Even though Tristan had not been prepared to hear it, sadly he had to admit that the bereaved man actually made a sort of perverse sense. Had their roles been reversed, Tristan could imagine himself coming to the same conclusion-especially considering all of the false, hateful tales circulating about him. But before he could formulate a reply, Wigg came to stand by his side.
"The truth is that I was trying to turn the orb away from the village, not toward it," the First Wizard said to the crowd, "but I was unsuccessful. If you choose not to believe me, there is little I can do about it. But before you make up your minds, there is something I would like to show you all."
Raising one arm, Wigg pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Despite the spell of accelerated healing he had placed over it, the skin of his arm still looked raw and painful.
"This is my reward for trying to help you," the wizard said, as he held his arm up for all to see. Lowering it again, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. "We must all fight this disaster together if we are to have any hope of succeeding. The rupture of the orb is the greatest threat we have ever faced, including the return of the Coven of Sorceresses."
"But I saw you kill your own father!" a woman shouted at the prince, jumping to her feet. She had two small children by her side. "You can't deny that!" Her voice was nearly hysterical. "I was there! It is said that you carry that very sword to this day!"
Looking down at her, Tristan took a measured step forward. Silence crept over the room. Reaching behind his back, he slowly drew his dreggan. As it left its scabbard, the blade sent its familiar ring through the air.
"Do you mean this one?" he asked.
Then he calmly pushed the hidden button on the hilt that was common to all such Minion swords. He felt the dreggan jump in his hand as its blade immediately shot forward by another foot. Many in the crowd jumped back in their seats.
"Yes," Tristan said. To anyone who knew him well, it was clear that his frustration was beginning to seep through. "This is the sword that I used to kill my father! I admit it. Had I not, the warrior Kluge would have killed your king slowly, hewing him to pieces." Walking still closer to the edge of the dais, the prince looked down at the woman.
"So you tell me," he said. "Given only those two choices, had it been your father's head upon the block, what would you have done?"
Tristan thrust the tip of the blade into the carpeted dais. The sword stood upright before him, swaying gently back and forth. When it slowed, he took another step nearer, he opened his palms, and raised them for all to see.
"Look at my hands!" he shouted. "Do you see these scars? I put them there myself, when I took a blood oath to find my parents' killers and to bring the princess and the Paragon back to Eutracia! If we are to have any hope of surviving both the ruptured orb and those who would use it against us, you must trust the Conclave!"
"And what if we do believe all of your rubbish?" another man yelled. Around him, others had jumped to their feet and were talking with one another in urgent tones.
"We don't trust the craft, and we don't trust your dealings with it!" the man went on. "The craft has brought us nothing but suffering and death, while its practitioners constantly vie for control of it! As far as we know, you may be as bad as these supposed enemies you speak of-or perhaps even worse! And pray, tell us, my lord, with King Nicholas now dead by your own hand, do you profess to be our new sovereign?"
Tristan lowered his head. The title of king was once something he would have done anything to avoid. Now he found that he wanted it with all his heart. He had yet to formally take the oath that would grant him that privilege. Eutracian law stated that until he did so, he would remain prince. For some time he had kept silent about his reasons for waiting. But now he decided that he should reveal his feelings both to his subjects and to the newly formed Conclave.
Beckoning Wigg closer, Tristan walked to the very edge of the platform. When Wigg reached him, Tristan leaned over and whispered into the First Wizard's ear.
A skeptical look came over Wigg's face. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered back.
"Just do it," the prince said under his breath. He held out his right arm.
A small incision formed in Tristan's wrist. Under Wigg's guidance, a single drop of azure blood rose from the wound and hovered in the air.
From beneath his robes, the First Wizard produced a small pewter vial. He opened it and caused a single drop of the red water of the Caves of the Paragon to come floating through the air toward the single drop of Tristan's blood. There was a pause, and then the two raced toward each other and joined. As they did, a hush came over the crowd.
Tristan watched as the combination of fluids twisted and then turned into his glowing azure blood signature. With a swift calculation of the craft, Wigg magnified the blood signature's size, so that everyone in the Chamber of Supplication could see it. As Tristan had hoped, the chamber was now absolutely still.
Speaking quickly into the silence, Tristan went on to explain, in the simplest of terms, what the blood signature was. He told them about how his blood had turned azure the day he defeated the Coven of the Sorceresses. At last he paused and pointed to his blood signature as it twinkled wetly in the soft morning light.
"Rather than controlling the craft, I am as much a prisoner of it as anyone, perhaps even more so," he said. "For until a way can be found to return my blood to its original state, the wizards may not train me in the arts of magic. Nor am I allowed to give the kingdom an heir." A distinct sadness crept over his face.
"One day, I shall take the oath as your sovereign," he finished at last. "But I shall refuse to do so until my blood is whole again and I can be trained in the craft, just as my late father would have been. Not until then will I presume to call myself your king."
With that Tristan dismissed the meeting. As he watched the somber crowd disperse, the remaining members of the Conclave came forward to join him.
He reclaimed his sword from the floor and returned it to its scabbard. Celeste and Shailiha each gave him a reassuring hug. Tristan looked down at Faegan, and then at Wigg.
"Do you think they believed us?" he asked.
"That is difficult to say," Wigg answered. "Some may have, but many certainly did not. They have suffered much and, until we can find a way to heal the orb, may suffer a great deal more. In my more than three centuries, I have never seen the populace more distrustful. Even during the height of the Sorceresses' War they were more trusting. I sense that they would like to believe in you, and that is what is most important. Now that the spark of trust has been rekindled, we must be careful how we fan the flame."
Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. "I never had the privilege of knowing your parents," the ancient wizard said in his gravely voice. "But I have no doubt that they would have been proud of what you did here today. At the very least, this is a start. Remember, even the greatest of journeys must always begin with a single step." AT THE VERY BACK OF THE ROOM ONE OF THE MEETING ATTENDEES walked out promptly, well ahead of the other departing subjects. Quickly traversing the palace grounds and striding across the lowered drawbridge, the cloaked figure jumped upon the waiting horse and then wheeled him around.
Gathering her cloak around her, the Gray Fox galloped away, up the narrow street and on toward her next assignation.
CHAPTER XIII
When the voices first revealed themselves to him, he feared he had suddenly gone mad. Then he understood. They were the result of the activation of the Forestallment.
That had been two days ago. Now, as he stood on the terrace overlooking the broad ocean, the Enseterat had never felt more confident or more powerful.
Just as the Jin'Sai had his wizards, Wulfgar now had his own allies. But his were were infinitely more powerful in their abilities to aid him. Tristan, his mind still burdened with his tainted, untrained blood, had yet to unleash such power. And the Scroll of the Vigors-the only tool that might possibly help him heal the great orb-was irrevers
ibly damaged.
It was late afternoon at the Citadel, and the sea was high again. Seabirds swooped and called out to one another as they skimmed the frothy waves, their sharp eyes searching the blue-green shallows for their next meal. The sky was overcast and the wind blustery, and the salt-laden air smelled pleasantly of both brine and the tangled seaweed that continually washed up against the rocks of the shore.
Turning his gaze to the bay, Wulfgar looked over to the growing fleet of strong, new ships that he had only recently released from the depths where they had been imprisoned for more than three centuries. Superior to the demonslaver vessels in every way, they would prove to be the mightiest armada of the Vagaries ever assembled. Then would come the captains to sail them. Unlike the unendowed, white-skinned slavers who had failed him, these beings had once been masterful commanders of their craft.
All this was due to the new Forestallment-and the voices it had brought. Einar had promised he would hear them, but nothing in the world could have adequately prepared Wulfgar for the experience.
It had been early evening, and the Enseterat and his queen were taking dinner on the spacious balcony of their quarters. Wulfgar was about to ask her how she was feeling, when, to Serena's horror, he suddenly clutched the sides of his head. With a scream of agony, he fell backward, chair and all, and began to writhe uncontrollably on the marble floor. Helpless, Serena watched as Wulfgar struggled in the grip of something neither of them understood.
Then, fearing for her husband's life, she sent for Einar. But by the time the lead consul arrived, Wulfgar's pain had departed and he had calmed.
Rising from the floor, the Enseterat turned and looked at Einar and his wife. There was a renewed sense of power and majesty about him, a greatness that they had never seen. As though he were the only person in the world, Wulfgar silently turned his gaze away from them and out toward the shifting sea.
That was when the voices first came, a soulful chorus that overwhelmed him. Out of sheer reverence, he fell to his knees.
"Wulfgar," they began, "you have finally been granted the Forestallment that allows us to commune with your mind."
"Who are you?" he thought. Instinctively, he knew that he did not need to speak aloud to be heard by them.
"We are the Heretics of the Guild." The voices were melodic, soothing.
"We welcome you to our service. The pain you just endured was the result of our initial communication; you shall not have to bear it again. Despite the initial defeat of your demonslaver fleet, you have done well. The Orb of the Vigors continues to bleed, and we must allow nothing to interfere with that. Your employment of the female assassin was a wise precaution, but in the end, you shall require far more than just her unendowed skills to secure the prizes you seek. You must remember well the information we are about to impart to you, for what we grant you now will lead you to the final victory."
The chorus faded, and was replaced by a whirling riot of azure numbers and letters roaring in his mind-all of them in Old Eutracian. He closed his eyes and stared at the glowing formulas that danced brightly against the infinite blackness behind his eyelids. Finally they slowed, and he began to grasp what they represented.
They comprised an index to the massive Scroll of the Vagaries.
Wulfgar's heart leaped for joy. Until now, both the scroll's great size and its overwhelming complexity had made it difficult to decipher. The calculations for the thousands of Forestallments it contained were recorded upon it randomly. No concern had been given to categorizing what type of gift each individual formula might grant, or what subdivision of the craft it fell into.
As a result, it took weeks for his consuls to find any particular set of calculations. But with the index at their disposal, they would be free to peruse the scroll at will and quickly make its teachings their own.
Over the course of the last two days, Wulfgar and Einar had done exactly that. The calculations that the Heretics had granted the Enseterat gave him the power not only to free his new fleet from the depths, but to summon the majestic beings who would man them. It would be an unparalleled force able to crush the Jin'Sai, his Minions of Day and Night, and the wizards of the Redoubt. But first Wulfgar had to retrieve the ships.
Wulfgar smiled. The clearing sky revealed the three Eutracian moons, their magenta glow shining down upon the ocean. He raised his hands.
Almost at once the sky crackled with azure lighting, and the Isle of the Citadel trembled before the cascades of thunder. Concentrating with all of his might, he caused the water of the bay to burble and roil.
First a ship's crow's nest appeared, breaking through the waves. The tips of several masts soon followed. Then the massive hull and superstructures emerged, their lengths awash with seawater. After more than three centuries, the great vessel finally rose to float again upon the ocean beside its sisters. Wulfgar lowered his hands and stared at the vessel with rapt admiration.
The Black Ships-the most powerful armada that ever commanded the seas.
As the thunder and azure lightning abated, Wulfgar examined the vessel. Even though he had liberated several of them by now, each time another rose from the depths his jaw dropped in wonder.
With ten full masts and spars as thick as several tree trunks combined, the gigantic black frigate was easily quadruple the size of the largest vessels in his failed demonslaver fleet. For a time her hulk rocked dangerously to and fro, as if she were trying to again become accustomed to lying atop the waves. Finally she found her natural balance and settled down, her only motion coinciding with the normal movement of the sea.
The entire ship was an inky black. Moonlight twinkled on the seawater still running off her topsides, hull, and masts. As the Heretics had told him, eight full decks lay within her, and a massive hinged door took up nearly her entire stern. It could be opened and lowered to a safe distance just above the waves-much the way a drawbridge could be lowered from within the walls of a palace. Even the frigate's massive, furled sails were of the darkest black, as were those of the other Black Ships already anchored nearby.
Wulfgar took a moment to rest before attempting to salvage another of the menacing warships.
"Well done, my lord," Einar said from his place near his master's side. "All is nearly in place. Very soon the Jin'Sai will finally taste true defeat, and the world will be yours. I am proud to stand by your side in this greatest of endeavors."
Wulfgar only smiled. As he raised his arms, the moonlit skies began to cry out once more with the coming of the azure lightning and the deafening thunder. The surface of the bay burbled and roiled again, and another massive crow's nest poked through the surface of the waters, searching out its freedom.
CHAPTER XIV
"A little of this, and a little of that, shall make my concoction both potent and fat. When my brew is finally done, the deaths it will cause shall be second to none. Should the fixings be added too slow, or too quick, The potion won't work, nor the healthy go sick. So with patience and care I nimbly proceed, And I now cast this spell, to strengthen the deed!" upon completing the incantation, Reznik lowered his arms and placed his face near the pungent steam that rose from the small pot atop the woodstove. Inhaling the wispy aroma, he smiled.
This batch would prove his finest yet. But before it was ready, it would need another incantation. It would also need a few more ingredients before it could rise to the level of quality demanded by Satine.
Crossing to the other side of his spacious cottage, he took down an amber jar from a shelf.
The jar was filled with Eutracian derma-gnashers that he had painstakingly netted the day before. Although not dangerous, the winged, blue and gold-striped insects were a great nuisance. One bite would produce itching, swelling, and redness that lasted for days.
Back at his worktable, he placed the jar down and, using one of his collection of finely honed cutting instruments, carefully enlarged one of the holes in the perforated seal that stretched tightly across the jar's top. Into the widened ho
le he placed the tip of the small ladies' perfume sprayer that he had purchased secondhand at a local Eutracian fair and gave the spray bulb a quick squeeze. The poison, formulated from one of his personal recipes, worked quickly. The derma-gnashers began to die and fall to the bottom.
One by one he removed them and started to dissect them under a magnifying lens. As was his habit when he was happy with the progress of his work, he began to whistle. Eventually he had what he needed-approximately one teaspoon of runny orange-red venom. He walked the stuff over to the pot and poured it in.
Then he took down a thick volume from a bookshelf. Blowing the dust off its cover, he checked the title: Accelerants and Retardants in the Use of Potions and Poisons. Balancing the massive book in one hand, he thumbed through it with the other. After several moments of searching, he found the page he was looking for.
He went into an adjoining room and contemplated the bottle-lined shelves. There were hundreds of containers here, each one holding a different ground herb, root, or precious oil. He found the oil of encumbrance and returned to the other room.
Looking back to the book, he ran one finger down the page until he found the line he was looking for. Carefully he measured out a portion of the violet oil and added it to the pot one drop at a time.
Reznik took a deep breath. Almost done. By previous agreement with Satine, he was to have a new batch ready every ninety days. He also knew that she would be here within the next couple of hours, for one of the sentries had seen her enter the labyrinth and had sent a runner with the news. Reznik wanted the formula done by the time she arrived. Satine was never one to sit in one place very long. If, for some reason, she was forced to do just that, her mood could markedly change for the worse.
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