After a half hour or so, Faegan abruptly stopped what he was doing and lowered his instrument. Wigg looked up to see that a strange expression had suddenly crossed his friend's face.
"What is it?"
Faegan quickly held up one arm, indicating that he wanted silence. The others looked up to see him suddenly begin wheeling his chair about the room, much the way they themselves might pace about while trying to think. Then he abruptly stopped and quickly swiveled his chair back toward the others. He looked directly at Wigg.
"We have been going about this all wrong," he said.
Wigg raised himself up in his chair. "How so?"
Letting go a great cackle, Faegan happily clapped his palms together. "Don't you see? We've all been thinking in exactly the opposite way we should have been!"
A skeptical look on her face, Abbey leaned over and whispered to Wigg, "What's he blathering about this time?"
"What I'm blathering about, dear lady, is the route to the solution of our problem," Faegan replied happily, his wizard's ears having heard every word.
Wigg folded his arms over his chest. "Pray tell us, then."
"It's all so simple, yet at the same time so complex," Faegan answered. He wheeled himself back to the table. "If any of you commanded the gift of Consummate Recollection, you would understand."
Celeste gave her father a wry look, then turned back to Faegan. "Understand what?"
"We have been searching for references to Tristan's blood," Faegan answered. "At first glance that would seem the correct thing to do. But we were looking for a way to go forward to solve our problem. What we should have been looking for was an act of reversal."
"There are many references to acts of reversal in the Tome," Wigg countered. "The reversal of spells and incantations has long been one of the subdivisions of the craft. There are likely to be as many references to them as there are to anything else-perhaps even more. I understand your line of reasoning, but I fail to see how this will narrow our search."
"All of what you say is true," Faegan agreed. The self-satisfied smile crossed his face again. "But tell me, how many references could there possibly be to the supposed reversal of endowed blood? The Tome states that only the Jin'Sai will ever be able to make use of the craft without first having been trained. And that if and when he does, his blood will turn azure. That has of course already occurred. So it would logically follow that if I use my gift to search for the phrase 'blood reversal,' the Tome will direct us to what we are searching for." His smile surfaced again. "Or at the very least take us much closer."
Wigg rubbed his chin. He had to admit that what Faegan was saying made sense. "Then I suggest you get started," he said.
Faegan nodded. Turning his chair around, he looked over at the black pedestal that held the Tome of the Paragon. He called upon the craft, and the white leather-bound book rose hauntingly from its place. It glided across the room to land before him on the table.
Faegan then looked over at Adrian. "Please take up a quill and parchment," he said, "and write down each of the page numbers as I dictate them. It is vitally important that you leave none of them out. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Adrian said. She carefully dipped the quill into the waiting ink bottle. "I am ready."
Faegan closed his eyes. After a few moments he began to speak haltingly, naming specific volumes and page numbers. When he finished, he opened his eyes. Adrian had recorded six different references.
Faegan eagerly grabbed up the parchment and made a mental note of the numbers. He closed his eyes again. The Tome opened itself, and its pages began turning over until they stopped at the first of Adrian's references. Faegan opened his eyes.
"And now we shall see what we shall see," he said, rubbing his hands together like a schoolboy in a candy shop.
Faegan looked down at the first of the referenced pages. As his eyes ran across them, the words duplicated themselves in gleaming azure and rose into the air. One by one they joined to form paragraphs, the paragraphs forming a completed page.
As the five of them sat there reading the glowing page and the others that followed, they were astounded by what they learned.
CHAPTER XVII
As she neared the exit of the stone labyrinth, Satine could see the natural light streaming in up ahead. She knew that she was going to be all right, but she had never been so exhausted. Her nerves had jangled and her heart had raced for the last two hours. Her face and body were soaked with sweat, her breathing was labored, and her hands shook noticeably. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down.
Somehow she had made the correct decision at each of the twenty deadly intersections, and she would live another day.
Walking her horse out of the square-cut tunnel and into the light, she raised one arm up to block the sun. She squinted, trying to reaccustom her eyes to being outdoors. Though she was about to enter a place that held no attraction for her other than the goods that Reznik provided, her nerves welcomed the change of scene.
After having been on a horse for most of the day, she decided to stretch her legs. She slid from her saddle and walked around to face the gelding. She gave his face a comforting rub. She checked her weapons, took the reins in one hand, and began walking toward Valrenkium, the village of partial adepts.
She stood upon the short rise overlooking the secret town. Coming here was dangerous, the place ugly and distasteful. This particular group of partials were among the most secretive and deadly practitioners of the craft known to man. They called themselves the Corporeals, and for very good reason.
Reznik had told her that "Valrenkium" meant "The Parish of Death" in Old Eutracian. The partial adepts who lived here employed their skills in the organic arts of the craft to produce potions, poisons, and other means of death and mayhem. Supposedly, many of the abominations of the craft that had long plagued Eutracia could be traced back to this place.
To the casual observer, the village appeared to be much like any of the other hamlets scattered across Eutracia. Quaint brick houses stood in neat rows, their windows open. Smoke drifted lazily from their chimneys. Children laughed and played, dogs barked, and chickens ran about in the streets. Vendors sat in stalls displaying their wares. The sounds of a blacksmith's hammer could be heard, pounding out its double clang.
But as Satine drew closer, she saw the gibbets lining the road into town. The curved iron cages, barely big enough for a single prisoner to stand up in, turned slowly in the wind. As she walked by, voices called out to her. Those still possessing enough strength reached out beseechingly from between the iron bands. She lowered her head and continued on.
Other gibbets held those already past help, their bloated and rotting corpses slumped within. They are the lucky ones, she thought.
Captured from the countryside and brought to Valrenkium to die of exposure, many of these prisoners would be taken down only after their dead bodies had aged sufficiently for use. Like a good cheese or a keg of wine, Reznik had said once, laughing. Others were used the moment they arrived; some were allowed to live for a time, depending upon the needs of the Corporeal partial adepts.
Every time Satine visited Valrenkium, her first instinct was to cut the gibbets down and set the prisoners free. But she resisted the urge. Not only would such a move endanger her life, it would also do no good. The entire village was surrounded by the same rocky bluffs through which the tunnel had just led her, and their tops were constantly ringed with archers. She couldn't imagine herself scaling those sheer stone walls, let alone any of the weakened prisoners doing so. Besides, she needed to stay in the Corporeals' good graces, at least through this visit. After today, the whole lot of them could go to the Afterlife, for all she cared.
Most people in Eutracia regarded the rumors about Valrenkium and the Corporeals to be nothing more than myths, grown stronger over time and embellished even further by the return of the Coven of Sorceresses. But Satine knew differently.
Walking deeper into the village,
Satine finally began to hear the screams, and the telltale odor wafted to her nose. Steeling herself, she hurried on to Reznik's cottage. Tying her horse to a rail, she looked around warily before untying the two heavy saddlebags she had brought with her. She slung them over her shoulder and walked to the door, which she opened without knocking. The familiar interior of the cottage yawned before her. She pushed the door closed with one boot.
Reznik was nowhere to be seen. She walked to a nearby table and put the saddlebags down.
The place had changed little since her last visit: a mishmash of tables, beakers, books, scrolls, and other items of the craft. An adjoining room served as the library, its walls lined with overflowing bookcases. Beyond that lay an atrium, the sunlight streaming in through its glass ceiling and down onto the various plants of the craft the herbmaster cultivated. The herbs gave the cottage an earthy smell, belying the cruel work that went on here.
Satine saw the open trapdoor in the center of the floor. She walked over to it and looked down.
Soft light flickered on the wooden steps. The clink of glass could be heard, as well as someone whistling contentedly. As she stood there wondering what to do, cool air wafted up the steps to greet her.
Finally making up her mind, she reached beneath her cloak and placed her palms upon two of her dagger handles. All of her senses alert, she started down.
Satine had never been down here before. In fact, she hadn't known this room existed. The chamber belowground was larger than the house above it. It was cold here-far colder than it should have been for this time of year. Looking around, she could see why.
From floor to ceiling, great blocks of ice were piled up against the walls. They twinkled an icy blue as they caught the light of the numerous table lamps. Still, there was something wrong about it all, she realized. The blocks were not melting. Nor did any water collect upon the dirt floor. Suddenly even colder, Satine pulled her cloak closer.
Reznik sat at a worktable in a far corner of the room. He wore magnifying spectacles and a woolen overcoat. He carefully examined a glass tube full of violet fluid, which Satine recognized immediately.
Hearing her approach, Reznik stopped whistling and looked up.
"Come in, come in!" he said enthusiastically. Uncoiling a little, Satine walked farther into the room.
Reznik came to greet her. After looking her up and down, he smiled.
"I expected you a bit sooner," he said slyly. "The sentry at the entrance to the tunnels sent a runner, telling me that you had finally arrived. It seemed to take you longer than usual to reach my home. There was no difficulty, I trust?"
He was toying with her, she knew. Reznik knew everything that went on in Valrenkium. If this place had a ringleader, it was he. If he hadn't been the one who had erased her marks at the intersections, he would certainly know who had.
But that was all right, she thought. After today she wouldn't need to play this vile bastard's games.
"No trouble," she said confidently. "I just took my time." Wanting to change the subject, she looked around the room. "I've never been down here. What is this place?"
"This is where I store my most precious ingredients," Reznik answered. "I keep it cold in here, so that the goods remain preserved."
Satine grimaced. She wasn't sure she wanted to know more, but her curiosity was getting the best of her. Table after table was covered with fluid-filled jars. Some contained what were clearly human body parts; others held colorful, grotesque items she could not identify.
"You use blocks of ice to accomplish this," she mused, forcing down her revulsion. "But where do you get them this time of the year? And why don't they melt?"
One corner of the herbmaster's mouth came up. "I am a partial adept, remember? My arts are organic in nature. They have to do with things of the earth, sea, and sky. For me, enchanting a few blocks of ice to remain frozen is but a small thing."
Satine looked down at the vial in his hand. "That's mine, isn't it?"
"Yes," he answered. "There are three more just like it. I believe this is the finest batch I have ever produced. I have also formulated a new enhancement for it that I am especially proud of."
She took the vial from him, walked it over to one of the tables, and held it before the light of an oil lamp. As usual, the nearly transparent fluid was a soft violet in color, but this time there were slight overtones of crimson that she had never seen in previous batches.
She didn't know much about Reznik's art, but she was intimately familiar with the formula she always purchased from him because her life depended upon it. That was why she had always insisted upon coming here to collect her goods, rather than buying them from a Valrenkian agent on the street.
She looked back at him. "You incorporated the derma-gnasher venom as usual?" she asked.
"Yes. It was fresh today."
"And the oil of encumbrance?" she asked. "That is vital."
"Of course."
"The organs you used, they came from a fresh, endowed suicide?"
"Yes," Reznik gloated. "I took them and the marrow the same day the body was delivered to me."
"Good," she answered. "You have also enchanted the fluid to immediately dissolve the delivery mechanism?"
"I assume that your methods will remain the same?"
"Yes."
"If that is the case, then you will be pleased," he answered. "As usual, the contents of one of the vials has been sweetened with honey."
Satine held the vial to the light again. She gave it a gentle shake. "What are these crimson clouds I see swirling in there?" she asked. "They were never present in my other purchases." She looked back at him with narrowed eyes. "I don't like surprises, Reznik."
"Ah," he said as he walked closer. He seemed quite pleased with himself. "That is the enhancement I told you of. Those clouds you see are a new form of preservative."
"How does it work?"
Reznik smiled. "Do you remember my once telling you that the bone marrow of a child is always red?"
She nodded.
"The marrow is red until adulthood. Then it turns yellow, signaling the end of its maturation process. The addition of the livelier red marrow will keep the fluid 'active,' so to speak, and it will therefore hold its potency longer. It was something of a breakthrough, if I don't mind saying so. I hope you are pleased."
She was, but she chose not to show it. "And the delivery systems?" she asked.
Reznik reached across the table, took up a small leather case, and handed it to her. She opened it and looked inside. As usual, all seemed to be in order.
"Well done," she said simply. "Is there anything else that I need to know?"
"Only that I wish you good hunting."
He went back to the worktable, gathered the other two vials, and gave them to her. Satine placed the three vials and the leather case into her cloak's specially sewn pockets, then retied the strings. They both turned and walked up the steps to the cottage above.
Satine opened one of the bulging saddlebags on the table. Several gold kisa spilled from it and rattled onto the tabletop. Reznik smiled.
"It's all there, I assume?" he asked politely.
"Of course," Satine answered. She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. She was eager to leave. She wanted to be safely through the sandstone maze by nightfall.
"In that case our business is concluded," Reznik said. He gestured to a pot that sat upon another wood-burning stove. "Unless you would like to join me in a bowl of bone soup?" he offered. "I made it fresh this morning. Some company would be welcome."
Satine felt her stomach turn over. She couldn't imagine eating anything in this place, much less wanting to know what kind of creature the bones had come from.
"Uh, er, no-no, thank you," she answered stiffly. "I need to be going."
"Suit yourself," the herbmaster said. Sitting down, he took up a broad soup ladle. He gave her another look.
"Goodbye, Satine," he said. "Until next time."
"
Goodbye," she answered.
Walking out the door, she climbed upon her gelding and wheeled him around to begin her journey back. She took a final look at the brick cottage that held so many awful secrets.
And good riddance, she thought.
Prodding her horse forward, the Gray Fox began her ride back through the winding streets of Valrenkium.
CHAPTER XVIII
Saddened and angered by what he saw, Tristan walked slowly among the wounded still filling the palace courtyard. The Orb of the Vigors had done this, and it infuriated him to be waiting here rather than taking some kind of action to stop it.
The sun had just started to set over the western wall of the palace. The songbirds had quieted, and the turquoise of the sky had slowly faded into the deeper indigo of evening. The stars and moons would be out soon, and with them would come the comforting chirps of the night creatures.
All about him, torches were lit, their soft glow throwing shadows across the walls and grounds. Minion healers continued to work hard tending the wounded. He had walked by Duvessa only moments ago, and they had nodded to each other. Her white cutter's smock had been covered with blood.
By now, some of the wounded had left their care. Others whose injuries made it impossible for them to travel had stayed behind. To the prince it seemed that the palace still overflowed with them. Tents had been erected for those well enough to sleep outdoors in the courtyard. They gave the entire place the chilling look of a military field hospital. In many ways, he supposed that it was.
He had tried to converse with some of the patients. A few spoke to him, but most only looked up at him in anger and distrust-as though he had somehow trapped them here on purpose. Eventually he gave up and walked on, his head lowered.
He desperately wanted to hear from Geldon, but no word had come. Tristan worried about both the dwarf and Ox. Each had saved his life more than once, and he owed them more than he could ever repay. He couldn't stop wondering where the orb had traveled after its deadly assault on Brook Hollow. Had more of his people been killed?
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