Down on the ground and slightly ahead of the flying Minion cohort, Wigg led the way on Shadow.
Tristan cursed softly. He hated traveling so slowly—especially when every moment was so important to Celeste. He knew that Wigg felt the same way, but what else could they do? Every time Wigg tried to charge ahead, he lost the spell—only to have it return when he slowed. It was an agonizingly frustrating way to travel.
His thoughts again found their way back to Satine. She had perhaps been the best adversary he had ever faced, and he knew that he was lucky to be alive. On their way from the camp, he had seen the simple stone marker that Wigg had erected at her fresh grave. He had used the craft to inscribe the single word “Satine” into its face, along with the date of her death. It was all that they really knew about her. Who was she, and who trained her so well? the prince wondered. He would probably never know.
Below, Wigg brought Shadow to an abrupt stop. For several moments the wizard did not move. Then he looked up and waved the warriors down.
Tristan’s heart fell. The sun was setting, and the wizard had chosen this spot to camp for the night. This was the only reason they could be stopping—because there was nothing but grasslands for as far as the eye could see.
He looked down at Celeste as they descended, and closed his eyes against the pain he felt for her.
The Minions and their litters landed. Celeste stirred and sat up. Running one hand back through her hair, she blinked. Tristan helped her from the litter, and they walked over to Wigg. Her gait was even slower now, her limp more noticeable.
The wizard dismounted, handing Shadow’s reins to a waiting warrior. He looked perplexed.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
At first Wigg did not answer. He simply stared out over the vast grasslands as if searching for something.
“I’ve lost it,” he said softly.
“Lost what?” Celeste asked.
“The River of Thought,” Wigg answered. “Its pull upon me has vanished.”
“But how can that be?” Tristan protested. “You weren’t traveling fast enough to lose the spell.”
Wigg sighed. “There can be only two explanations,” he said. “The first is that the spell has been broken somehow—which would mean that we may never find the place we are searching for.”
“And the other answer?” Tristan asked.
“The other possibility is that we have arrived, and the pull from the River of Thought is no longer required.”
Tristan looked around. All he could see was waving grass.
“But how could this be the place?” he asked. “There’s nothing here.”
Wigg was about to answer when they all heard a rumbling. Almost simultaneously, the ground began to shake. Shadow and the other horse reared up and whinnied in fear. As they looked around, the warriors of the Minion cohort automatically drew their blades.
The rumbling sound grew louder and the earth shook more violently, making it difficult to remain standing. Tristan was about to order everyone into the air when he saw a pinprick of azure light form in the grass. He pointed it out to Wigg and Celeste. As the light grew in size and intensity, everyone stepped back.
Something emerged from the ground. At first they could see only azure light, but then another form started to take shape. It was like an arrow, with four sides extending down from its pinnacle. On and on it came, thundering up from the soil and tearing fresh sod loose as it grew. Its azure light was nearly blinding. Then it came to a halt. The rumbling sound died away, and the ground stilled once more.
Tristan gazed at it in amazement. A shimmering azure pyramid stood before him, its smooth shiny sides reflecting the dwindling daylight.
“I think it’s safe to say that we have arrived,” Wigg said softly.
Tristan was about to answer when a brilliant white door appeared in the pyramid’s wall. The door slowly moved to one side, and a soft blue light spilled out over the threshold and onto the grass. Tristan looked over at Ox.
“Make camp here,” he ordered. “Wigg, Celeste, and I are going inside. There is no telling how long we might be gone—or whether we will return. Under no circumstances are you or any of your warriors to follow us inside. You will simply have to wait for our return. Do you understand?”
Ox’s face fell, but he knew his duty. “I live to serve,” came the standard reply. “Luck with you.”
Tristan looked over at Wigg and Celeste and they nodded back. He took each of them by the hand, and together they walked into the magnificent structure.
AFTER SEVERAL STEPS, BY SILENT, MUTUAL AGREEMENT THE three of them stopped, breath held, eyes wide with wonder. The inside of the structure was far larger than its outside had led them to believe. Stunned, Tristan looked over at Wigg.
“How can this be?” he asked.
“Nothing is impossible within the purview of the craft,” Wigg answered. “But I must admit that this comes close.”
They stood in the middle of a huge foyer that branched off into several seemingly endless halls. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all constructed of what looked like azure glass. Soft light of the same color illuminated the place, radiating from everywhere, yet originating from nowhere. The only other color was a bloodred image of the Paragon, inlaid in the center of the floor. Silence reigned.
“What do we do now?” Celeste asked at last. Her voice, brittle and dry, echoed down the halls. Tristan took her withered hand.
“There can be only one answer,” Wigg said. “We pick a hallway and begin walking. It seems to me that—”
He stopped in midsentence.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
Eyes glued dead ahead, Wigg pointed. “Look,” he said.
Another pinprick of azure light was forming in the air. As it grew in intensity it spun, and a form started to take shape in its midst. The form grew longer and wider until it was clearly identifiable as a boy. He glowed softly with the color of the craft. Tristan guessed him to be no more than nine or ten Seasons of New Life.
His hair was dark, his eyes were large and expressive. Completely naked, he stood there before them without shame.
Staring, Tristan realized that he could actually see through the boy, as if the boy was made of azure fog. It was like looking at a ghost. Perhaps that is exactly what he is, the prince thought. Suddenly the apparition knelt.
Not knowing what to do, Tristan looked over at Wigg and then back at the boy. “You may rise,” he said awkwardly.
“So it is true after all,” the boy said. “The Jin’Sai really is of this world. That must mean that the Jin’Saiou—she who was prophesied to be your twin sister—must now also have mortal form. Is that not true?”
“Yes,” Tristan answered simply. “But how could you know?”
The boy pointed to Tristan’s wound. “The dried azure blood on your vest. It is said that the true Jin’Sai or the Jin’Saiou might possess such blood.” He paused. “So you have come to me at last.”
He looked at Wigg. “It is also said that the watchwoman of the Chambers of Penitence recently oversaw the requisite trials of an ancient wizard who wore the Paragon. And that as a result of his trials, she provided his friend with herbs and oils that would help them in their struggle against the Vagaries. It was the reenactment of your greatest regrets that she oversaw, was it not?” he asked.
Stunned, for a moment Wigg couldn’t find his voice. His time in the Chamber of Penitence was not long past, and it had taken all his strength to survive his experience there. Finally he spoke.
“That is correct,” he answered. “But how did you know?”
“First of all, you wear the stone,” the boy answered. “It was the nearness of the stone that alerted me to your presence and activated the structure in which you now stand. And, secondly, the watchwoman and I serve the same masters. We have done so for aeo
ns. They see all.”
“The Ones Who Came Before,” Wigg said.
“Yes.”
“But you are so young,” Tristan said. “If what you say is true, then how is that possible?”
“I am aeons old, but for your benefit I have taken a form that your minds could understand and that you would find pleasing,” the boy said. “But if this form doesn’t suit you, I can take on another appearance.
“It is my task to watch over this place, this wonder left behind by the Ones. It is also my duty to serve those who come here bearing the stone and wishing to serve only the Vigors.
“There is far more history about our land and the craft than you know. Many others who have worn the stone have visited here, long before you. I helped them as well. Even so, our struggle against the Vagaries seems to know no end.”
“Are you the one known as the Scroll Master?” Tristan asked.
The boy smiled. “Yes, among other things.”
“And what is this place?” Wigg asked. “Is this the Well of Forestallments?”
“Yes,” the boy answered. “But as is true with so many other wonders of this world, it too has another name, and another purpose.”
“And what is that?” Celeste asked. Her voice was faint, and she clung weakly to Tristan’s arm. The prince held her close.
“It is also known as the Abyss of Lost Souls.”
“I don’t understand,” Wigg said.
“The craft is a vast universe, of which you have charted but a little,” the boy said. “But you will understand far more by the time you leave here.”
The boy gave Celeste a puzzled look. Gliding closer, he examined her, then looked at Wigg again.
“She is of your seed,” he said. “And she is dying. What is left of her blood signature is vanishing as we speak.”
“That is true,” Wigg answered anxiously. “But how could you—”
“And you, Jin’Sai,” the boy said, interrupting the wizard. “I see your blood at work there. Did you not know that a union between your blood and hers would result in such a tragedy? Did your wizards not inform you of this? The warning was clearly illustrated in the Scrolls of the Ancients. Is this why you have come to me—to try to save the life of this woman?”
“Yes,” Tristan answered. “But we have other reasons for searching you out, as well. The Orb of the Vigors has been wounded and it is bleeding. It wreaks havoc across the land. The Enseterat—my half brother—is returning to Eutracia to oversee its death throes. The Tome states that only the Jin’Sai or the Jin’Saiou might be able to heal the orb, but only after being granted the proper Forestallment. That Forestallment can supposedly be found in the scrolls, but we had no time to search them out. So we chose to find you instead.”
“Tristan, my love…” Celeste suddenly whispered.
Finally overcome with weakness, she fainted. Struggling against the pain in his shoulder, Tristan caught her and he lifted her into his arms.
Wigg rushed over. Lifting one of her eyelids, he looked into her eye. What he saw there turned his face ashen. He shook his head.
“She’s nearly gone,” he breathed.
As tears of desperation welled up in Tristan’s eyes, he looked at the boy.
“Can you help us?” he pleaded.
The boy nodded. “You were right to search me out, Jin’Sai,” he said.
“I will do what I can. I know that you love her. But if the Enseterat has been loosed upon the world, the task before us has suddenly become far greater than the saving of a single life, no matter how dear she may be to you. Follow me.”
With Celeste in his arms and Wigg by his side, Tristan followed the boy down one of the endless hallways.
CHAPTER LXXVI
_____
THE OUTSKIRTS OF TAMMERLAND WERE IN FLAMES, AND Shailiha, Tyranny, Adrian, and Duvessa watched, aghast, from the Minion litter that hovered in the smoky, stinking air. Eight stout warriors bore their litter and another fifty flew guard alongside.
When the first Minion reports of the fires had come in, Faegan had ordered the women to go and investigate. Still consumed by their research, he and Jessamay remained ensconced in the Redoubt. But this time the women did not argue when Faegan told them that he and the sorceress must stay behind.
The black, stinking mass that had polluted the Sippora had finally reached the outskirts of the city and the damage it was causing was extraordinary.
For centuries, the Sippora had wound though the heart of the city the same way a major artery traversed the human body—and it was just as important. Although not suitable for drinking, its water was essential for washing, for use in many of Tammerland’s hundreds of trades, and for the transportation of goods. Homes and businesses lined both sides of its banks. Many of the structures were wood. Most were old and dried out. It often seemed that little more than a stiff wind would send them tumbling into the water. They were simply no match for the superheated “waters” of the polluted Sippora.
Anyone foolish enough to try to save his or her home or business was quickly consumed. Scorched bodies lay at contorted angles on the banks; survivors screamed and ran for their lives. Even from where they hovered above the holocaust, Faegan’s observers could smell the sickly sweet odor of burning flesh—both animal and human.
Shailiha lowered her head and closed her eyes. Tyranny put one arm around her shoulder. Tristan, Wigg, where are you? the princess found herself wondering. We need you now!
“Look there!” Adrian shouted. She pointed northeast, toward the heart of the city. Shailiha shifted her gaze to peer through the drifting smoke.
A crushing mass of humanity was fleeing the firestorm. Although some moved north or south to avoid the river altogether, the vast majority were running down the streets and byways alongside the river, carrying as many personal effects as they could bear.
But that will only take them deeper into the city and make things worse! Shailiha realized. Can’t they see that? What in the name of the Afterlife do they think they’re doing?
And then she understood. The terrified citizens were struggling to get to the royal palace, where they thought they might find safety, medical care, and food.
Shailiha’s blood ran cold. The palace and its grounds were still crowded with the wounded who had first sought sanctuary from the rampaging Orb of the Vigors. She doubted that many more would fit—certainly not as many as were approaching its gates.
Shailiha looked over at the other women to see their sad faces turned toward hers—as though she might have some solution simply because she was of the royal house. She thought she understood now how Wigg and Faegan felt every time they were turned to for answers simply because they were wizards.
Wulfgar started this all, she thought. But now we are doing these things to ourselves. Can’t the people down there see that? What is to become of us?
Leaning out of the litter, Shailiha caught the attention of the warrior commanding her group. “Take us back to the palace!” she shouted. “And hurry!”
With a nod, the warrior barked out orders and the litter turned for home.
“DRINK THIS,” ABBEY SAID.
She handed the heady concoction to Jessamay, who was again seated in the familiar chair, surrounded by Faegan’s azure wizard’s warp. He relaxed the warp just enough for her to use her hands. She took the silver goblet.
A dense, greenish fog rose up and brimmed over the cup’s lip to settle on the nearby floor and thread its way around Jessamay’s feet. She glanced at the cup with no small degree of trepidation.
“How is it different this time?” she asked.
Abbey smiled. “We have added ground root of cat’s claw, and a touch of widow-winkle,” she answered. “It is the combination of the two that produces the sage fog. We have further refined the calculations taken from Failee’s grimoire, and they led us t
o this particular combination of herbs.” Her face became more serious. “How are you feeling? Are you sure that you have enough strength for another try?”
“Indeed,” Faegan added from his chair on wheels. “I would prefer not to wait, but we could pause for a few hours if you wish.”
Jessamay shook her head. “Time is precious,” she answered. “You have both said so yourselves. And you can be assured that Wulfgar isn’t resting as he travels toward the pass in the mountains. No, we must keep trying, no matter the cost.”
It was evening in Eutracia, and Faegan and Jessamay had been at their work the entire day. Abbey had joined them, to contribute her knowledge of herbs. Everyone in the room was close to exhaustion, especially the sorceress.
Faegan felt sure that they were getting close to reversing Failee’s work and moving the lean of Jessamay’s blood signature back toward the right. They had made dozens of attempts, each bringing them a little closer to their goal, but it was maddeningly slow work.
Faegan also knew that it might take far longer to achieve their goal than they could afford—especially if Shailiha’s impending report was as bad as he feared it might be. Worse yet, even if they succeeded in their efforts, it was imperative that Wigg and Tristan return home in time to help implement the rest of the plan.
He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, willing Wigg and Tristan to succeed. Without them, and without the prince’s blood returned to its natural state, the Vigors would be doomed. He looked back at Jessamay.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Taking a deep breath, Jessamay nodded.
“Begin,” he said.
As Abbey watched, Jessamay drank the potion and Faegan applied his most recent calculations upon her. At first the wizard could discern no difference from his previous attempts. But then things started to change.
Jessamay’s eyes rolled back up into her head, and she convulsed with such force that Faegan found it necessary to enhance his warp. As Jessamay screamed in pain, her chair rose into the air. Despite his best efforts, Faegan found that he could no longer control it. As if it suddenly had a will of its own, the chair took the sorceress higher and flew manically around the room.
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