Taking a deep breath, Jessamay made up her mind to stay. Someone would come to read the message—of that much she was sure. The only question was how long it might take for Vivian’s contact to arrive. Settling back against the unforgiving bench, Jessamay prepared for what could be a very long wait.
Hoping against hope that she was doing the right thing, she watched Vivian round the next street corner and vanish into the crowd.
TAKING A DEEP BREATH, JESSAMAY SHIFTED HER WEIGHT ON the bench. Two hours had passed and she was beginning to wonder whether she had made the right decision. But there was little she could do about it now.
She was about to go buy a cool drink from one of the street vendors when she saw a man approach the fountain. Dressed in a peasant shirt, dark trousers, and scuffed knee boots, he was unremarkable. He looked around furtively and sat down on the edge of the fountain in the exact spot that Vivian had vacated.
Her interest piqued, Jessamay took a chance and strolled out into the roundabout. She stopped to stand directly behind the man on the opposite side of the fountain. Unless he turned all the way around, chances were he wouldn’t notice her. If she was right about him, he would soon be too engrossed with the craft to bother. And if she wasn’t, then it didn’t matter.
From where she stood she could just see over the edge of the fountain and into the pool of swirling water. At the moment no one else was around. If he’s going to do it, now’s the perfect time, she thought.
As if he were cooling himself, the man casually placed one hand down into the water. Jessamay saw no evidence of azure. As if by its own accord, however, the water in the pool quickly stilled. The man looked down for a few moments and then withdrew his hand. Soon the water moved again. The entire procedure had been smooth and silent, but that hadn’t fooled the experienced sorceress. She had her man and she knew it.
The fellow stood and walked purposefully across the square. Determined not to lose him, she followed. Suddenly he picked up the pace and rounded the next corner. Lengthening her stride, Jessamay went after him.
As she came around the corner, she nearly panicked when she saw that he had a carriage waiting. After shouting something up to the driver, the man climbed in and closed the door after him. The driver cracked his whip and the carriage-of-four charged up the street.
Frantic, Jessamay looked up and down the thoroughfare. Finally she saw a lone carriage about twenty meters up, its three passengers disembarking. She hiked up her skirts and ran to it as fast as she could.
“Take me up the street!” she shouted. “I’m in a great hurry!”
The grizzled driver looked down at her with distaste.
“That was my last fare for the day. I’m off duty. Find yourself another ride.”
“But yours is the only one here!” Jessamay protested. Looking up the street, her heart sank when she saw the other carriage vanishing in the distance.
“I’ll pay you anything!” she shouted. “You simply have to take me!”
“What are you, some kind of a crazy woman?” he shouted back at her. But greed and curiosity got the better of him. “How much ya got, anyway?”
Jessamay conjured high denomination kisa in her pockets as quickly as she could and began literally throwing the money up at him. His eyes grew as big as saucers.
“Get in!” he shouted.
“No!” Jessamay shouted back.
Using the craft to augment her strength, she jumped straight from the ground into the seat alongside the driver. His mouth agape, all the stunned man could do was to look at her.
Narrowing her eyes, she looked up the street again. She could just make out the other carriage rounding a far corner. She ripped the reins and whip away from him.
“I’ll be the one driving!” she shouted. “I used to be pretty good at this, but it’s been a while. I suggest you find something to hang on to!”
Jessamay snapped the whip, and the carriage charged up the street, the bewildered driver holding on for dear life. Keeping a reasonable distance behind the other carriage, Jessamay followed her quarry until it came to an abrupt stop in front of a tavern. When she watched the man jump from his carriage, run across the street, and enter the archery shop there, she knew that this was the place the Conclave had been searching for.
CHAPTER LXVII
_____
FAEGAN LIFTED HIS EYES FROM THE PAGE HE WAS READING and shook his head in wonder. He had been sitting alone in the Archives of the Redoubt for most of last night and all of this morning. The half-eaten remains of the breakfast Shawna had insisted on bringing him rested near one elbow. Nicodemus padded about on the floor, purring and winding his way around the wizard’s useless legs.
Faegan took another sip of tea, only to find that it had gone cold. Narrowing his eyes, he called the craft and heated the brew until it steamed again. This time it felt warm going down. Placing the cup down upon its saucer, he turned his attention back to the handwritten pages.
The book he was studying was Failee’s grimoire. As he had anticipated, it was fascinating. Failee’s elegant script was very stylized and she had written in dark green ink in a handwriting that was difficult to decipher, making the reading slow going. Worse yet, parts of the text were written in a code that Faegan had yet to unravel. But what he had been able to make out so far already had the wheels of his ever-curious mind turning.
The First Wizard, his daughter, and the Jin’Sai would be leaving within the hour. Late last night Faegan had granted Wigg’s blood the calculations that would draw the First Wizard to the Well of the Forestallments, but the two wizards had not spoken since.
As he thought about the odds building against the Conclave, Faegan shook his head tiredly. He would have been far more comfortable about all of this if everyone were staying at the palace. Wigg’s gifts in the craft were second only to his own, and he was sure that the Minions placed far more confidence in the prince than they did in him. He felt a deep need for Celeste to stay so that he could watch over her. But he also knew that Tristan was right. With Celeste accompanying them, they had a much greater chance of saving her life.
It was imperative that they find the Scroll Master. Absolutely nothing could be allowed to interfere with returning Tristan’s blood to normal. Then the Jin’Sai might—somehow—repair the rent in the Orb of the Vigors and, everyone fervently hoped, save Celeste’s life. But succeeding in these trials would be nearly impossible and the wizard knew it. As he looked back down at the grimoire, he couldn’t help but think back to those days before the Sorceresses’ War, when their world was still at peace and their early discoveries in the craft all seemed so wondrous and new.
Wigg and Failee had been married then, and at first they had seemed happy. For a long time Faegan had secretly envied Wigg’s relationship with Failee. Not only was she beautiful, but her intelligence and skill in the craft were nearly without equal. That was why he and Wigg were both so stunned when she began to dabble in the Vagaries and to recruit others to follow her in her new cause.
But her imperfect use of the dark side of the craft had driven her mad. The result had been the Sorceresses’ War, which had nearly torn both the nation and the craft asunder. Two centuries later, the Directorate learned that each blood signature had a discernible lean, and that Failee’s angled far to the left. Such a trait inspired in her not only a desire to practice the Vagaries but a compulsion to do so—probably one beyond her ability to control. Had her crimes not been so heinous, one might even have been compelled to forgive her. We fought hard to survive those dark days, Faegan thought. But how will we survive the ones that lie ahead?
Suddenly he detected the presence of endowed blood. As it approached, he recognized that it belonged to Wigg.
The door swung open to reveal the First Wizard. Like Faegan, he looked tired and drawn. He had been this way ever since learning of Celeste’s impending death. It was almost as
if their lives and health were linked, one unable to survive without the other.
Wigg sat down heavily at the table. When he saw the grimoire, his brow furrowed.
“Shawna told me that I’d find you in the Archives,” he said. “But what I didn’t know was that you’d been laboring all night. What on earth are you trying to accomplish down here, all by yourself?”
Not entirely sure where to begin, Faegan spent the next several minutes outlining his plan. Wigg listened politely, but the more Faegan spoke the more skeptical the First Wizard looked. “What do you think of it?” Faegan asked.
Wigg pursed his lips. “A very interesting notion, I agree. But the first part of your plan is clearly impossible. I don’t know how we could ever accomplish such a thing; we simply don’t possess that much raw power. And as for the second part, you mean to dabble in a discipline of the craft that we really know nothing about. That’s why you’ve locked yourself away here in the Archives, isn’t it? To research Failee’s grimoire and try to discover how she managed to do it. But I needn’t remind you that her work in this field was only half completed. To fully implement your plan, you would also have to first complete her calculations. Who knows how long that might take, even if it’s possible at all! And I’m afraid, my friend, that time is one luxury we don’t have.”
Faegan sighed. “I know. But this seems the only way to proceed. If you have a better idea, I’m certainly willing to listen.”
Wigg shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Nor will I be able to help you in your work—at least not until Tristan, Celeste, and I return from wherever the River of Thought takes us. There’s no telling how far afield we might have to go.”
“Have you tried to employ the additional spell that I imparted into your blood last night?” Faegan asked.
“Yes.”
“And when you activate it, what does it feel like?”
Wigg thought for a moment. “I almost feel as though part of me has become a living, breathing compass. I am inexorably drawn in a certain direction. And although I cannot say for sure, I suspect that the closer I come to the Well, the stronger the feeling will become. I must also remember what Sister Adrian said. If I try to travel too fast, I will overtake the spell and temporarily lose the sensation. But finding the Well quickly is exactly what must be done. Even though we haven’t departed yet, I can’t begin to tell you how maddening this restriction already seems!”
Nodding, Faegan put one hand over Wigg’s. “I can only imagine,” he said. “Tell me. In which direction does the spell bid you?”
“Northwest.”
Faegan scowled. “I needn’t remind you that the ruptured orb lies that way.”
“Of course,” Wigg answered.
Deciding to change the subject, Faegan leaned back and placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. “Has Jessamay returned?” he asked.
“No,” Wigg answered. “But she can take care of herself. She was one of the most powerful sorceresses of the Vigors that we ever knew. We are indeed fortunate to have her back.”
“Are you quite sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about her blood signature,” Faegan replied. “You said that it now has no discernible lean. But what does that mean for us? It would seem to make her more prone to want to practice the Vagaries, would it not? And to what degree? I do not need to tell you how dangerous it would be for such a person to be privy to the Conclave’s plans. In fact, she may already know too much.”
“I’m aware of your concerns,” Wigg answered. “I have personally examined her signature. Since it shows no appreciable lean one way or the other, I am convinced that her past devotion to the Vigors and the basic goodness of her heart will win out. Besides, what other choice do we have? To forbid such a powerful sorceress to help us in this time of need would be inexcusable.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Faegan said.
“When she returns you must make quick use of whatever information she brings you,” Wigg cautioned. “If she has unearthed any link to Wulfgar’s confederates or to the assassin Satine, you must deal with them quickly. But try to take at least one of them alive. The information they might provide could prove priceless.”
As he recalled Geldon and Lionel’s deaths, Faegan’s look became harsh. No one had to remind him about Satine. Only she and the Afterlife knew how many more she had disposed of during the course of her grisly career. And his wizard’s pride was still stung over the way Reznik had outsmarted him at Valrenkium. This is far from over, he thought. But when all is said and done, I will be the one to end it. He looked back to Wigg.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Taking care of them will be my pleasure.”
Wigg gave him a slight smile. “I know,” he said.
Wigg reached out and ran his palm over one of the pages of the grimoire. The dry green ink and the wrinkled parchment felt dead, almost alien to his touch.
“Do you miss her?” Faegan asked.
Withdrawing his hand, Wigg sighed.
“I miss what she once was,” he answered. “But certainly not what she became. For the last three hundred years I have struggled against everything that she believed in. And now here we are, trying to employ her tools to help the Vigors. It’s ironic, to say the least.”
“Indeed,” Faegan answered. “This grimoire is a revelation, Wigg. I am only beginning to understand just how brilliant your late wife really was, and what an impact she has had on us all, right up to this very day.”
Wigg stood abruptly, his face unreadable. “Tristan, Celeste, and the Minions who are to accompany us await me in the courtyard. But before I go, tell me. Are you completely in agreement with our battle plans?”
“Yes. Tyranny’s fleet and what remains of the Minion fleet will guard the coast as best they can. She has been ordered to simply report the appearance of the enemy vessels—though if I know her, she will engage them, even though she has little or no chance against the Black Ships. Once we have learned when and where Wulfgar is about to land, Traax and I will hit him with everything we have. I seriously doubt that it will be enough.”
“And the flask that I brought back from Parthalon,” Wigg said.
“You have it hidden in a safe place? If it fell into the wrong hands, it would be disastrous.”
For the first time that day Faegan managed a slight smile. “Safe and sound, I promise,” he said. “And by the way, I must compliment you. That was excellent thinking on your part. You will tell Tristan and Celeste about my idea?”
“Of course. It’s only right that they be informed. But I must tell you again how slim your chances of success seem to be. Still, if there is anyone who can do it, it is you.”
Faegan reached up to take Wigg’s hand. “Even though I’m coming to see you off, I will say my goodbyes now, old friend,” he said. “May you succeed in all that you are about to do.”
“And you,” Wigg answered.
The First Wizard released Faegan’s hand, turned, and walked out the door. Leaving Failee’s grimoire behind, Faegan followed along. As they traveled in silence back up to the palace, each wizard knew that he would need every bit of luck in the world.
AS TRISTAN WALKED HAND IN HAND WITH CELESTE THROUGH the palace halls, he did his best to conceal his worry. The time enchantments that held her youth in place were clearly decaying at an accelerating rate. Her appearance had noticeably worsened.
When she rose this morning and looked into one of the mirrors in their personal chambers, her eyes had filled with fear. Taking her in his arms, Tristan had done all he could to convince her that they would soon find the Scroll Master, and that everything would be all right. But even to him his words sounded hollow.
Right before his eyes, the beautiful, vivacious woman Tristan loved was literally turning into someone else. Her once red, shining hair
was becoming gray, brittle, and coarse. The crow’s-feet around her eyes had deepened; folds had appeared in the skin of her neck. She was thinner. The brown jerkin and peasant’s blouse she wore hung loosely on her frame, and she carried herself with less power and authority than she once had. Her gift with the azure bolts was fading, as well. It was almost as if she were wasting away from some disease.
In a way that is exactly what is happening, Tristan thought as he walked beside her. She suffers with a disease of the blood—and it is my fault. If we cannot find the Scroll Master in time, I will lose her forever. My heart will never recover.
As they approached the end of the hallway, the two Minion warriors standing guard snapped to attention. Tristan gave them a short nod. One of them quickly opened the paned glass doors, and the Jin’Sai and his new bride walked out into the sunshine of the rear courtyard.
Everything seemed to be ready. A phalanx of fifty warriors waited on the grass, a litter laden with food and water beside them. Ox waited nearby, holding the reins of three saddled horses, one of them Shadow, whom Tristan had brought from Parthalon. When he saw Tristan, the black stallion flung up his head and whinnied impatiently.
The other members of the Conclave and all of the palace gnomes had come to see them off. Tristan did not see Jessamay, and he realized that she must still be on her mission in Tammerland. Shawna stood front and center among the gnomes, Morganna in her arms. As they waited in the sun, each person seemed to display his or her particular brand of concern.
Looking past the litters, Tristan saw the charred remains of the funeral pyres. Smoke still curled lazily into the air, and from where he and Celeste stood they could feel the lingering heat. Turning away, he walked Celeste over to the waiting crowd.
Shailiha was the first to say goodbye. As she approached, Caprice fluttered gently overhead. Shailiha gave her brother and sister-in-law each a kiss on the cheek.
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