Nodding, Tristan took a deep breath. "Tell them we will be there momentarily," he said.
"Very well," Shannon answered.
As the gnome walked away, Tristan shut the door. He looked across the room at the two wizards.
"It's time," he said softy. Then he looked at the demonslaver. "What about him?"
"There's nothing more that he can tell us," Faegan answered. "There is only one thing to do."
He looked at Wigg. "Do you agree?" he asked.
Pursing his lips, Wigg nodded.
"And does the Jin'Sai agree?" Faegan asked.
Tristan nodded. "But make it painless," he commanded. "Not long ago, this bastardization of the craft was a fellow Eutracian."
Wigg shook his head. "I cannot do this in any fashion-painless or otherwise. You're forgetting my vows."
Tristan nodded. He had forgotten the vows that had been made by all the members of the Directorate.
"Faegan," he asked, "will you-"
"Yes," the old wizard answered.
Faegan pointed at the demonslaver, who continued to stand there placidly, his mind still under the First Wizard's control.
There is something very wrong about this, Tristan thought. But he had to admit that there was also something satisfying-even righteous-about it. As he watched, the slaver's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor.
Saying nothing more, the three friends left the room, each aware that their next task would be equally unpleasant.
Tristan quietly shut the door behind them. Tristan, Faegan, and Wigg emerged at the back of the palace. It was a clear night, and the three moons cast their combined glow across the ground. The air smelled clean and sweet, but the prince knew that it wouldn't stay that way for much longer.
By prior order of the Jin'Sai, the wounded had been moved out of the spacious rear courtyards. The other members of the Conclave stood waiting. When Celeste saw Tristan she gave him a sad but encouraging smile. Pursing his lips, he nodded back at her. The rest of the area was filled to overflowing with Minions; more of the winged warriors circled silently in the sky above, their numbers sometimes blotting out the moons.
The Acolytes of the Redoubt were also here, as were all of the palace gnomes. Crude wooden stands had been constructed for the gnomes to stand upon, so that they wouldn't become lost in the massive crowd. The ever-protective Shawna the Short held Morganna close.
A clearing had been preserved in the middle of the courtyard. In its center stood two tall funeral pyres, with a ladder against each. Geldon lay upon one pyre, Lionel upon the other. Around them, hundreds of standing torches had been lit, adding to the sense of solemnity.
The necropsy that had been performed upon Lionel's body had revealed it contained the same substances that Geldon's had: human brain matter, human yellow bone marrow, human red bone marrow, root of gingercrinkle, and oil of encumbrance. The only difference had been that Lionel's blood showed traces of honey, rather than derma-gnasher venom.
It was clear that despite the different ways in which Geldon and Lionel had taken their own lives, they had been poisoned by the same assassin. Every person here-human, Minion, and gnome alike-wanted the killer dead. For Satine, Eutracia was about to become a very small and dangerous place.
Traax walked slowly forward, holding a flaming torch. Going down on bended knee, he handed it expressionlessly up to the Jin'Sai.
Tristan took the torch and turned to face the crowd. The thousands of Minions suddenly went to one knee in the soft, dewy grass.
"We live to serve!" came the thunderous oath, its power so great that it seemed to shake the earth. Lifting his hands, Tristan beckoned them all to stand.
The prince knew that it had long been Minion custom that no eulogy should be given before the traditional lighting of the pyres. Like the Minions themselves, the philosophy behind the ritual was both solemn and simple. A disgraced warrior was never granted honorary immolation. The fact that these two bodies lay upon pyres tacitly told everyone all they needed to know.
Still, as he walked to the pyres Tristan found himself torn about whether to speak. He hadn't known Lionel well, but Geldon had been a close friend. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered the first time he had met the hunchbacked dwarf in the Ghetto of the Shunned in Parthalon. Physically, Geldon had been small. But the goodness of his heart and the quickness of his mind had more than made up for it.
Standing before the pyres, Tristan made his decision and raised the torch. Better to let everyone say goodbye in his or her own way.
Tristan touched the torch first to Geldon's pyre and then to Lionel's. The fire caught quickly, and he lodged the torch in Lionel's pyre before stepping back.
As the flames roared into the night sky, an idea came to him. There is indeed one last thing that we can do to honor you, he thought.
Tristan reached back and drew his dreggan, its curved blade ringing as it slid from its scabbard. Raising it high, he pressed the button on the sword's hilt. With a deadly clang the blade launched forward. Knowing what would happen next, the Jin'Sai kept his weapon high as he looked over his legions.
Thousands of dreggans immediately left their scabbards, the combined ring of their blades filling the courtyard. With one heart, the warriors all triggered their blades, the clang nearly deafening. His jaw set, Tristan looked back to the pyres.
We will find the one who did this to you, he silently swore. And she will pay with her life.
CHAPTER LXIV
Two hours later, Celeste stood at the window of her personal quarters. Despite the sadness of the immolation ceremony, the night still seemed beautiful, peaceful. She silently blessed the fact that her view did not overlook the flaming funeral pyres.
The cool evening wind wafted gently into the room. The stars twinkled down at her as though she were the only person in creation. Normally these things would have given her great pleasure, but not just now. Another wave of awful pain came over her, and she was forced to go sit on the bed.
The first attack had come during the lighting of the pyres. The grinding, exquisite pain felt like thousands of tiny needles stabbing into the very essence of her being. It had lasted only a few moments, but that had been an eternity. As the pain recurred, she had done her best to hide it from the others, and she believed that no one had noticed.
As this latest attack subsided, her hands shook and she was bathed in sweat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed that no one would see her like this-at least not for a while. If these attacks worsened with the progression of her illness, she knew she would not be able to keep them secret for long.
She had told Tristan only part of the truth about why she wanted to visit these rooms. As his new wife, she would take up residence with him in his quarters. She had told him that she needed to come here to collect some of her things. The rest could be delivered by the Minions later, she had said.
Her real reason was that she needed time to think. She was acutely aware of how guilty Tristan already felt about her condition-and how intensely worried he was about all of the other troubles plaguing the nation. She knew that if these attacks continued, soon there would be no way she could keep him from seeing them. Before that day arrived, she wanted to sort things out for herself-especially before she left with Tristan and her father to search for the Scroll Master. Once they departed the palace, she might never have the luxury of another private moment.
Standing on shaky legs, she walked back to the window. An idea had been brewing in her mind ever since she and Tristan had been told about her condition. She was aware that he was trying to be as supportive as he could. But each of them knew that it was what they did not say that somehow always seemed to negate whatever assurances they gave one another. A dark cloud hung over them that could be banished in only one of two ways: if they found the Scroll Master soon and he agreed to help them, or if she were to die.
She went to her writing table and sat down. She selected some paper and carefully dipped the
quill in ink. Pausing for a moment, she gathered her thoughts.
Three false starts lay torn up on the desk before her note was finally finished. Folding the letter, she placed it into an envelope and sealed it with red wax. Almost as an afterthought, she walked the letter to her dresser and she sprinkled it lightly with myrrh. Then she packed the few things that she had told Tristan she had come for and hid the letter among them.
Her belongings in her arms, Celeste looked around the room for what she feared might be the last time. After blowing out the candle on the desk, she left the room, softly closing the door behind her, and walked down the hall to join her new husband.
CHAPTER LXV
"Alms for the blind," the haggard beggar woman pleaded. "Won't someone please spare a few kisa for a poor blind woman?"
Two coins rattled into her cup. Gleefully, she snatched them out. One went into her mouth and she bit down on it. Then she did the same with the other. She smiled.
Feeling for the pocket of her tattered dress, she carefully deposited the two precious disks. Coins had already been stolen from her cup twice today, and she wasn't about to take any more chances.
She reached out again to find the hand of the one who had just been so kind, but whoever that person had been, he or she was gone. Just the same, the old woman thought she should give thanks.
"Bless you," she said to no one in her soft, cracking voice. She resumed feeling her way down the busy street. She moved hunched over, her gray hair hanging in snarled ropes down either side of her face. Her dress was tatters. Her skin was gray; her eyes were sunken and without life. Every now and again she paused to cough raggedly. Then she once again took up the handles of the small, dilapidated handcart that held her meager possessions, and hobbled on.
The new day had broken clear and bright over Tammerland, and Evenger Street was as busy as it always was this time of the morning. Famous all over Tammerland for its bustling farmers' market, Evenger Street would soon fill with tavern owners, cooks, and wives come to haggle over the best selections. The woman knew the prospects for begging should be fair.
The shops here were all stalls, designed to be easily opened in the morning and then closed up again at night. Animals and birds were often slaughtered out in the open. Buckets of pig blood sat about, their contents to be used in the making of sausage. Piles of animal innards often blocked the way, black with flies as they dried in the sun.
The various chickens for sale were usually still alive, trussed up and flapping about noisily. The more valuable Eutracian pheasants resided anxiously in cages atop the stall counters. Upon their purchase they would be removed from their cages and their necks broken for transport home. Smaller creatures, such as rabbits, squirrels, and squab, usually suffered the same fate.
In the continued absence of the Royal Guard, cheating was prevalent. Wine was frequently watered, cheese was soaked in broth to make it look as if it had aged longer, and the flesh of bad fish was sometimes dipped in pig's blood to make it appear fresher. Although the markets on Evenger Street teemed with selections, true bargains were few and far between.
As she passed by the bakery she could smell the warm bread and hear the baker sliding a loaf from the oven with his long-handled wooden paddle. By law, the prices and weights of the loaves were supposed to be fixed, and each baker was required to stamp his loaves with his own seal. Bread was such an important staple that if a baker was found cheating, the citizens occasionally took matters into their own hands. The baker would then appear in the courtyard pillories, one of his underweight loaves firmly tied around his neck as a warning to his peers.
Guessing that cheating a blind person would prove far too tempting for any of these merchants, the beggar woman moved on, taking her growling stomach with her. Instead of soliciting at these stalls, whose proprietors saw many beggars like her, she decided to try her luck on a side street, where she could knock directly on doors. It would be harder for them to say no if she stood in the doorways of their homes, she reasoned.
Her first two solicitations yielded naught but slammed doors. The people behind the third door had been kinder, but they had been able to spare only a single kisa.
Tapping her way to the next door, she reached up to feel its surface. Eutracian custom said that the name of the family house was to be engraved on the doorpost. She ran her dirty fingers over the words and then knocked upon it.
This door opened and a man peered out. "May I help you?"
Staring at nothing, the woman held out her cup. "Alms for the blind?" she asked.
The man simply stared at her for a moment. "This is not an average dwelling," he finally said. "I understand that you are unable to see our sign, but we are not in the custom of giving our money away. I suggest you try the next door down."
The beggar woman thought for a moment. "Are you the master of the house?" she asked.
"No. Please go away."
She held her cup a bit higher. "If only I could speak to the master of the house," she pressed, "then perhaps he might grant me a few tokens of kindness. It is so little to ask."
The man scowled. "As I just told you, this place is not what you think. We never-"
"What is it, Caleb?" a deeper, more commanding voice interrupted. Another man joined the first in the doorway.
"It is only a beggar," Caleb replied. "I was just about to shoo her away."
The second man looked down at the ragged woman. Her gray skin told him that she was quite ill. A look of sympathy crossed his face.
"Let her in," he said. "I will see to her needs. You need to learn how to be more charitable, Caleb. After all, we have plenty to spare."
"As you wish," Caleb answered.
The older man took the woman by one hand and led her into the house, pulling her cart in after her. He led her to a nearby room and closed the door behind them. The simple chamber held little more than a bed and an adjoining washroom. As the man regarded her, he smiled.
"I knew you would come," he said. "But I didn't know when."
Standing up straight for the first time in hours, Satine stretched her back. After putting down her cup and her walking stick, she smiled at Aeolus.
"Thank you for letting me in. I worried that you might not recognize me."
Coming closer, Aeolus kissed one of her dirty cheeks. He beckoned her to a small table, where they both sat and he poured her a glass of water. She drank greedily. He looked her up and down while she emptied the glass.
"Forgive me, child, but are you ill?" he asked.
Smiling, Satine shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Then why is your skin so gray?" he asked. "And what happened to your hair? If I didn't know it was you, I'd truly think that you were at death's door! How did you manage this?"
"I swallowed one of Reznik's potions. It makes you violently ill for a while but the nausea eventually passes. It leaves your skin gray for a couple of days. As for my hair, I ran ash from a fireplace through it." She smiled again. "It is easily washed out."
Aeolus pointed at her pull-cart. "Are those your things?"
She nodded.
"So you need the Serpent and the Sword as a safe house after all," he said. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"
"Not exactly," she answered. "My situation had become more dangerous, but it's nothing I can't handle." She placed one hand atop Aeolus'. "Provided that you'll let me stay here for a while," she added softly.
"Of course," he answered. "You can stay here in this room. That door in the back wall opens into an alleyway. I'll give you a key so that you can come and go as you wish. But I think it would be wise that you do not wander about the school-especially without your disguise. You would surely be recognized."
"What will you tell your students?"
Aeolus smiled. "I'll tell them that I decided to take in a stray. It wouldn't be the first time. By the way, do you have a horse?"
"Yes. He's boarded in a stable not far from here. The fee is paid up for the next two fortnights."
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br /> Taking a deep breath, Aeolus nodded. His expression became grave.
"Have you heard the rumors?" he asked.
Satine shook her head. "I have been trying to speak to others as little as I can."
As he gathered his thoughts, Aeolus poured her another glass of water. "They're saying that a tragedy has befallen the Sippora. The rumor is that the river has been poisoned, and that a dark, superheated mass of some sort is approaching the city. If it reaches us, Tammerland is likely to be destroyed. There are bound to be riots for food and water. Only some act of the craft could cause such a calamity. Do you know anything about it?"
Satine sidestepped the question. "If it was caused by the craft, who do you think might be responsible?"
"I don't know," Aeolus answered. "It is said that the prince hosted a large meeting of townspeople in the palace to explain to them that he, his Minions, and his new Conclave are not the cause of our troubles. It is said that he went so far as to introduce them all personally-even the warrior who is second in command of the winged ones. But few were convinced. The wounds of the citizenry still run deep. Many lost loved ones to the very winged creatures the prince now claims to control."
Pausing for a moment, he looked into her eyes. "Are you still pursuing your sanctions?" he asked. Satine nodded.
"During your previous visit you told me that these were to be political killings," he added. "Is that still the case?"
"Yes. But please do not ask me again to desist in this matter, master," she said. "You may not like what I do, but I am a professional. Once I accept a sanction, I always follow it through."
His expression softening, Aeolus took both of her hands into his.
"You must hear me out on this," he said. "During his meeting with the citizens, the prince spoke of a great orb that rained destruction down upon the land. He also said that he and his Conclave did not create it. He claims that he and the princess have a half brother who is the real culprit."
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