oncoming wind was too strong.

Finally, as the white, snowy ground raced up to meet them, Tristan remembered the invisible canyon. And then it all became clear.

“Trust the process, Chosen One.” Now he understood!

For a split second, as the earth approached headlong toward him, he saw three figures holding hands. Shailiha?

One second later, as the white, snowy ground rose up into his face, he gripped the bird around its neck for all he was worth, wondering if he was about to die.

He didn’t. But all he could see was blackness.

What seemed like an eternity passed as the hatchling continued its steep descent into the canyon. Then he felt the bird begin to level out, and his eyes started to adjust to the gloom. His hatchling made a curving turn to the left and went speeding along what seemed to be the floor of the canyon; the walls flashed by so quickly they were just a blur. Looking down, he saw bones scattered everywhere. They were no doubt the result of having gone one step too far in the pursuit of the magical place known as Shadowood.

Glancing up, he could see the sky overhead, sunlight streaking down here and there between the clouds. Then he looked behind him, and his mouth fell open.

The entire Minion army, led by Traax and Ox, was following him along the floor of the canyon. There was no way to tell whether the hatchlings were still pursuing them.

All Tristan could do was hold on as best he could while the floor of the cavern and its macabre carpet of bones flew by at an astonishing speed.

“Are you quite sure of the timing?” Wigg asked nervously. “It must be absolutely perfect!”

Faegan pursed his lips, trying to retain his concentration. “I am well aware, Wigg,” he responded curtly.

The three of them were still at the edge of the invisible canyon, and had watched both the prince and the Minions dive into its depths, followed by Scrounge and the hatchlings. With the rapid disappearance of the two forces, the skies above had gone still. But Faegan, Wigg, and Shailiha knew it was not to last.

Turning around to face the forest, hoping against hope, Shailiha held her breath.

Now also turning, his eyes closed, Faegan silently employed the craft to calculate the variables of time, speed, and distance. It must be neither too soon, nor too late, he reminded himself. As Wigg said, it must be absolutely perfect. There will be no second chance.

Still concentrating, Faegan slowly raised his right hand. Then he opened his eyes and sent an azure bolt from his fingertips into the sky. At the signal, the trees in the forest seemed to tremble.

The Minions who had brought Wigg, Faegan, and Shailiha here flew from the woods. Many of them carried something in their hands other than weapons. And others of them carried something on their backs that seemed stranger still—the gnomes of Shadowood.

Each of the little men had one of his small arms wrapped tightly around the neck of the Minion he was riding, and in the other he gripped what appeared to be a canvas bag.

Rising quickly into the sky, the Minions fanned out over a section of what the wizards had previously shown them to be the unseen outline of the canyon’s facing edges and unwrapped their cargo. Faegan again sent a bolt of magic shooting skyward. Without hesitation the Minions dived for the earth, spreading something before them.

Swamp shrew nets.

Holding the nets out before them, the Minions plunged headlong into the canyon. Shailiha watched in amazement as they disappeared, as if they had been literally swallowed up by the earth. As quickly as they had come, the Minions and the gnomes were gone. Turning to the princess, Faegan nodded.

Closing her eyes, Shailiha raised her arms.

Without warning, Tristan’s hatchling lurched upward, soaring toward the top of the chasm. The prince watched, mouth agape, as the walls of the canyon flew by, vertically this time, and wondered what was to become of him.

His bird stopped about midway to the top. The Minion forces quickly caught up, coming to hover in the gloom before their leader.

“What is happening, my lord?” Traax called out. “What is this place? Why are we stopping? Are we to finally turn and fight like warriors?”

A glance downward told Tristan that Scrounge and the hatchling army would shortly be upon them.

“Everyone turn around, and get ready to fight!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “There is no time for explanations!”

But just as Tristan’s forces started to fan out, their other brothers, carrying the shrew nets before them, gnomes still clinging perilously to their backs, plummeted down above the unsuspecting hatchlings. Approaching with incredible speed, the Minions drove the heavy, whistling nets lower, finally muscling them over the top of the awful birds. Realizing what was happening, Minions from Tristan’s group soared downward, helping their brothers to secure the great rope webs over the hatchlings in clumps as far down the length of the canyon as the prince’s eyes could see. The Minion warriors then began forcing the trapped birds closer to the canyon floor.

Tristan watched, dumbfounded. Amidst the confusion, the gnomes leapt from the backs of the Minions and began using stakes and mallets with a vengeance, securing the outer edges of the nets to the canyon floor and trapping the screaming hatchlings securely inside.

Realizing at last that what had just happened had largely been the work of Wigg, Faegan, and Shailiha, the prince drew his sword, ready to search for Scrounge somewhere beneath the nets. But just as he did so, his bird lurched upward again, carrying him up and out of the chasm.

Tristan fully expected the hatchling to drop him off next to where he could now see Wigg, Shailiha, and Faegan waiting for him. But it didn’t.

He finally realized where he was being taken. Exhausted, he had no choice but to lean forward on the neck of the bird, closing his eyes, and trust his life to the fates.

As she watched the tiny speck in the sky disappear, Shailiha wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “Will he live?” she asked Wigg.

“We have been fortunate this day, Princess,” he answered softly. In his unseeing way, he placed an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “But what you ask is not in our power to grant. I must tell you from my heart that there is no way for him to survive. What we do now is simply give him additional closure to his life, nothing more. For that is all we can do. His fourth and final convulsion will soon be upon him, and there is nothing that either Faegan or I can change about that. Nor is there any action we can take to stop the Confluence. As we said before, we didn’t think Nicholas would send his hatchlings after us until the construction of the Gates had been completed. My guess is that they are now finished. The Confluence thus cannot be far behind—perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”

“We should be going with him,” she said, her eyes still locked on the empty sky. “I simply cannot say good-bye to him like this . . .”

“We have already said our good-byes, Shailiha,” Faegan replied softly. “What he does now he must do alone.”

Looking up, the princess saw Caprice and the other fliers finally returning. She raised her arm, and the magnificent yellow-and-violet butterfly obediently came to rest there; the others swirled gently in graceful circles over their mistress’ head.

Her tears coming fully now, she grasped the gold medallion that hung around her neck.

Good-bye, my brother. I shall always love you.

53

Tristan kept nodding off atop the hatchling, but despite his exhaustion, the pain in his right arm kept him from truly resting. He had been traveling northwest for many hours, and the sun had long since set, bathing the world in darkness. The heavy, gray clouds he had so relied upon in the recent battle had finally departed, revealing a clear, frigid sky. Amidst uncountable stars, Eutracia’s three rose-colored moons hung against the inky, impenetrable night. Sunrise—when Nicholas, his only son, would begin the Confluence—could only be about two hours away.

Tristan coughed deeply and pulled his coat closer trying to keep out the cold. But the wind had become even more icy with the advent of night, and he could no longer feel his hands or his feet. Still, the hatchling beneath him soared unerringly to the place he was now sure his sister and the wizards were sending him, the only destination that made any sense: the site protecting the Gates of Dawn.

For that was where Nicholas would be.

He harbored no illusions about surviving. He was growing weaker by the moment, and he knew his fourth convulsion would come soon. His body shook, the fever that had overtaken him about an hour ago still rising.

He thought of the brain hook still hidden in his right boot, and again vowed that when his time came he would do his utmost to use it upon himself, rather than suffer the indignities of a final, mortal convulsion.

As the moonlit, rose-colored ground raced by below him, he couldn’t help but recall all the horrific things that had so recently occurred in his life. He thought of the death of his father, and of the rape and slaughter of his mother at the hands of the very troops he had just led into battle. He thought of the murders of the Directorate of Wizards, and of the travails he and Wigg had suffered to return his sister and the Paragon to Eutracia. In that, at least, they had been successful.

But this time there would be no happy ending. Everyone and everything he had ever held dear would soon perish. The Vagaries, the dark side of the craft that it was to have been his destiny as the Chosen One to combine with the Vigors for the dawning of a new age of enlightenment, would rule. Not only alone, but also forever, guided by the Guild of the Heretics, who would ensure that a new age of darkness reigned.

He had few illusions as to why the wizards and Shailiha were ordering his hatchling to fly him to the Gates. It wasn’t because they thought he could somehow stop the Confluence, or that by going there he would magically survive the agonies of his fourth convulsion. Nothing could stop those things now. Rather, it was because they knew he would want to confront his son for the final time.

He had already said his good-byes to those he left behind. Dying in a bed in the royal palace or in Faegan’s mansion in the trees while his body was being wracked by the fourth convulsion would only heighten the pain and grief of everyone involved. He was glad they would not be there to see his death. He wanted their memories of him to be of the strong man that he had once been.

This way, he would at least behold Nicholas one final time. It would be his last chance to look into the face of the son who, unbelievably, had survived that tragic day in Parthalon. No matter what kind of monster he had become.

He closed his eyes. His mind was becoming increasingly feverish, and his pain-wracked body was covered with sweat, despite the unrelenting cold.

He had sworn an oath to destroy his only progeny, and he understood that going to Nicholas would afford him some small, strange measure of peace. And Faegan and Wigg, he realized, knew that too. One corner of his mouth came up in irony. That was assuming, of course, that his final convulsion did not occur before he got there, leaving the hatchling flying far across Eutracia only to deliver a white, frozen corpse.

Scrounge would have no doubt been amused, he thought.

Coughing again, Tristan wrapped the reins tightly around his numb left wrist. Painfully reaching down with his right hand, he located the brain hook in his boot. With his hand still on it, he leaned all his weight onto the hatchling’s neck as it raced through the clear, cold night.

Somehow, he slept.

The combination of the hatchling’s great, descending turn and the first rays of the sunrise awakened him. He groaned and tried to sit up, but found he was frozen to the hatchling. Another coughing fit wracked his body, but when it finally ended he pushed hard against the bird’s neck. The fur on the front of his coat tore away, leaving bare suede. He didn’t care—he knew he wouldn’t need it much longer.

Frost stiffened his hair, and his eyelashes were frozen together in places, making it difficult to see. He couldn’t feel his face. Numbly rubbing his cheeks and eyes with what had once felt like his right hand, he looked down.

The three Gates of Dawn lay just below him, about one hundred meters apart, in a row running east and west. Rising hundreds of meters from the ground, they resembled gigantic horseshoes, curved at the tops, their ends planted firmly into the earth.

Made of the finest shiny, black, Ephyran marble, they were shot through with brilliant azure. The blood of the Heretics, he realized.

As the hatchling soared closer, he noticed what he could only assume to be Nicholas’ carrion scarabs. Undulating back and forth in a black, riverlike mass, the hundreds of thousands of shiny beetles surrounded the legs of the Gates. Then his heart skipped a beat.

Within the dark ocean of seething scarabs were torn human bodies, their bloody abdomens overflowing with white, glistening eggs. The hundreds of torn, dark blue robes that lay everywhere, flapping hauntingly in the wind, told him the corpses must once have been consuls.

And then he noticed the lone figure standing atop the wide curve of the easternmost Gate.

Nicholas.

The young adept faced the rising sun, his white robes billowing in the wind, his long, dark hair flying out behind him. He seemed oblivious to the cold. Several strange-looking objects rested on the marble at his feet.

Tristan’s hatchling buffeted its leathery wings as it approached the Gate. It landed softly near Nicholas, then bent down so that the prince might dismount. After several tries with his numb fingers, Tristan managed to unfasten the leather straps that had held him in his saddle for so long. Then he weakly raised one leg up and over to slide off the bird and down to the top of the windswept Gate, where he fell to all fours despite his best efforts to remain upright. He remained that way, his head down, until he gathered the strength to make one attempt at standing. He pushed himself up—staggered, and almost fell again but caught himself—and finally managed. The bitter wind swirled around him.

Nicholas had watched, doing nothing to help as Tristan tried desperately to face his son on his own terms.

Tristan looked into Nicholas’ upturned, exotic eyes of hard blue. They gleamed almost as if they were made of polished stone.

Succiu’s eyes, he thought. And mine.

From all around Nicholas’ body radiated a glow such as Tristan had never seen, a power so immense that neither Succiu nor even Failee herself could ever have summoned it.

He has taken yet more of the power of the Paragon since I last saw him, Tristan thought. Is the stone now dead? Does he now hold all of the power it once contained? And if so, are Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste now dead also? He looked briefly to the sad, tattered handkerchief on his arm as it fluttered in the harshness of the wind.

Tristan’s breathing came quickly, in ragged, hard-won gasps, and it was becoming all he could do to remain standing against the gathering wind. Sweat ran from his face and body. His right arm, throbbing madly with pain, was virtually useless. He looked back into the unyielding depths of Nicholas’ eyes. Nothing can stop him now, he thought. The first rays of the sun were just starting to show themselves in the east, illuminating the majesty of the Gates with their glow.

For many long moments Tristan and Nicholas simply stood there, silently looking at each other, the wind howling around them as the thousands of black, angry scarabs swarmed below. The world was about to change forever, and Tristan knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. Finally, Nicholas spoke.

“And so you have returned to me, Father,” he began softly, his words almost drowned out by the wind. “You have chosen to become one of us after all. I am very pleased.”

From within his robes Nicholas produced a small vial. Tristan immediately recognized it as the same vessel he had seen in the Caves—the vessel containing the antidote to the poison running through his veins.

“If you will agree to join us, and allow me to confirm your intentions by testing the quality of your heart, I will administer the antidote.” Nicholas smiled.

Tristan stood silently for another long moment, staring hungrily at the vial his bastard son so tantalizingly held before him. Its contents would save not only his life, but also the lives of his sister and her only child. But at what price?

“No,” he said thickly. “I reject your offer. To bargain for my life is not why I have come.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes, replacing the vial into his robes. “Then why have you come to me, Chosen One?” he asked politely. “Do not tell me that it is simply so that I may see you die? My poor, misguided father! If that is true then you misunderstand, and have therefore traveled all of this way for naught. I have no need to see your death actually occur, simply to know that it soon shall. Just as I have no need to see the sun rise tomorrow, in order to know that such a thing shall also occur.” His face became a bit graver. “Your fourth convulsion is almost upon you. I can tell.”

“I come one final time to ask you to stop this madness,” Tristan said softly. He was swaying back and forth now, too weak to steady himself in the strengthening wind. The normally reassuring weapons he carried across his back seemed to be made of lead, threatening to topple him over at any moment.

“Please come back to Shadowood with me,” Tristan whispered weakly. “Allow my wizards to try to help you . . . to bring you to the Vigors, and the light. I beseech you to release the power of the stone back to the Paragon, so that we might all work together to find a way . . .”

Life ebbed inexorably from Tristan’s body, and he did not know what to say. He weakly raised his palms in supplication. “My son,” he whispered. “I beg of you . . .”

Nicholas’ expression suddenly turned to one of extreme anger. He pointed a long, accusatory finger straight at his father’s heart. “You beg of me!” he thundered. “You of the azure blood, the Chosen One himself, who rejected his only son not just once, but three times? The son you ripped from the comfort of the womb with one of the very knives you still carry, leaving him to rot in a shallow grave of a foreign land? Then only to reject out of hand his compassionate offer of truly everlasting ecstasy in the craft, so graciously made to him that day in the Caves? And finally to reject his own seed yet again, at this exact moment, on the Gates of Dawn themselves? This time to insult that son’s vastly superior power and knowledge of the craft, by suggesting that it could be augmented by his powerless, vastly inferior wizards! And to ask his son to willingly consent to do nothing for all of eternity except to practice the deceitful, flaccid Vigors! He dares ask me to come to him? To therefore spurn the very ones who gave me back my life, returning me to the land of the living?” His eyes grew even harder. “No, Chosen One. What you suggest for me is slavery, nothing more. You would have fared much better had you allowed the lead wizard to burn my tiny body while it still rested, dead, within that of my mother,” he added softly.

Nicholas took a deadly, meaningful step toward Tristan and extended his right arm, palm outward. “Clearly, Father,” he said softly, “you haven’t been listening.”

With that, Nicholas pushed his white, perfect palm closer to the prince. Tristan collapsed, falling hard upon the cold, smooth marble, wracked by a scorching, twisting pain so excruciating he thought he would pass out. He felt as if he were actually being disemboweled with a searing, red-hot knife. But there was no blood. Nor was there any respite.

Wanting desperately to end his torment, he tried to reach down and grasp the brain hook in his boot. But his hands wouldn’t work. All he could do was lie before his son, silently begging that the horrific pain stop.

But it didn’t.

Somehow, he raised his face from the marble. “All of your hatchlings are dead,” he whispered. “And so is Scrounge.” A tiny, defiant smile came to his frozen lips. “At least I accomplished that much . . .”

Unperturbed, Nicholas placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, but the agony torturing Tristan did not abate. “It is of no concern,” he said simply. “How you and the wizards managed to accomplish their demise is of some small interest to me, but the truth of it is that the hatchlings only served to buy me time. Time to collect the consuls and have them construct the Gates, and time to keep your Minions at bay, once you finally brought them here. Which, of course, I knew you would. You had no other choice. But in the end all you have really accomplished is to grant me a blessing, don’t you see? For now I needn’t waste the time or the energy killing them myself. Neither the hatchlings, nor Scrounge, nor your Minions are worthy of any place in our new world. Nor even Ragnar, for that matter. He too has gone to his reward. As have the consuls who tried to resist me.”

Nicholas looked down briefly to the congested, swirling mass of carrion scarabs, black against the snow. “After the Confluence, the scarabs and their eggs shall also perish, their duties fulfilled. Like all my servants, they were never more than a simple means to an end. The spell that will destroy them is already in place. Even the wraiths who bled you are gone—easily conjured, and just as easily done away with.”

Tristan could scarcely breathe. Writhing and trembling on the cold, unforgiving marble, he curled up into a fetal position and clutched his abdomen, the searing pain slicing through him mercilessly.

“Tell me about . . . about the children,” he gasped, his tortured brain finally remembering what Scrounge had said. “What . . . have you done with them? Why must they live with you . . . forever?”

“Ah, yes, the children.” Nicholas finally smiled. “One of the greatest of the keys to all that has transpired, and all that is yet to.” He bent down, staring directly into Tristan’s eyes. “Did you know, Chosen One, that you should have gone to Fledgling House long before Scrounge, and taken the children for yourself? And do you also know that had your egocentric, blind lead wizard not been so protective of his silly secret of the training of young females in the craft, you could have easily stopped me from accomplishing all that I have? Not simply due to the fact that I needed their blood to bring forth the Confluence, because I would have taken the children back. No, Chosen One, there is far more to the story than that. It has to do with an ancient, underlying concept regarding young endowed females that even your wizards are not completely conversant with. The answer to stopping me was, as they say, right under your nose the entire time. But, as they also say, that is a topic better left for another day. Except you have no other such days left.” Nicholas paused to take a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if relishing the freedom from pain that the prince would never again enjoy.

“And . . . the rest of the consuls—” Pain caused Tristan to retch, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. When he could speak again, he whispered, “What . . . of them?”

“Safe and sound, I assure you,” Nicholas answered. “And obediently awaiting the Confluence.”

Tristan took a short, deep breath in a final attempt to beat back the incredible agony, but it was unrelenting. With a supreme effort of will, he managed to lift his face from the marble again.

“I refuse to believe that my seed could have vomited forth upon the world something as evil as the being that now stands before me,” he whispered, the words dripping from his tongue like venom. “Even though you were the product of rape, and forcibly taken before your time from the womb of a sorceress.” It had required every scintilla of strength he had left to speak the words without passing out.

Then, completely beaten, left with nothing with which to fight, he placed his head back down on the marble, certain he had spoken the final words of his life.

Nicholas examined his father closely, as if Tristan had suddenly evolved into some kind of sick, twisted experiment. “ ‘Evil,’ Chosen One?” he asked curiously. “History is written by the victors—don’t you know that? And our history—that is, yours and mine—shall be recorded for all time as the story of a father who failed to realize the importance of not only the past, but the future, as well.”

Nicholas turned his attention to the hatchling that had brought the prince to the Gates. It stood quietly to one side, waiting. “I can feel the influence of another’s endowed blood within the bird,” he said softly. “Fascinating. I am unsure of how this came about, but it is of no consequence.”

Slowly, he raised his right hand toward the creature, and pointed his index finger. A bright azure bolt shot from his fingertip and screamed across the Gate to slam into the hatchling’s breast. The bird exploded. Bits of leather and offal rained sickeningly down on Tristan as he lay there, his body twisted in excruciating pain.

Nicholas lowered his arm and smiled. “And now, if you will be so good as to excuse me, I have a great mission to complete,” he said quietly. “I leave you to die alone. But you are young, and strong. You may even live long enough to have the pleasure of witnessing their coming.”

Standing, the young adept turned to walk across the top of the Gate, back to where the gleaming, silver objects rested.

Through his pain, the prince looked away from the beautifully sweeping curve of the Gate, out toward the snow-covered fields of his beloved Eutracia. He then looked down, wondering if he might be able to manage killing himself without the use of the brain hook.

Even from this angle he could see the hungry, black masses of beetles. Perhaps he could roll himself off the Gate. At least the fall would kill him, rather than the scarabs. Either way, what did it matter? The pain would stop. He curled up a little tighter, the torture cascading through his nervous system in nauseating, unbearable waves. His mind teetering on the edge of madness, he looked toward his son.

Ignoring his father’s plight, Nicholas stood calmly before three silver goblets that glimmered beautifully in the gathering rays of the sun. Arranged in a row, each of them rose in height to about the level of his knee. Even through his pain, Tristan knew what they held.

The fluids required for the Confluence.

One goblet would contain the endowed blood of the children, one some waters of the Caves, and the last would hold his own, perfect azure blood, taken from him that fateful day by Nicholas’ wraiths. The final ingredient—the other brilliant, azure blood of the Heretics—was already held within the marble of the three Gates, silently waiting to be called upon. When combined with the power of the Paragon, these seemingly disparate elements would allow Nicholas to separate the heavens, bringing forth the Guild of the Heretics.

It was clear to the prince that his son was about to begin.

Closing his eyes, Nicholas turned his body to face the rising sun. Bowing his head, he raised his arms in supplication.

Almost immediately the first of the glimmering goblets began to rise into the air. Rotating slowly, it poured forth its contents: the dark red waters of the Caves. But instead of falling through the air and splashing down upon the Gates, the waters gathered hauntingly into a thin, flat, square sheet that hovered gracefully before the young adept.

Then, just as slowly, the second goblet began to rise. It too poured its contents—the blood of the endowed children—into the air. Another square sheet of fluid formed, moving down to hover against the first. And finally, the third goblet rose. Pouring forth the azure blood of the prince, it formed yet another sheet, which layered itself against the first two. The three goblets came back down to rest at Nicholas’ feet.

Struggling to control his mind against the pain, Tristan tried to think back to Faegan’s explanation of the Confluence. First . . . the necessary fluids would somehow be joined. Then Nicholas would use them to empower the Gates. And finally the heavens would literally part, allowing the Heretics to come through. Their endowed blood, locked within the marble for eons but now charged and alive, would animate them as they flew between the legs of the three structures. The returning Heretics would then reclaim their original forms, free to walk the earth once more, just as they had done ages ago. But this time their circumstances would be different. This time the Ones Who Came Before would not be here to defy them.

Tristan watched, spellbound even within his agony, as the unified sheets of fluid rose higher into the air.

Nicholas opened his eyes and gestured with his hands. First the enchanted, twinkling square turned to stand on one of its four corners. Then, like a child’s top, it began to spin.

Faster and faster it went, finally twirling at such an amazing speed that the wind created by its revolving sides threatened to blow Tristan off the top of the Gate. As it spun, the different colors of the three endowed sheets of fluid coalesced in his mind’s eye to create a solid cube of amazingly beautiful amethyst, glistening brightly against the almost-risen dawn. Then it began to grow to several hundred times its original dimensions. From where the prince lay, its gigantic magnificence seemed to blot out the entire sky.

And then came the noise. As the cube grew, the maelstrom of sound created by Nicholas’ creation howled, screamed, and shrieked to such an extent that it nearly tore apart Tristan’s eardrums, adding not only to the pain he was already being forced to suffer at the hands of his bastard son, but also to the agony of the poison swirling within his bloodstream. The rectangle was moving with such blinding speed that even its edges were only a blur of motion. Tristan tried to place one hand before his face to protect him from the blasting, relentless wind it was creating, but still could not move his arms.

Lifting his hands higher, Nicholas closed his eyes once more. The spinning dervish slowed, then finally stopped its frantic revolutions. Nicholas maneuvered it even higher into the sky.

It started to drip.

The drops came slowly, one at a time, landing softly on the very center of the apex on which Tristan lay. They came gently, quietly at first, and Tristan watched, horrified, as the fluid pooled, gathering more of its own glowing matter to itself. Then it began to slither across the smooth, black-and-azure marble in many directions at once.

The drops running from the sides of the magnificent, hovering square quickly developed into a small stream, which in turn became a rushing cascade. As it did, the amethyst fluid began to cover the entire curve of the Gate. Tristan’s body was soon awash in its warm, almost comforting slickness, and he could do nothing but let it cover him.

Nicholas continued to command the fluid, watching carefully as it ran down the sides of the Gate, until the entire structure was coated with the mixture.

Apparently satisfied, Nicholas lowered his arms. Without looking at Tristan he gracefully turned around to face the other two Gates behind him. Raising his arms again, he spread the fingers of each hand. Tristan held his breath, wondering what would happen next.

A smattering of the amethyst fluid covering the first Gate leapt into the air and flew toward the second Gate. Covering the expanse between them in a heartbeat, it landed squarely on the apex of the second Gate, where it split, leaving some of itself behind before launching across to the third Gate.

The glowing square continued to supply what seemed to be an endless quantity of the mixture, bridging the Gates and at the same time dripping down to cover them. Then both it and the bridges disappeared. All three Gates carried the sheen of the liquid over their entire surfaces.

It has begun, Tristan thought.

Nicholas faced the east again, then calmly hovered up, crossed his legs in the air, and stretched his arms skyward. He closed his eyes and began to speak.

Tristan could not understand the language, but he was sure it was Old Eutracian, for it sounded very much like the words Faegan had read to him from the scroll Nicholas had sent to the Redoubt.

The Gates took on the glow of the craft—but this time the effect was different from anything Tristan had ever seen. Bolts of lightning were loosed from every area of the Gates, their branched, fingerlike tentacles flashing up into the sky. Each was followed by an earthshaking crash of thunder. It was as if the huge bolts had been ordered to swallow up the entire firmament in their menacing, relentless anger.

And then the sky began to darken. The rising sun was being blotted out by layers of black, fast-rolling clouds.

Tristan was surprised to notice that his pain lessened as the gloom increased. He could only imagine it to be due to the fact that Nicholas was focusing so much of his power on the Gates. With terrific effort, the prince sat up and looked to his son.

Nicholas seemed engulfed in a trance, his face lowered, his eyes rolled upward. His breathing was labored, as if he were struggling mightily with something. Then he slowly raised his head.

The lightning stopped, and the world became bathed in an eerie, almost calm silence. The three Gates of Dawn glowed spectacularly, silently, in the overwhelming darkness.

He has finished empowering the Gates, and is about to draw fully on all the power of the Paragon, Tristan realized. For the first time, a single being is about to summon the entire dynamism of the stone.

Nicholas still hovered over the glowing Gate, serene now, as if infinitely sure of himself. He waited for a few moments. Then, without warning, he extended his arms and spread his fingers.

A single, giant bolt of lightning flew from the apex of the Gate up toward the heavens. But this time, instead of flashing and then quickly retreating, as the others before it had, it persisted in the darkness of the sky, remaining motionless, the ends of its forked fingers lost in the gloom. And then it began to grow, spreading its lustrous branches as far as the eye could see.

It was parting the darkness of the heavens.

Tristan watched, his mouth agape, as the branches of the bolt pushed aside the clouds. Rays of soft, azure light descended through the opening. The lightning bolt fell away, and the thunder also ended. All went strangely quiet for a time, the only sight in the heavens the great gap with its descending rays, the only sound the restless swirling of the wind.

It was then that the screaming began.

A horrific chorus of human voices came down through the opening in the sky. On and on it came, the many voices shrieking, crying, wailing, and moaning all at once. Tristan managed to place his hands over his ears, but it did little to keep out the overpowering noise.

They are coming, Tristan realized. The Guild of the Heretics, the ancient masters of the Vagaries, are about to reclaim the earth.

Finally Nicholas turned to look down at his stricken father. Using the craft to overcome the wailing coming down from the sky, he spoke, his voice carrying a thunderous power. “Behold, Chosen One,” he said calmly, the wind moving through his long, dark hair. “My parents of above finally return to the earth.”

Tristan looked up to the rent in the sky, his eyes wide with wonder.

Faces had begun to develop. Huge human faces, thousands of them, men and women alike, were being illuminated from behind by a celestial source of light such as the prince had never seen. Their eyes were exquisitely sad, their mouths calling out beseechingly to Nicholas. The faces soared and turned in the heavens just behind the edges of the great opening, as if waiting for something. The wailing coming from their open mouths became even louder.

Nicholas stood upright in the air, his form still hovering over the Gate. The glow all about him was nearly blinding.

He will bring them now, he thought. There is no force that can stop him.

As Tristan watched, the energy and glow of the Paragon imbued into Nicholas’ being increased wondrously, as if it had finally come to the bursting point.

The wailing, beseeching faces of the Heretics crowded forward to the very edges of the gigantic rent in the heavens.

And then Nicholas screamed. As if gripped by some horrific, unexplained agony, he covered his eyes with his hands.

The faces in the heavens did not descend; their wailing grew even louder and more pleading.

Removing his hands from his face, Nicholas looked down at his palms and screamed again. It was a plaintive, helpless, agonizing sound that tore through the heavens, drowning out even the wailing of the Heretics. Tristan looked at his son, aghast.

Nicholas was bleeding from every orifice of his body.

From his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and groin poured shimmering, azure blood. It streamed down the length of his white robes and dripped onto the Gate, where it mixed with the fluid already there.

Screaming madly, his face registering nothing but abject astonishment and pain, Nicholas fell, landing on the apex a short distance away from his father. The adept looked pleadingly into Tristan’s face. And then his eyes, the eyes so reminiscent of Succiu, slowly closed, and the aura that had always surrounded his being slowly faded away into nothingness.

Stunned, Tristan looked back to the hole in the sky. The faces of the Heretics were slowly retreating, their wailing and crying subsiding. With the unexpected collapse of Nicholas had apparently come the cessation of his spell. The great rent in the skies eventually closed; the faces of the Heretics disappeared. But the rolling darkness that had preceded it all remained, and the deafening thunder began anew.

Trying to marshal whatever strength he had left, Tristan found that the pain Nicholas had been torturing him with was gone. But the poison in his veins, and the illness that went with it, were still with him. He forced himself up, knowing what his mission must be.

To reach the antidote.

He put his right foot slowly forward and nearly collapsed with the effort of that single step. As he shook his head in pain, the thunder crashed relentlessly, making it even harder to concentrate. Lightning again tore across the heavens, occasionally illuminating his path to Nicholas in ephemeral, ghostly snatches of light.

He took another agonizing step, determined to cross the distance to his son’s body and remove the life-saving vial from Nicholas’ robes.

Another step came somehow, and then another.

Four more paces, he told himself. Only four more!

But just as he began the next step, the Gates of Dawn shuddered.

Smoke, dark and acrid, rose from the apex of the Gate he was on, and a fissure opened in the surface of the fluid-ridden, marble curve, directly between the place he was standing and the inert body of his son.

With a terrible, wrenching, cracking sound, the crevice widened, its branches threatening to creep toward the sides of the curve and extend down into the legs, sending the entire structure tumbling down. The structure shuddered again, and Tristan lost his already shaky footing, falling facedown on the disintegrating Gate.

Looking up amid the smoke and noise, he could see that the crevice was far too wide for him to cross. Even if he had been healthy, he could never have made the jump required to land safely on the other side. Looking to his right, though, he saw that the jagged sides of the crevice rejoined about ten meters away. With what he was sure would be his last reserves of strength, he somehow pulled himself upright again. Weaving drunkenly, the Gate cracking beneath him, he shakily started to make his way, one agonizing step at a time.

But it was not to be.

In the midst of his second step, excruciating pain enveloped him. Foam erupted from his mouth, and he crashed woodenly to the sticky, disintegrating Gate, his body trembling.

His fourth, final convulsion was upon him.

He knew he would never reach the antidote in time. Twisting in agony, he reached down to his boot with his trembling right hand, finally coming upon the pearl handle of the brain hook he had hidden there. Just as he grasped it and pulled it out, the three Gates of Dawn began to collapse.

The tops of the second and third Gates cracked open entirely, their marble blocks crashing to the earth. With an agonizing, torturous sound, the Gate he and Nicholas were on shook again, and the cracks in its top split open from end to end.

Raising the brain hook to his right ear, he felt his tongue begin to slip down the back of his throat, choking the life from him. He looked to the tattered handkerchief tied around his left arm, and then down at the gold medallion around his neck as blocks nearby tumbled to the ground.

He placed the end of the brain hook into his ear, his final thoughts resonating through his mind.

Die, Chosen One! . . . Die, Chosen One! . . . Die! . . . Die! . . . Die! . . .

54

As she so often did now, Shailiha sat quietly with Celeste, rocking Morganna softly in her arms. A fortnight had passed since they had returned to the Redoubt after learning of the destruction of the Gates and Nicholas’ apparent failure to return the Heretics. But there still had been no word of either Tristan or Nicholas.

Ox and Traax had gone out to search the area of the Gates, but had not found anything. If their bodies were ever to be recovered, they would no doubt eventually be found somewhere beneath the many tons of black-and-azure marble. And the wizards were uncertain about attempting to move the rubble, concerned as they were about what other calamities might transpire if they tried.

That being the case, Wigg and Faegan had ordered that no one be allowed to return to the site until they had inspected it in person. Strangely, though, the wizards had not yet visited there, remaining cloistered in their quarters instead. No doubt they still could not bring themselves to see the place of Tristan’s death, Shailiha reasoned.

After the hatchlings had all been killed and their bodies burned to ash in the depths of the canyon surrounding Shadowood, Traax had requested that the bodies of his slain Minion warriors be brought from Farplain and Shadowood to Tammerland, the home of their departed lord. The wizards had agreed. Additional litters had been constructed, and the corpses were flown back to the royal palace for the traditional burning of the dead.

Hundreds of pyres, stacked high with dead warriors, had eventually dotted the fields outside the castle grounds. Out of respect for those who had defended them, everyone living in the Redoubt had attended the lighting of the pyres. The flames and smoke had risen into the sky over Tammerland for five days and nights. Now their soot littered the whiteness of the snow for as far as one could see, turning it gray with the refuse of death.

Traax’s officers had also constructed an additional pyre, upon which no bodies were placed. It was an empty, silent tribute to Tristan.

Traax had asked Shailiha to light it. With a trembling hand, amid the cries of “We live to serve!” she had tentatively placed a torch to it. The flames roared into the sky, marking the passing of he who had been the lord of the Minions. It had been more than she could bear, and she’d had to turn her face away to hide her tears.

After that, Shailiha had been inconsolable. But Celeste had come to sit with her every day, and it had been those daily visits, more than anything else, that had finally helped to bring the princess partially through her grief. They had also solidified the bond between the two women.

But having no body to bury only made it harder for Shailiha. With no Tristan to hold for the last time, it sometimes felt to her as if the grief would never end. And worse, a great sense of sadness, along with a deafening, overpowering quiet, had captured the Redoubt, as if no one living there would ever be truly happy again.

The princess looked down at her sleeping child, wishing with all her heart that Tristan could have been buried with their parents and her husband at the family grave site.

But he is buried, she had finally realized one day, looking at the gold medallion around her neck, the one that matched the medallion her brother had once worn. He is buried with his only child, beneath the rubble of the Gates of Dawn.

“Do you think it is possible . . .” Her words trailed off as she realized she was asking Celeste the same question she had been asking almost every day. Lately, as both time and logic forced her mind toward reality, she found herself asking it less. Or at least trying to.

Celeste placed a comforting hand on Shailiha’s arm. “We must be strong,” she said quietly. “That was part of your brother’s last words to me. Despite the short time I knew him, I think perseverance is what Tristan would have wanted, perhaps even demanded of us. He is gone, Shailiha. And no one can change that. I do not mean to be hard, but I think we must believe what my father and Faegan have told us, and look to the future. I shall miss Tristan, and I know you shall even more. But for the sake of your country, your child, and the continuance of the craft, you must accept this.” She paused for a moment, to let her words sink in.

“You have lost so much, especially for one so young,” she went on. “But you are now the Chosen One.”

A tear ran down Shailiha’s cheek. Though she brushed it away, its moistness still clung to her eyelashes. She had long known that the mantle of Chosen One would fall to her should her brother ever perish. But she had certainly never wished for the title, nor expected it to come so soon. Sometimes she wished she had never heard of the craft.

Then a new thought struck her. “With Tristan gone,” she replied quietly, “your endowed blood is second in quality only to mine.” She remained quiet for a time, her mind again going over the other quite-unexpected occurrences that had transpired since the loss of her brother.

First was the fact that Wigg had slowly, miraculously, regained his sight. And the secretive wizards, although obviously very pleased by this event, had said virtually nothing about how it was accomplished.

The second and vastly more important occurrence was that power was very slowly returning to the Paragon. The jewel of the craft now hung around Wigg’s neck, and the gifts of the two ancients were gradually coming back from the brink.

But as had been the case with Wigg’s returning vision, the wizards had said nothing of how this wonderful thing had come about. The princess assumed that with the death of Nicholas had also come the cessation of his spells, thereby releasing the stone’s power and allowing its natural return to the Paragon.

Shailiha was, of course, very pleased by these things, but in the end they did little to assuage the torment she felt over the death of her brother.

“You cared for him a great deal, didn’t you?” she asked Celeste.

Celeste took a long breath, letting it out slowly. Her heavy-lidded, sapphire eyes lowered slightly, as if her mind had been taken to a different place and time.

“Yes, I cared,” she answered quietly. “Or should I say, I was starting to. But I am still . . . fearful of men. Perhaps I always shall be; I do not know. I hope not. There remains a hard spot in my heart that is reluctant to let anyone in. Even Tristan—the one who saved me. But he was the first man ever to treat me with kindness. And I shall never forget that.” She paused for a moment, thinking.

“Father and Faegan have told me that they have plans for me,” she said tentatively.

“Plans?” Shailiha asked. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Celeste answered. “Only that they have to do with the craft. Something they apparently think is very important.”

Celeste watched as Shailiha continued to rock her sleeping baby. More and more, she now dreamed of having a baby of her own some day, for she had finally achieved the freedom in which to foster such hopes. But when these thoughts started to creep into her mind, so too did her memories of Tristan. And then her fears would come again, forcing such pleasantries aside.

“Despite the unexplained death of Nicholas and the collapse of the Gates, there are still many problems,” Shailiha said thoughtfully, interrupting Celeste’s reveries. “The consuls that Nicholas said were under his control have still not been heard from. And we still do not know the whereabouts of the endowed boys and girls, or for that matter, the locations of the women our own age who have been trained in the craft.”

A sad sort of quiet reigned over them for a moment. Aside from the death of Tristan, it was the unnerving disappearance of the boys and girls that had affected Shailiha and Celeste the most. And on this subject, too, the wizards had remained strangely quiet.

“And that is to say nothing of the situation in Parthalon,” Shailiha finally added. “The swamp shrews continue to plague both the warriors and the civilian population alike.”

“And without Tristan,” Celeste said, “overcoming these problems shall be far more difficult.”

Shailiha did not answer, for she did not know what to say.

Trying to cross over had been difficult.

There had been voices. Frightening voices. Voices that came and went, hauntingly wending their way through the fog. Unintelligible words at first, then sometimes less so. But always, finally, they retreated into nothingness. Words that came from nowhere, went to nowhere, meaning nothing.

There had also been azure, the color of the craft. Swirling everywhere. Its dense, glowing texture always surrounding and caressing, but somehow never really touching. Finally also fading away into the blackness that always came, retreated, and came again.

And there had been pain. Pain everywhere. Unrelenting, and horrible. Pain in both the azure and the darkness. Always, always, the pain.

Voices, azure, darkness, and pain. Swirling, mixing together, everywhere.

“This is the last of our chances,” one of the voices said from somewhere far away.

“I know,” replied the other. “There is no other choice.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

A long silence followed. Then more voices. More azure. More darkness, more pain.

“Let us begin,” came the first voice.

“Very well,” replied the other.

The knock on the door was strong, insistent, and decidedly masculine.

“Come,” Shailiha said.

The door opened to reveal Traax. “Forgive me, my ladies,” he said almost apologetically. “But the wizards ask that both of you come with me.”

Shailiha turned to Celeste, a worried look on her face. Celeste looked back quizzically. The wizards had barely spoken to either of them for a fortnight. Something was very wrong. Even the look on Traax’s normally calm face said that some recent turn of events had affected him deeply. A rare thing, especially for an officer of the Minions.

Shailiha thought, biting her lower lip. It may be possible that some of Nicholas’ creatures have somehow returned. Or maybe Ragnar isn’t really dead . . .

She swallowed. Hard. Then she stood and squared her shoulders.

“Very well,” she said calmly. Cradling Morganna in one arm, she donned the sling; then she placed the baby in it, carefully not to wake her, and walked to the door, Celeste following behind.

They continued through the familiar areas of the Redoubt and eventually turned down long, cloistered hallways that were quite unknown to her. Shailiha was glad to see Traax finally slow before a rather large door.

“We are here,” Traax said simply. He walked to a place of subservience behind both her and Celeste and stood quietly, waiting for them to enter. Shailiha knocked once, then twice. Upon hearing Wigg’s voice, she opened the door and walked in.

Wondering what the wizards wanted of her, she glanced around the room. Then her eyes went wide, the blood rushed from her face, and she fainted away, falling like the dead into the arms of the Minion warrior behind her. A startled Morganna began to wail.

55

A short chuckle came from one side of the room, followed by a deep, hacking cough. “I told you she would react that way,” the voice said weakly. Then another cough came. “She always has. Trust me, she will never forgive you. Either of you!”

Prince Tristan of the House of Galland sat up in his bed as well as his sore muscles would let him. He hurt everywhere, and was still so weak he doubted he could even walk across the room. Gray and gaunt, his face carried two weeks’ worth of thick, dark whiskers.

Tristan had been awake since yesterday, trying to regain some of his strength and enjoying the simple fact that he was both warm and alive. How or why, he still did not know. Since his return to consciousness Wigg and Faegan had remained tight-lipped, concentrating solely on his physical condition. But he intended to get his answers soon, wizards or no wizards.

He looked to his twin sister lying inert in Traax’s strong arms. The baby had been handed to Celeste. His eyes welled briefly with tears. We both live, he thought. He then looked around the room at the others: Shannon, Michael, Ox, Geldon, and Celeste, not to mention Wigg and Faegan, of course. All of us live. We have been so very fortunate.

“Lay Shailiha down on that sofa,” Tristan ordered Traax, pointing to the large loveseat next to his bed. Traax did so. Lying there with her long, golden hair splayed out, Shailiha looked like an elaborate, limp, rag doll.

Celeste stood in the doorway, her arms hugging the baby, looking as if she had just seen a ghost. Her hands trembled slightly.

“Can it be true?” she asked softly, taking a tentative step into the room. “Are you really alive?”

“Yes.” Tristan smiled, holding out his hands.

Immediately Celeste went to him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The welcome smell of the myrrh in her hair came back, reminding him of so much he once thought had been lost forever. Between them, Morganna fidgeted, gripping Tristan’s hair with one tiny hand.

Faegan looked at Wigg. His friend’s lips were pursed tightly, making it abundantly clear that Celeste’s embrace of the prince had not been lost on him. Faegan grinned widely at Wigg’s apparent discomfort.

One of the lead wizard’s infamous eyebrows came up. He then purposely cleared his throat. As he did so, Celeste stood upright. Seeing that the handkerchief she had given Tristan was still tied around his left arm, she touched it and smiled.

“It helped,” Tristan told her quietly. “This handkerchief, and the medallion around my neck, always kept reminding me of what I was fighting for.”

“Don’t you think it’s time we revived your sister?” Wigg suddenly asked in that harsh but kindly manner only he seemed able to master. “By the way, now that I can see again, I no longer need ask any others in the room about what is truly going on.”

Tristan actually found himself blushing. “By all means,” he said. “Go ahead and revive her. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Wigg used the craft to wake the princess. Sitting up slowly, she looked around the room, her eyes finally falling upon her brother.

“Tristan . . . ,” she whispered. Tears welled up. “Can it be true?”

She reached one trembling hand out to touch him, as if expecting him to vanish at any moment. But he didn’t. Standing up on shaking legs, she crossed the short distance to his bed and fell on him, sobbing.

She remained that way for some time, his hand in her golden hair, until her gentle crying started to fade away. No one in the room spoke. There was no need. Finally she raised her head.

“They told us you were dead . . . I even lit your funeral pyre . . . How . . . ?” she asked, her words trailing away.

“I do not know yet,” the prince answered. He looked up at Wigg, then over to Faegan. “I’d say the wizards have a great deal of explaining to do.”

“The wizards . . . ,” Shailiha whispered. Her mouth twisted into a frown, and she got up and stalked toward Wigg. Raising her arm, she slapped him hard across the shoulder.

Wincing, Wigg raised an eyebrow and rubbed the stinging shoulder briskly.

“If you ever do anything like that again, you’ll be sorry!” she shouted. Tristan tried hard to stifle his laughter, barely succeeding. But Faegan could not, and actually cackled out loud.

Furious, Shailiha turned her narrowed, hazel eyes on the wizard in the chair. For the first time ever, Tristan saw Faegan’s face actually redden with embarrassment. The old wizard’s eyes widened, and he immediately closed his mouth. But, ecstatic at having fooled so many for so long, he recovered quickly. A snicker escaped his mouth, and then, giving in completely, he clapped his hands in glee. The princess scowled at him.

Celeste walked over to Shailiha and handed her the baby.

“I told you both she would react this way,” Tristan smirked. “Now then, I want some answers from the two of you. I don’t know how else to ask—how is it that I’m alive?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Faegan answered.

“You’re both protected by time enchantments, aren’t you?” Shailiha countered sarcastically, tapping her foot impatiently on the marble floor. “From what I understand of the craft, you have plenty of time.”

Wigg cleared his throat. “Well to begin, as to why the prince still lives—”

“Actually,” Tristan interrupted, “tell me about the battle with the hatchlings. Everything makes sense to me up until that point. But then my bird took me away from the fighting. The bird that supposedly couldn’t talk! I was unable to control it, and the Minions followed me, thinking I had ordered a full retreat.” He turned to his sister, raising an eyebrow. “That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

Shailiha’s expression suddenly became more humble. “Yes,” she answered. “Mine and the wizards. That part of things I know, but little else.”

“Explain,” Tristan said simply.

“Do you remember the Forestallment Faegan discovered in my blood—the one that allows me to bond mentally with the fliers of the fields?” Shailiha asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, as you also already know, the wizards had been of the opinion that Failee placed it there to allow me, as her intended fifth sorceress, to have a mental link with the Minions. Wigg and Faegan believe it was her original intent, among others, for me to eventually be able to probe the Minion minds, allowing me to discern whether there was ever any desire on their part to revolt. As it happens, the Forestallment she infused into my blood apparently works with other winged creatures of the craft, as well. The wizards asked me to infuse the saying, ‘Trust the process, Chosen One,’ into the hatchling’s consciousness, along with when to say it, and other precise orders for it to follow during the battle. Other than that, the bird was ordered to say nothing. I repeated the phrase to you the day before the battle, so that you would make the connection and realize that what was happening was our doing. I then ordered the hatchling to fly to Shadowood, hoping that the Minions would follow and that the other hatchlings would pursue you.” She smiled. “They all did.”

“But how could you be aware of whether it all worked?” Tristan asked. “How did you know we were coming?”

Shailiha smiled. “Caprice, leading a specially picked group of fliers, hovered near the battle zone,” she answered. “We have much to thank them for. I am glad to tell you that they all returned safely.”

Bemused, Tristan looked quietly at his sister; then he turned to Faegan. “But if you wanted those things to happen, then why didn’t you simply ask Shailiha to bond with Traax, instead of my hatchling?” he asked. “Or for that matter, simply inform me of your plan. You could even have used my hatchling, since it had the power of speech, to tell me more. I would gladly have followed it, leaving the scene of the battle as you wished.”

“We considered that,” Faegan said. “But there were too many ways for what you suggest to go wrong, and we couldn’t take any more chances than were absolutely necessary. First of all, we did not know what the use of Shailiha’s Forestallment upon the Minions might bring about, and we desperately needed their services to stave off the hatchling legions. Added to that is the fact that you are the Minions’ lord, and this entire plan had to be done without your knowledge. We felt that if we used the Minions for this purpose, they might not have accepted the fact that their lord remained uninformed, even tricked, if you will. Therefore, the Minions might have felt duty-bound to tell you of our scheme. That could have easily ruined everything.”

“You are quite right, wizard,” Traax said sternly from the other side of the room. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Had we been told, we would have considered it our sworn duty to inform our lord.”

Tristan nodded, beginning to understand. “And so Shailiha had my hatchling leave the battle and fly to Shadowood, hoping that both the Minions and the hatchlings would follow.”

“Correct,” Wigg said. He raised his index finger for emphasis. “But we also knew that you must not leave the battle too early, nor too late. If done too soon, it might not have appeared as a full-fledged retreat, signaling the beginnings of the trap that it eventually turned out to be. And if done too late, there would not have been enough of your warriors left to be effective once you reached Shadowood. You were beginning to lose badly.”

“But I still do not understand why you did not inform me,” Tristan countered. “I could have led us there easily, without all of the subterfuge.”

“True,” Faegan answered. “But we did not know what plans Nicholas may have had for you. Remember, he was still hoping that you would join him in his cause. For all we knew at the time, he might even try to force you to do so. Had this been the case, and had Scrounge and his hatchlings been under orders to abduct you, all Nicholas would have had to do was test the quality of your heart to find his answer. We simply couldn’t risk that.”

“And so you had Shailiha order my bird to fly straight down into the canyon,” Tristan mused. He ran a hand through his dark hair, thinking. “You took a great risk, did you not? The canyon is invisible except to those trained to see it. Clearly, the Minions and the hatchlings were not. How did you know they would follow?”

Wigg smiled. “We didn’t. But we thought the odds were in our favor. We hoped the Minions would follow you into the canyon out of loyalty. Especially after they saw you disappear, rather than crash to your death into the earth. And as for the hatchlings, well, after they saw all the rest of you so mysteriously vanish, they no doubt believed you were escaping.”

“And the gnomes, with the Minions you had brought to Shadowood, trapped them with nets,” Tristan answered. “While the Minions that followed me were left free to hack them to pieces.” He smiled to himself. For as long as I live, the wizards will continue to impress me. Suddenly very tired from all of the talk, though, he laid his head down on the pillow.

“Are you all right?” Shailiha asked.

“Yes, Shai, I’ll be fine,” he answered. “But it’s going to take a while.” He looked back to Wigg. “Are the hatchlings all dead? The entire force?”

“Yes,” Traax answered proudly from the other side of the room. “Every single one. The birds and their leader will trouble us no more.”

Tristan uncoiled a little, glad to know that Scrounge was finally dead.

“Ox kill many bad birds,” the giant Minion said, interrupting Tristan’s thoughts. The great warrior stood to the side of the room with his chest puffed out proudly. “Ox enjoy that much.”

Tristan smiled at the two warriors who, despite their part in the pillaging of his nation, had impossibly become not only his servants, but also his trusted friends.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“But there is still a great deal more to tell, isn’t there?” Shailiha asked the wizards. As Traax had done, she crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that clearly said she would not be denied. “And I want to hear all of it, right now.” At the sight of her characteristically defiant posture, one corner of Tristan’s mouth came up impishly.

“The answers as to why the prince still lives, why his son Nicholas does not, and why the Gates of Dawn seemed to self-destruct are far more complicated,” Wigg began. “The best way to tell you all is to take you into yet another room.” He gestured to Traax and Ox. “If you please, help the prince to follow me.”

With that, Wigg narrowed his eyes. With his use of the craft, a hidden panel in the far wall began to turn on a pivot, revealing another room beyond.

Traax and Ox went to Tristan’s bed and helped him stand. With his arms over the shoulders of the two warriors, he managed to stumble into the room. Celeste and Shailiha followed.

It was very spacious, constructed of shiny, rose-colored marble. Its unusually high number of oil chandeliers gave it a bright, almost sterile look. A large table with many chairs sat in the center. An even larger table sat nearby, covered with books and scrolls.

Off to one side sat something large, covered by a sheet of cloth. There was another object, similarly covered but differently shaped, on a rather long but narrow table. And still another table lay nearby with nothing on it.

“What is under the sheets?” Tristan asked as Traax and Ox helped him down into one of the comfortable chairs.

“That question shall be answered later,” Wigg said once everyone was seated. “Now then, to answer your many other inquiries. First, to explain the death of Nicholas.” He paused for a moment, looking around the table. His aquamarine eyes finally landed on the prince.

“You killed Nicholas, Tristan,” he said softly. “You, Succiu, and Failee.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristan exclaimed, taken aback. “Succiu and Failee are dead. You burned their bodies yourself, in Parthalon.”

“Quite true,” Faegan said from the other end of the table. “A fact we are all certainly glad of. But please listen to what Wigg has to say.”

Wigg extended one hand toward the table covered with papers, and a scroll of parchment rose into the air and floated to his grasp. He unrolled it and held it up for Tristan’s inspection. “Do you recognize this?” he asked the prince.

Tristan looked down at it. “Of course,” he said. “It is Nicholas’ blood signature.”

“Correct,” Wigg answered. “Now I want you to run your fingers over the signature, and tell me if you feel anything unusual.”

Reaching out, Tristan drew the parchment to him. He placed the tips of his first two fingers on the azure signature and began tracing over it. He felt nothing other than the light scratchiness of the dried blood that one might expect to feel.

“I don’t feel anything,” he answered, withdrawing his hand.

“Precisely,” Wigg answered. “Now, please give me that same hand.”

Tristan did so. Wigg closed his eyes. Almost immediately their joined hands became bathed in the glow of the craft. Tristan felt a slight tingling, but it was not painful. Wigg opened his eyes, and the glow of the craft vanished. Tristan took back his hand.

“What did you just do?” he asked, puzzled.

“I have employed the craft to temporarily enhance the feeling in your fingertips.” The wizard smiled. “Now then, retrace them over the signature. Stop when you feel something unusual. And by the way,” he added, giving the prince a strange smile, “it might help if you close your eyes.”

Tristan placed his fingertips once more on the blood, closing his eyes. He began to retrace the path he had taken earlier.

The sensation was amazing. He could now feel every little bump, every nuance of the dried blood as his fingers traced the lines. And then, just as he approached one of the gentle curves at the top, he abruptly stopped. He backed up, tracing over the spot again.

Sure of his findings, Tristan opened his eyes and looked down. But he could see nothing unusual about the signature he had just felt.

“There is a gap in the top line of the signature,” he said quietly, still not fully understanding the ramifications of his words. “Why can I feel it with my fingers, but not see it with my eyes?”

“The answer to that is very simple,” Faegan answered. “The lead wizard did not enchant your eyes.”

“But what does all of this mean?” Shailiha asked. “I am assuming that this ‘gap’ is some kind of imperfection. But how did it get there? Does this mean that Tristan’s blood signature is imperfect, too? And what did you mean about Tristan, Succiu, and Failee having all killed Nicholas?”

Wigg smiled. “One question at a time, Your Highness. First of all, as to how the imperfection came about.” He took a deep breath, thinking about how to best explain.

“We shall begin at the beginning,” he said. “First of all, we believe that the Forestallments discovered by Faegan were created by Failee, first mistress of the Coven, and were placed into Tristan’s blood during Succiu’s rape of him. Succiu’s immediate, endowed conception of Nicholas meant that Nicholas not only carried Tristan’s blood, albeit in a slightly less powerful form because it was mingled with hers, but that he also inherited Tristan’s Forestallments. As you may remember, the fact that Forestallments can be passed on from one generation to another was proven when we examined the blood of Morganna, Shailiha’s daughter.”

“So it was his inherited Forestallments that killed him?” Celeste asked skeptically.

Wigg smiled. “No, Daughter,” he answered. “It was Nicholas’ Forestallments that made him strong.”

“What is all of this leading to?” Tristan asked impatiently.

“Think back,” Wigg said. “Back to that fateful day in Parthalon when you chased Succiu to the roof of the Recluse. I know this is painful for you, but tell me—was Nicholas ever really born into this world?”

Tristan closed his eyes for a moment, taking himself back in time to that day in the rain—the day he lost his son. “No,” he answered. “Succiu jumped from the roof just as she went into labor. She landed in the moat and died. I took her out and incised Nicholas from her womb with my knife, then buried him in the little grave.”

“That’s right,” Wigg said softly, understanding how hard this was for the prince. “And as such, Nicholas was never really ‘born.’ ”

“I still don’t get your meaning,” Shailiha said.

“The meaning is really very simple,” Faegan said from his chair. “When Succiu jumped from the roof, killing herself and her unborn child, she interrupted Nicholas’ gestation.”

“But that can’t be correct,” Tristan protested. “If Succiu went into labor, doesn’t that mean that Nicholas’ gestation was complete? Is that not the natural order of things? Or are you telling me that his birth was premature?”

“No,” Wigg answered. “His birth was not premature. But that is not to say that his blood was fully formed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After greater study of Egloff’s scroll, Faegan and I now believe that the blood signature is the last thing to form in the unborn, endowed child. We think that this happens just before birth, perhaps even occurring as late as labor. But until now, we could never prove it. However, the strange, unexpected death of Nicholas atop the gates, combined with the circumstances surrounding his aborted, earthly birth, finally do just that. You see, the act of the blood signature forming is the craft’s way of placing its final, unique mark upon yet another of its potential practitioners, if you will. But the blood of Nicholas was never given enough time to do so. He was killed when Succiu jumped, just as her labor began. In essence, he was never really born. His body had been prepared for his birth, but the blood signature had not finished forming completely. The virtually microscopic size of the gap is further proof of how narrowly close his signature was to completing itself, just as Succiu went into labor. Had she not jumped when she did, and instead given birth naturally, his signature would have formed completely. Trust me when I say that had this occurred, our futures would have been very different.”

“Then it was this ‘gap,’ this imperfection, that killed him?” Tristan asked.

“Of and by itself, no,” Wigg answered. “But it was the major contributing factor. It was actually his gathering of the power of the Paragon into himself, and his subsequent empowerment of the Gates of Dawn, that finally killed him. Had he never tried to accomplish such an incredibly high aspect of the craft he might have lived among us forever, the imperfection in his blood of absolutely no consequence. But he was most certainly not sent here to accomplish the mundane.”

The lead wizard sat back in his chair, seeing that the faces gathered around him were still very perplexed. “When one of the trained endowed calls upon the craft, the endowed’s blood in turn calls upon the Paragon,” he elaborated. “It is a symbiotic relationship, and always has been. Tristan, do you remember that day on the mountain, when I told you that the most important determinant of the power of an endowed person is the inherent quality of his or her blood? That has always been true. When Nicholas took so much of the power of the stone into himself, he magnified both his powers and Forestallments hundreds of times over. Perhaps even more. This occurred for two reasons. First and foremost, in order to have the power required to perform the Confluence. And secondly, to simultaneously reduce the powers of Faegan and myself. From the very beginning this was the plan of the Heretics, the ones who sent him here. Whenever he needed to call upon his blood for any so-called ‘normal’ use of the craft, such as his conjuring of the hatchlings, he had no need to draw upon all of the power of the stone and his blood could stand the strain, so to speak. Simply put, the imperfection in his blood signature did not matter.” Wigg paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.

“But when he needed to call upon so much more of the power of the stone to activate the Gates of Dawn as was dictated by the Confluence, bringing to life both the mixture of endowed fluids covering them and the azure blood of the Heretics that already lay within, his blood simply could not survive it.”

Wigg again looked at Tristan. “In the end,” Wigg said quietly, “Nicholas died of simple blood loss.” He watched the mixed emotions that played across Tristan’s face.

“Do you remember how your blood reacted in the Caves, when we spent too much time trying to decide whether to enter the tunnel?” Wigg continued. “Now imagine that same kind of feeling, that agitation of endowed blood if you will, magnified literally hundreds of times over.”

Out of respect for the prince, the table went quiet for a long time. Finally it was Tristan who broke the silence.

“But there is still something I do not understand,” he said. “Nicholas appeared to me as a grown man. That was why I could not recognize him at first. How could he return to our world in so short a time as a fully mature being?”

“An excellent question,” Faegan said from the far end of the table. “And if Wigg will allow me, I will endeavor to answer it.” Glancing over to the lead wizard, Faegan saw him nod.

“First of all,” he began, “it is entirely possible that Nicholas was returned by the Heretics while still an infant, or at least as a very small child. But if the Heretics were aware of the many Forestallments he inherited from Tristan, as we now believe they must have been, then they may also have been able to enact many or all of them before sending him here, giving him immense wisdom and powers for one so young. These abilities would have had little or nothing to do with his chronological age. And as we now know from Shailiha’s experiences with winged creatures of the craft, Forestallments can be activated even if the subject has never been trained. In fact, it is quite logical to assume that all of Nicholas’ gifts were the result of Forestallments. And if that is true, we may then postulate that as he took the power of the stone for himself, both his physical and mental growth continued to advance at a rate never before seen.”

“So he never knew of the imperfection in his signature?” Tristan asked.

“That is correct,” Wigg answered. “Neither did the Heretics, or they would not have sent him here. In this we were most fortunate.”

“But how on earth did you first come upon the imperfection in his blood, when neither Nicholas nor the Heretics ever did?” Tristan asked. “Frankly, such a thing seems quite impossible.”

“Yet another piece of the puzzle,” Faegan said, smiling. “One that we have Ragnar to thank for.”

“What are you talking about?” Celeste asked. At the mention of his name her face had gone dark, her eyes hard.

“Ragnar blinded Wigg by having the dried brain fluid placed into his eyes,” Faegan answered. “When we were examining Nicholas’ blood signature, Wigg had to pass his fingers over it in order to ‘see’ it, if you will. It was then that he first noticed the anomaly.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Armed with that first bit of information, we began our research,” he continued. “As for the Heretics, they no doubt never employed this rather bizarre method of reading a blood signature. Why would they? It is highly untypical of beings, even those as gifted as the Heretics seem to be, to go looking for things they believe cannot exist.”

“And because Nicholas was unable to complete the Confluence,” Tristan mused, “the process was halted, and the Gates self-destructed. Therefore the blood of the Heretics was never fully empowered, and their spirits were forced back into the heavens.”

“Yes,” Wigg said. “And the spell Nicholas designed to destroy the scarabs was enacted, killing the vast majority of them before the Confluence was halted. We sent the Minions to search out and destroy the rest. But Tristan remains a wanted man. And the Brotherhood of Consuls has supposedly been turned by Nicholas’ use of the craft, and that body is now leaderless. Only the Afterlife knows their state of affairs. Such a group could become very dangerous indeed.”

“And we still don’t know where the endowed children are,” Celeste added sadly. “Or the trained, fully grown women of the craft.” The resulting silence lasted for a long time.

“But now I want the answer to my first question,” Shailiha finally demanded. “How is it that Tristan still lives?”

“I can remember almost dying,” the prince said quietly. “I had the sensation of floating. It was almost as if my blood was trying to take me someplace far away. But most of what I recollect is nothing more than azure, pain, and darkness. I heard voices come and go, but they meant nothing to me. And then I was suddenly awake, here in the Redoubt. What happened?”

“You were having your fourth and final convulsion just as the Gates were collapsing beneath you,” Wigg answered quietly. “You were unable to reach the antidote that Nicholas kept with him to tease you to his side. Then the Gates collapsed fully, and you started down with them.”

“But how can you possibly know all of this?” Tristan asked incredulously. “You weren’t there!”

“True,” Wigg replied, pursing his lips. “But Traax and Ox were.”

“What?” Tristan exclaimed. “What do you mean, they were there?”

“After we ordered your hatchling to fly you to the Gates, we ordered the two Minion warriors to follow you,” Wigg answered. His mouth turned up in a smile.

Tristan looked at the two Minion warriors as they sat there, beaming with pride. “Ox save Chosen One after all,” Ox said, a huge smile on his bearded face. “It his duty.”

Tristan smiled, closing his eyes in understanding. “And when Nicholas died and the Gates finally collapsed, the Minions plucked me from them, just as they went down.”

“Yes,” Faegan said. “But not just you.” He unleashed the self-satisfied grin that told the prince there were still secrets to be revealed.

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

Faegan leaned forward conspiratorially. “They retrieved Nicholas’ dead body, as well.”

Tristan nodded. “And they took the antidote from his robes, and forced it down my throat.”

“That’s right,” Wigg said. “And there was just enough left for me, as well. That is why my sight returned.”

Tristan looked over at Shailiha. With tearful eyes she placed one hand over his.

“We knew the odds were overwhelmingly against both Nicholas dying before you did, and the warriors being able to procure the antidote from him in time to help you,” Faegan added. “We also knew Traax and Ox would have to wait until Nicholas was dead, if indeed he was going to die at all, before they could risk exposing themselves. Had Nicholas seen them they would have died on the spot. But what other choice did we have? We asked for a miracle, and it was granted.”

“And then Traax dropped Nicholas’ body into the ruins of the collapsing Gates,” Tristan assumed, nodding slowly. “It is somehow fitting.”

Taking a deep breath and narrowing his eyes, Wigg smiled at Faegan. “Not exactly,” he said slyly.

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

Wigg turned to one of the three rather mysterious tables that stood on the other side of the room. With a turn of his hand, the sheet rose from one of them.

Nicholas lay on it, still dressed in his white robes. He was apparently quite dead. Dried rivulets of azure blood could still be seen on his face and robes.

Shailiha gasped, covering her mouth; Celeste, Geldon, and the gnomes all opened their eyes wide in shock. The Minions simply grinned knowingly.

“Why?” Tristan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“We considered ordering the Minions to cremate him at the Gates,” Wigg answered. “But then we took a chance and told them to bring his body back, if at all possible, so that we might further study his blood. We felt that much might still be revealed by such an endeavor,” Wigg said. “After all, we have never been able to examine endowed blood that has traveled not only to the Afterlife, but also back again. And secondly, if it could be returned without incident, we wanted it here, in the depths of the Redoubt. We certainly did not wish to leave his remains out in the open. We felt that if the body was placed here, so far below ground, the Heretics might not be able to retrieve it again. As for why they apparently did not try to take him back at the Gates, we can only surmise that they witnessed the flaw in this blood signature and realized they had no more use for him.” Wigg’s eyebrow came up once more. “And a good thing, too, for we wouldn’t want a repetition of what happened in Parthalon, now would we? But as it happened, there turned out to be an even more important reason for the return of Nicholas’ body. One that even we were unaware of.”

“And that was?” Tristan asked.

“You were very near to death when Ox finally brought you here,” Wigg said. He looked over at the Minion warrior. “I am forced to say that I am not sure I have ever seen such unswerving loyalty, even among what used to be our Royal Guard,” he added. “Anyway, you had almost no pulse. You were suffering from dehydration, exposure, and frostbite. Worse yet, the dark veins in your arm had covered almost your entire body. The antidote had done much to help keep you from dying, but you were too far along in your fourth convulsion by the time you ingested it. You were therefore left hanging somewhere between life and death. You were crossing over into the Afterlife, and we had to hurry.” Smiling again, he looked to Faegan. “So we improvised.”

“You improvised?” Tristan exclaimed. He looked first at his sister, and then to Celeste. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said softly.

Without speaking, Wigg again raised his hand. The other, much larger sheet covering the third table rose into the air, revealing what was beneath. Tristan’s eyes went wide.

On the table sat a very large, clear ball. Its interior was separated into two equal parts by a transparent dividing wall. One half of the ball contained what appeared to be an azure substance, waving back and forth gently. The other half contained a darker, rather murky fluid that lay perfectly still.

From the outer edges of the ball ran a great many individual tubes, also made of some clear substance. At the end of each tube was a shiny, silver needle. The strange-looking contrivance seemed to crouch on the table like some kind of horrific, multicolored, crystalline spider, its legs drooping down to the floor.

“What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” Tristan asked. He was truly puzzled. “Where did it come from? What is in it?”

“We don’t really know what it is called,” Faegan replied. “Or even if it has a name. Wigg and I have been calling it the Sphere of Collection.”

“And just what does it do?” Shailiha asked.

“Well, for one thing, it helped saved Tristan’s life,” Wigg answered.

“How?” the princess asked.

“Let me begin at the beginning,” Wigg said. “Just after Traax and Ox returned with Tristan, we administered the rest of the antidote to him. But, as I said, he was still dying. While we were attending him, we also sent a force of Minions, again under Traax’s command, to Fledgling House. We wanted to see if there were by chance any children remaining there. They found no children, dead or alive. But what they did find was another small contingent of hatchlings, camped outside, protecting the castle. Apparently Nicholas had planned to return. This time, however, it was the hatchlings that were outnumbered. Surprising them from above, Traax, Ox, and their forces dealt with them swiftly, wisely burning the bodies afterward. When they finally walked inside the small castle, they were astounded at what they saw.”

“And that was?” Tristan asked impatiently.

“In a great hall sat this sphere,” Wigg answered. “On the walls of the room were hung small, coffinlike structures. Remains of endowed blood lay everywhere—on the walls, the floor, and all around the sphere. Supposing it to be a device of the craft, perhaps even something important, Traax and Ox brought it here. Only later did we learn just how important it was.” Wigg glanced at the ominous-looking sphere. A dark look came to his face.

“After examining some of the blood signatures taken from what remained in the sphere, we quickly ascertained that it was into this device that Nicholas had collected the blood of the children. Exceedingly clever, when you stop to think about it. Faegan and I can see many other practical applications that the sphere can lend itself to—applications for good, rather than evil. But I digress.” He returned his attention to the table.

“Just how did this thing save me?” Tristan asked. Clearly tired, he took a deep breath, running one hand through his dark hair.

“Endowed blood can live, albeit briefly, outside the body,” Faegan said. “This phenomenon is witnessed by the blood signature.”

Tristan sat back in his chair, thinking. “But what does all of this have to do with me?” he asked.

“After the failed Confluence, Nicholas’ blood, because it had been infused with such an inordinately vast amount of the power of the stone, lived far longer than normal without its host—his living body,” Faegan interjected. “This amazing precedent, plus the recovery of the Sphere of Collection, got Wigg and me to thinking. We formulated a plan, and then carried it out.” He grinned mischievously at the prince, knowing that in a few moments he was about to shock everyone. Except for Wigg, of course.

“So what did you finally do?” Tristan asked.

Faegan looked across the table at Wigg. Taking a breath, he pushed his cheek out with his tongue and raised his eyebrows. “We used the Sphere of Collection to remove some of your poisoned blood, simultaneously replacing it with an equal amount from the corpse of your son.”

Aghast, Tristan couldn’t speak. He had never heard of such a bizarre thing. It seemed to him as if they had both somehow gone completely, irretrievably mad.

“You did what?” he shouted at last.

“It was your poisoned blood that was killing you, Tristan,” Wigg said. “And it was the very high quality of Nicholas’ blood, empowered by the stone, that was keeping his blood alive long after his body had expired. We believed that if we removed some of your tainted blood, replacing it with an equal amount of Nicholas’, your blood would in turn be ‘healed’ from the poison. We were right. In less than two days following the procedure the dark veins covering your body began to recede, and you regained consciousness. We are sure it shall require at least several weeks for you to return to full health, but we are also equally sure that you shall. No one else—other than Traax and Ox, of course—knew that you were here, alive and under our care. We felt it best not to get everyone’s spirits up, only to have them dashed again. Your funeral pyre and our descriptions of the searches conducted by Traax and Ox were merely window dressing, so that we might work uninterrupted.”

“But why couldn’t you tell us?” Shailiha protested. “What you did seems terribly cruel!”

“I know,” Wigg answered softly. “And we apologize. But we thought it for the best. At the time, we couldn’t be sure there weren’t still hatchlings about, such as those Traax discovered waiting at Fledgling House. Or, for that matter, if Ragnar was dead. Should they have regrouped and come for us again, they wouldn’t be able to torture from you what you didn’t know. Had that happened, and they learned that the prince lived, they would have come for him, and we would have been unable to stop them. Then he would have died in truth. I am truly sorry that we had to cause so much pain with this deception.”

Tristan looked over at his sister. The look on her face was one of both amazement and consternation. She wanted to be angry at the wizards for not telling her, but she couldn’t be.

Wigg then looked into the dark eyes of the Chosen One with a meaningfulness he rarely showed. “In some ways Nicholas will remain a part of your being,” he said. Another long period of silence descended.

“But what are the ramifications of this?” Shailiha finally asked. “Will Tristan’s blood be somehow harmed, or changed?”

“No,” Faegan answered. “You see, Nicholas’ blood was already partly Tristan’s blood, as well. Because of that, they are compatible, so to speak. Also, we did not have to employ a large quantity of Nicholas’ blood. Therefore, the blood of the son shall not overcome the blood of the father. Rather, the reverse will become true. Given time, Tristan’s blood shall be just as it once was. We are certain that a simple test of his blood signature, taken several weeks from now, will confirm this.”

“And then there is perhaps the most important development of all,” Wigg went on. “The improved condition of the Paragon. Blessedly, the stone has completely reclaimed its power.”

“But there is yet another issue that must be dealt with,” Faegan interjected.

“And that is?” Tristan asked.

“Why Nicholas let us have possession of the Tome,” Faegan replied. “We had always considered that to be extremely odd, to say the least. Upon restoring it to its original size and examining it closely, I got my answer.”

“How so?” Shailiha asked.

“Because the great treatise of the craft, the one work we rely on the most for our understanding of magic, has been altered,” Faegan said bluntly. “As Nicholas read the Tome, he was at the same time changing it. Falsifying it, to suit his plans. He no doubt had the power of Consummate Recollection, as do I, and had read the entire treatise. But in his case, the gift of Consummate Recollection would have been vastly more powerful, probably enabling him to recite specific passages, perhaps even entire volumes, immediately. Therefore he no longer required the original. So he altered it, turning it into yet another weapon to employ against us. The concept was fiendishly clever, for the changes he made were not blindingly obvious. They were designed to make us stumble and try again, rather than to fall outright. Such small changes also helped ensure that it would take much longer for us to realize it had been violated. He knew that we would rely on the great book to help us better understand our many problems. What better way to make things more difficult for us than to falsify the very text we needed the most? With great effort, I should be able to use my gift of Consummate Recollection to restore it. But the amount of work and time required will be staggering.”

Tristan looked around at his friends, then at the dead body of his son.

Nicholas, he thought grimly. The forced product of a sorceress of the Coven and the male of the Chosen Ones. The child I left behind.

“There is something else that you must know, Tristan,” Wigg said gently. “And this may be the most difficult thing of all for you to hear.” The wizard glanced at the Sphere of Collection, then looked back at the prince. “It’s about Nicholas’ blood,” he said. “All of the power of the stone is now gone from it. Therefore the last part of your son’s living being is finally dying.”

Tristan looked over to see that the little azure waves in the sphere were moving more slowly now. Taking a breath, he placed his hands flat on the table in preparation to stand. Immediately Traax, Ox, and Shailiha stood to help him. Tristan looked darkly at Wigg, and the wizard understood. With a quick, sure gesture from the ancient one, Traax, Ox, and Shailiha all stopped and moved away.

With great difficulty, the prince stood on his own. Walking to the sphere on shaking legs, he stared down at the strange device that had helped save his life. He gently placed one of his palms atop it.

As he watched, his son’s blood slowed its movements even further, finally stopping. And then, as if someone had silently extinguished a candle, the glow emanating from the blood softened . . . and vanished forever.

Wiping away tears, Tristan shuffled over to the table that held the body of his son. The dark blue, upturned eyes were still open. Reaching down, he gently closed the lids. Then he picked the sheet up from the marble floor and carefully draped it over the body. He knew the wizards would want to cremate the remains. And this time he would not stop them.

Nicholas II of the House of Galland, he thought, remembering the words he had carved into the makeshift marker he had shoved into the soft earth over the little grave in Parthalon.

You shall not be forgotten.

Walking back to the table, the prince leaned weakly against his chair. Extremely tired, he wanted nothing more than to return to his bed and sleep forever. He said so. With the help of the Minions, he went back into the other room and fell into bed. Celeste gently pulled the covers up around his shoulders.

Tristan looked up into Wigg’s face as the old one came to the bedside. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Would you do me a favor, Lead Wizard?” he asked sleepily.

“Anything.”

“The next time you and Faegan make such grandiose plans, tell me about them, would you?”

Wigg looked down, his eyes shiny. He raised the infamous eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth came up knowingly.

“We’ll try, Chosen One,” he said softly. “We’ll try.”

Tristan slept.

56

The freshly fallen snow twinkling beneath his horse’s hooves, Tristan rode Pilgrim ever higher up the side of the mountain. It felt good to have the dappled gray-and-white stallion beneath him again, and being here was a welcome change from the relative mustiness and seclusion of the Redoubt. The air was clean, cold, fresh, and laced with the scent of pine needles. As Pilgrim brought down each hoof, taking Tristan deeper into the Hartwick Woods, the memories of this place came flooding back.

Stretching his still-sore muscles, he looked up to the sky. For the most part, the atmosphere above him was blue, with fat, puffy clouds sailing through its boundlessness.

Two weeks had passed since Tristan had regained consciousness in the Redoubt, and much of his strength had already returned. But he still had a long way to go, and he knew it. The dark veins that had once covered his body were gone, and the searing pain had been replaced with the relative relief of fatigue, soreness in his joints, and lingering weakness in his muscles. Otherwise, he felt like himself again. He smiled as Pilgrim stepped over a fallen log half buried in the mountain snow.

The first thing he had done after getting out of bed was to shave off his two-week-old beard. Shailiha had teased him mercilessly about it, telling him that between his recent illness and the full beard, he was looking more like their late father every day.

Everyone was greatly relieved that the threat from Nicholas and his creatures was gone, and their lives had regained at least a modicum of normalcy. Tristan, Shailiha and her baby, Celeste, and the others living in the Redoubt had all taken up residence in the royal palace above. Only Wigg and Faegan had refused to budge, remaining cloistered below. For Tristan and Shailiha it was indeed liberating to again be back in their old home, where the air was sweeter and the light of day could come streaming through the windows and skylights.

But the condition of the castle above was poor, making their security questionable, at best. Not only had the structure been looted, but parts of it, especially many of the windows and doorways, had been destroyed. Tristan had had the Minions transfer some furniture and decorative pieces from the Redoubt, as well as a good bit of food, wine, kitchen utensils, and linens. But the structural repairs had only just begun.

Drawing his ragged fur jacket closer around him to ward off a gust of wind, he smiled again. Shawna the Short and Mary the Minor, each of them wanting to take full control over all the ongoing domestic responsibilities, had begun shouting orders and squabbling as badly as Wigg and Faegan ever had—perhaps even worse.

Tristan had spent most of his time trying to get well. He had been practicing a great deal with both his dreggan and his throwing knives, so as to sharpen his skills and strengthen his weakened muscles. He estimated that he had only reacquired about half of his original speed. But little by little, every day he trained, he also improved. And it was good to practice again, even though he could not do so for prolonged periods.

Shailiha, Celeste, and Martha tended quietly to life at the castle and looked after Morganna. Wigg had joined Faegan in his attempts to restore the falsified Tome, but he also took time from that tedious work to get to know his daughter better.

But whenever Tristan thought of Celeste, as he so often did, he felt strangely conflicted. He was very drawn to her. Everyone living there knew it, including Wigg. But even though he sensed she cared for him, she also showed reticence in becoming closer. Further complicating things was the fact that she was the only daughter of his lifelong mentor and friend. In truth, Wigg knew her little better than Tristan did. Sometimes the prince felt he should try to shelve his feelings in order to allow the father and daughter to first come to grips with their new, blossoming relationship, and only then try to enter her heart more deeply. If indeed he ever did.

Wrenching his thoughts away from Celeste, he turned around in his saddle to check on the object he was bringing into the woods. It was his sole reason for coming up here today alone. For the first time in what seemed forever, there was no bodyguard of Minion warriors or clutch of helpful but quarrelsome gnomes to trample on his sense of peace. For what he intended to do was strictly a private affair.

He was going to scatter to the four winds the ashes of his only child, Nicholas, at the grave site of his family.

Finally approaching the little glade, he slowed his horse, then jumped down and tied Pilgrim to a nearby tree. The stallion affectionately rubbed his long face against Tristan’s shoulder as the prince untied the flap of the saddlebag to carefully remove a small urn sealed with wax.

Tristan stood at the edge of the clearing for some time, the memories of the people buried there swirling in his heart and mind. So too came back to him the thoughts of that amazing night he had saved Celeste from throwing herself off the cliff, when he was convinced that he would never see her again. He shook his head slowly.

Life has an interesting way of surprising one sometimes, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the center of the glade, where he had dug the graves containing his family and the Directorate of Wizards.

He went to his knees in the snow and gently placed the vase down next to him. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head, the only sounds the swirling of the wind through the surrounding pines and the occasional songs of the birds.

Had he been completely well, he might have heard the steps that came so quietly through the snow behind him. Or had his eyes been open, he might have seen the lengthening shadow as it slid silently across the ground.

But he did not.

He had barely a moment to register the pain of the blow to his head. And then everything went black.

The smell of smoke awakened him. Pine needles again, this time mixed with maple. Sooty and acrid, it was coming from a fire that burned and snapped too close to his head.

As he opened his eyes, his vision swam sickeningly. Slowly, it came into better focus, revealing white clouds sailing against the background of a bright blue sky. He was lying on his back. As he tried to sit up, his head hammered like an anvil. And then a sudden, sickening realization went through him.

His weapons had been taken.

“Welcome back, Chosen One,” came a voice from behind him. “So glad to see you are finally up and about.”

Tristan froze. Even without looking, he knew who spoke. But his mind refused to believe what his ears were telling him. Slowly he stood, and turned around.

The angular, almost emaciated face; decaying teeth; and dirty, wispy hair were just as Tristan remembered them. A campfire burned in the snow between them, a small stack of freshly cut wood sitting next to it. Scrounge sat rather imperiously on the gathered logs, keeping himself out of the snow. A Eutracian broadsword lay at his right hip, a dagger sheathed in a golden scabbard at his left. Tristan immediately recognized the knife as Wigg’s centuries-old ceremonial dagger, the same one Ragnar had used to place the poison into the helpless wizard’s eyes.

Then the prince’s gaze went to Scrounge’s right forearm. The sleeve of his fur coat was rolled back, revealing the miniature crossbow still strapped there, containing its five arrows. The string cocked tightly, it was clearly ready to fire. Scrounge raised it slightly, more perfectly aligning it with the prince’s heart. Tristan looked closely, and his nerves jangled in his skin.

The tip of each of the arrows was still stained in yellow.

Trying to calm himself, he looked beyond the assassin for a moment. Some distance away, Scrounge’s horse was tied to a tree. Hung on the pommel of the saddle were Tristan’s dreggan and his quiver full of dirks. To reach them, Tristan realized he would have to go straight through Scrounge, something that now seemed impossible. Lying on the ground behind the assassin’s horse was a crude litter.

Tristan looked back into the face he so hated, a flood of anger coursing through his blood. “You’re supposed to be dead, you bastard!” he snarled. His head was still swimming from the blow, his footing unsteady. He tried desperately to concentrate. “Which of my Minions failed me, allowing the likes of you to live? Apparently, I am going to have to finish the job myself.”

Scrounge smiled. “A great many of your warriors failed, I’m afraid. When I saw you at the bottom of the canyon, I immediately knew it could be a trap. But when I saw the nets descending, I realized that my hatchlings were surely about to be destroyed. Very cleverly done, I might add. When you suddenly soared up, I turned my bird around and flew back the opposite way, down the length of the canyon. As I did, I stopped every hundred meters or so, urging the remaining hatchlings ever forward, giving them the impression I was still actively commanding them. They were all going to die anyway. So I used them to save myself. They’re actually quite stupid, you know. And in truth, I much prefer a horse.” A sick laugh came from him before he continued.

“Anyway, after covering what I thought to be a sufficient distance behind my troops, I headed up and out. Two of your warriors did see me, attacking me from above.” Pausing, he pursed his lips sarcastically. “But things ended badly for them.” He glanced down to his crossbow, and his meaning was not lost on the prince.

“The vast majority of your flying monkeys and scrubby-looking gnomes were so enthralled with what they had captured in their nets, they forgot to look for what they might not have captured. Even your wizards did not see me,” he went on.

“Not particularly honorable of you,” Tristan said quietly, “running away like that. But then again, you’re not the honorable type, are you?”

“Honor?” Scrounge laughed. “And perhaps the good and honorable Prince Tristan of the House of Galland will kindly tell me what one can do with honor! Can you eat it, good prince? No! Can you spend it? No! Will it buy you either the comfort of a jug of wine, or a hot meal? Or purchase for you the warmth of a willing young whore, to stave off the coldness of a night of the Season of Crystal? Decidedly not! Honor, indeed!”

Scrounge spat into the fire; the saliva hissed its way down, dying in the flames. Raising one foot on the pile of logs, he lowered the forearm with the crossbow to his knee. It still pointed directly at Tristan’s chest.

“But what would you know of such things, eh?” he continued. “Has the good prince ever been alone and crying, orphaned on the streets of Tammerland? Or slept in a cold alleyway, wondering if he will eat tomorrow? Or fearing what he must do to ensure that he can? Honor, he tells me! I was never in it for the honor, you fool—only for whatever Ragnar and Nicholas would give me! Crumbs from their table, to be sure, but oh, what crumbs they were! I am an assassin, the best there is, and my services go to the highest bidder. The only problem with that is that you have now managed to kill both my employers! Now that Nicholas and Ragnar are gone, and the Gates destroyed, you are the only remaining solution to my problems.” He smiled strangely. “Do you not see that, my prince?”

“No,” Tristan answered angrily. “Are you insane? How is it that I am supposed to solve your problems? All I want of you is to see you die.”

“Ah,” Scrounge answered. “We finally come to the heart of it. The one and only thing that the two us have in common. Except, perhaps, for the mutual desire to taste Celeste. And what is that one thing that binds us together, you ask? Why, our overriding desire to see the death of the other, of course. But our reasons for wanting these things are vastly different. You, you fool, do it for honor.”

“And you?” Tristan asked. “Just why is it that you still want my head? You could very easily escape, without the bother of confronting me. As you yourself just said, both of your employers are quite dead.” He paused for a moment, lowering his eyes menacingly. “And as you are about to discover,” he added softly, “I am not so easily killed.”

The crossbow continued to point straight at Tristan’s heart. At this range if the assassin released one of the yellow-tipped arrows, there would be nothing the prince could do to avoid it.

“Can’t you guess why I’m here?” Scrounge asked.

“No,” Tristan answered calmly. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“It’s the reward, of course!” Scrounge exploded. He snorted derisively, as if he were speaking to some dullard. “The one hundred thousand gold kisa your son offered for your life! A veritable king’s ransom! Or, in this case, should I say ‘prince’s’? The reward Nicholas never wanted collected, and believed would never be. Or have you forgotten? The prize still stands, and I plan to be the one who collects it.”

Tristan’s heart skipped a beat. Not because he suddenly realized that only one of them would come down off this mountain alive. He had known that from the moment he saw Scrounge. Rather, it was from the confirmation that he was still a wanted man, blamed for actions the populace did not know he had been forced to commit.

“I don’t believe you,” Tristan bluffed. “Ragnar and Nicholas are both dead, so there is no one left to pay you the money. And if they had conjured the kisa before their deaths, you would have simply stolen it and run, not bothering with coming after me. The pieces of your story don’t fit.”

Scrounge smiled. “That’s because you don’t have all of the pieces,” he answered. “In fact, the money exists, and is still being offered—but by someone new.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes skeptically. “And just who might that be?” he asked.

Scrounge tilted his head slightly, relishing the moment. “Can’t you guess?” he answered quietly. “Your hunters are now the remaining consuls of the Redoubt.”

Tristan’s couldn’t believe it—the once compassionate Brotherhood of Consuls wanted to see their prince dead.

“I still don’t believe you,” he bluffed again. “Why would they want me killed?”

“Oh, they have their reasons, of that you may be sure,” Scrounge answered. “But there is still more to this story. The story of what is about to happen to you.”

Tristan could do little but stare back at Scrounge. He desperately missed the familiar, comforting weight of his weapons across his back. Without them he felt very vulnerable, and alone. But even if he had them back, he wasn’t sure he would be able to kill the assassin—not in his still-weakened state. Dark edges of gloom began to press in on the corners of his mind, but he pushed them back. He cringed even more as he watched Scrounge draw the ceremonial dagger from his belt. The blade’s sharp edges were still coated in yellow powder.

“If you’re going to kill me, then why don’t you just do it?” Tristan snarled. “Why bore me with all this talk?”

“Because I don’t plan to kill you.” Scrounge smiled, showing his dark, decaying teeth. “Remember, the wanted poster said dead or alive. I plan to take you back alive. Wounded, but alive. You see, there is something about the stalker’s poison you do not know. Even though your health is improving, another wound, even one of dried stalker fluid such as still coats Wigg’s dagger, will bond with and reenergize the traces of poison remaining in your system—resulting in not only another series of convulsions and ultimately death, but first causing almost instantaneous unconsciousness. And this time, it may be days before you reawaken. While you are unconscious, I shall return you to Tammerland. To Bargainer’s Square, to be exact. The consuls will surface, paying me my reward, and they will leave you in your litter, letting you die slowly while the good citizens of Eutracia take their abuse of you. It should be most entertaining. In fact, I plan to stay and watch. But by then I shall be a much wealthier man, of course.”

Tristan’s breath left his lungs in a rush. The prospect of another round of convulsions, this time their outcome certain, shook him to the core. Dying, foaming at the mouth like some rabid animal in a cage, while the populace of Tammerland cheered it on. The very people he had risked his life to protect, over and over again. He tried to mask his feelings.

“But why?” he argued back gamely. “Why would the consuls do this? I’ve caused them no harm.”

“The answers are simple, though I will not tell you all of it,” Scrounge sneered. “For I value not only my head, but also the reward I am about to collect. However, this much of it I will say—if the consuls can be seen as the ones of the craft responsible for bringing in the traitorous prince, they will also appear to the populace as the new saviors of the nation. The help such a revelation would afford them in their efforts to rule would prove immeasurable.” He grinned widely. “I’m sure you won’t mind being poisoned again, dear prince? You seemed to enjoy it so much the first time.”

Scrounge slapped his free hand against his knee with outright glee, laughing loudly. “Who knows?” he asked. “I may even become the one viewed as the hero. Perhaps even as honorable! An unusual turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you get the dagger?” Tristan asked, his mind racing as he tried to buy time.

Scrounge smiled. “Convenient, is it not, that Ragnar could not take it with him where he is gone?” he said happily. “But he is quite dead, and I liberated the dagger from all that remained of him: a pile of clothing and a great pool of blood.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Simple logic,” Scrounge answered, his laughter finally fading. “I guessed that you might be saved by the wizards. And that you would insist on doing the right thing—the honorable thing—by your son’s body, by bringing the remains to your family plot. I have been living here, in these woods, waiting for your return ever since the battle.”

“If all this is true, then why didn’t you just poison me while I was still unconscious?” Tristan asked. “It would have saved me the trouble of killing you.”

Scrounge’s face darkened. He stood, unstrapped the crossbow from his arm, and tossed it in the snow near his horse. The broadsword followed. Looking smug, he faced Tristan holding only Wigg’s dagger. Given Tristan’s condition, it was apparently all he thought he would need.

“The crossbow and the broadsword are far too blunt for the work I plan,” he said menacingly. “As I said, I only intend to wound you, and using those less precise weapons might cause a nasty, undesirable accident. But as to why I didn’t do this before, well, the truth is that I wanted to see the look in your eyes, dear prince. The look in the eyes of one who has never gone hungry. The look in the eyes of one who needed only to snap his fingers to receive the finest of everything, or merely to beckon to the most beautiful women of the realm, only to have them so willingly fall into his bed.” He paused for a moment, raising the shiny yellow-tinged blade of Wigg’s ceremonial dagger higher.

“And I wanted to see the look in your eyes, you privileged royal bastard, at the precise moment you realized you were losing it all.” With that, Scrounge lunged, covering the distance between them in a flash.

Scrounge slashed wickedly at Tristan’s arm. His reflexes still slow, Tristan managed to pull back only at the last second, narrowly avoiding the swirling yellow blade.

If only I had a weapon! Tristan thought. Already breathing heavily, he watched as Scrounge readied himself for his next strike.

But there might be a way, he realized. If only I can last long enough to lure him into the right position. But if it fails, there will be no second chance.

Again and again Scrounge slashed at Tristan, the prince barely able to avoid the oncoming blade. Each time it came it seemed to reach a bit farther, the already-tiring prince reacting a fraction slower. At last the point of Scrounge’s blade actually tore its way through the front of Tristan’s fur jacket, narrowly missing his skin. The prince’s last reserves of strength were ebbing away with each passing second; he knew he would not be able to take much more of this.

Lunging forward again, Scrounge raised the dagger high with one hand, simultaneously trying to grab the flapping tatters of Tristan’s coat with the other. Concentrating on the descending blade of the knife, Tristan managed to grasp the assassin’s wrist with both hands, barely keeping the yellow blade of the knife from his throat.

Sensing his chance, Scrounge yanked down on Tristan’s jacket, pulling him off balance. Then the assassin placed one of his long legs directly behind one of the prince’s and pushed him.

Tristan went down hard onto his back, Scrounge on top of him. Still holding the dagger, Scrounge used both hands to push it forward, slowly closing the distance between the point of the yellow blade and Tristan’s throat. Tristan groaned, his entire body trembling as he tried to keep the poisoned blade from reaching his skin.

Now! he realized. I must do it now!

He raised his right knee and dragged his right foot back in the snow, then, concentrating all his strength into his left arm, he took his right hand away from Scrounge’s wrist. The yellow blade of the knife was almost touching his skin.

Any moment now, he would be cut.

Reaching into his boot, he prayed that it would still be there. And then the smooth, pearl handle came into his hand, and he withdrew it.

The brain hook.

Tristan thrust the hooked end of the stiletto into Scrounge’s ear canal. Just as the assassin screamed, the prince pointed the blade down and back, pulling forward on the handle. He felt a moist, tearing sensation through the handle of the knife, and Scrounge’s eyes rolled back into his head.

Dying instantly, the assassin collapsed atop the prince just as Tristan pushed the dagger’s blade away. With a last bit of strength he didn’t know he had, he heaved Scrounge’s dead body off him, into the snow. Scrounge’s bright red blood seemed to be everywhere.

Tristan lay there for some time, gulping in the sweet mountain air, before daring to touch his fingers to his throat. Finally looking at his fingertips, he took another breath, and closed his eyes in relief.

There was no azure blood.

He stood, his chest heaving, his legs trembling beneath him. Finally looking around, he saw the black urn lying in the snow near the edge of the cliff.

He walked to it slowly and broke the wax seal, removing the top. He stood there for another long moment, thinking of all that had happened. Then he cast the fine, gray ashes into the air. As if it had somehow known his wishes, the wind picked them up and hauntingly carried them away.

Tristan collapsed as much as sat in the snow at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the Eutracian landscape he so loved.

Nicholas II, of the House of Galland, his heart called out softly. You will not be forgotten.

He cast his dark eyes north in the direction of the destroyed Gates of Dawn, and his mind turned to the many problems still lingering, wondering how they would ever be overcome.

And then the same never-ending fear that had resonated through his mind ever since he had regained consciousness in the Redoubt came to him.

What will become of us now?

Standing slowly, he began the walk to collect his weapons.