“The other Forestallments that I grant you shall last for only two days,” he said. “Then they will disappear. It has been this way for every Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou I have aided. Your nation is in crisis, and you must make the best possible use of them quickly, before they are no more.”
Tristan walked over to the magnificent sheet of glass and reached out to touch it. It felt smooth and cold, like ice. He turned back to the boy.
“Why would the Ones wish their Forestallments to perish so soon?” he asked.
“Because of the quality of Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou blood,” the boy answered. “The Ones professed that granting a permanent Forestallment to one of you who has not yet been trained would be too dangerous. Should the lean of your blood signature be turned to the Vagaries, for example, the results would be disastrous.”
Tristan closed his eyes for a moment. “As is the case with Wulfgar,” he said.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Now you are beginning to understand. But there is more—much more—regarding your destiny that we do not have the leisure to discuss now. It is time.”
Tristan nodded. “Proceed, then,” he said softly.
“Very well.”
The Scroll Master pointed to the prince. Tristan felt a wizard’s warp envelope him. He still stood but he could not move. Wondering what would happen next, he broke out into a cold sweat.
The boy pointed to the sheet of azure glass. The etchings representing the first of the four spells lifted silently from the glass to hover near the prince’s head. His breath caught as they sparkled above him.
Tristan felt the soft, cool touch of the boy’s palm on his forehead. Then waves of unrelenting pain coursed through him, and he screamed.
CHAPTER LXXXII
_____
FAEGAN SAT IN HIS CHAIR ON THE PALACE ROOF, HIS HEART saddened beyond measure. Jessamay, Shailiha, Abbey, and the remaining acolytes stood by his side. Duvessa, Dax, and a large host of Minion warriors were there as well. Safe in her nursery, Shailiha’s daughter, Morganna, was being tended by the ever-protective Shawna the Short.
Faegan had called the group together because he would need all of their services if his plan were to have any hope of success. But the early optimism he had felt as a result of his research in the Redoubt was dampened by what he saw from the rooftop.
Tammerland was burning
It was well past midnight. The southwestern side of the city was engulfed in flames. The once-beautiful capital had become a raging inferno. Faegan could smell the stink of the polluted river and the smoke that was rapidly filling the sky. The terrible spectacle was almost more than he could bear.
The unexpected speed of the fire would make his group’s task much more difficult—perhaps even impossible. If he underestimated the pace of the fire’s progress, then all of their work would be for naught—as it would be anyway if Tristan and Wigg did not return soon.
The sound of screams alterted him to the fact that the first of the city’s refugees had finally reached the palace. Earlier in the day, Faegan had steeled himself and ordered the drawbridge raised, and every other entrance to the palace closed and guarded. The dark, ominous forms of Minion warriors lined the tops of the palace walls.
Desperate citizens jumped into the moat and tried to scrabble up the palace walls. Minion warriors used their spears to gently but firmly push them back. Still more jumped in, crowding one another in a fury of desperation. Many drowned before Faegan’s eyes.
Tears in her eyes, Shailiha turned to look at the wizard. “Is there nothing you and Jessamay can do to help them?” she asked.
Faegan shook his head. “Nothing. As much as I hate to say it, we are doing exactly what we should right now—that is, preparing to implement the first stage of our plan. I understand your feelings. But you all simply must trust me when I tell you that, this way, far more people will survive.”
Shailiha took the old wizard’s hand. “We all trust you,” she said. “You know that. It’s just so difficult to stand by and watch.”
“I know, Princess,” Faegan answered softly. “I know.”
Turning his chair around, he surveyed the results of his group’s recent labors. Hundreds of closed containers of every size, type, and color covered the rooftop. Several Minion litters sat nearby filled with yet more vessels.
“Do you all understand what it is you are to do?” he asked. They said they did. Faegan nodded.
“Under no circumstances are you to open the containers until you are sure of your surroundings,” he reminded them. “Waste nothing, for your lives may depend upon it. Be sure to use it all. And above all, do not stray far from the palace. If you come too close to the fires, not only might you lose your lives, but all of our good work will go up in smoke. Be as surreptitious in your work as you can.”
Pausing for a moment, he looked at them all with hope. “Go now,” he said.
Faegan and Jessamay watched as the Minion warriors picked up the various containers and took flight, headed for the parts of the city that were still intact. Then Faegan’s group took their places in the litters and the remaining warriors lifted them into the air. In a matter of moments, the wizard and Jessamay were alone on the rooftop.
Faegan watched as the litters grew smaller and smaller, their sides highlighted by the raging orange-red flames. He knew that if the warriors carrying them flew too close to the inferno, the intense updrafts of heat could cause them to crash. But the job had to be done. Even so, for the hundredth time he wondered about the wisdom of his actions.
“Can it really work?” Jessamay asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Faegan sighed. “The theory is sound. But when the craft is involved, there are a hundred ways for something to go wrong—especially when the theory has never been applied. We can only wait and hope.”
CHAPTER LXXXIII
_____
WHEN TRISTAN WOKE, HIS VISION WAS BLURRED, HE ACHED everywhere, and he couldn’t remember why. Then his vision started to clear, and so did his mind.
He was lying on the floor in the center of the Well of Forestallments. His weapons were still with him. He stood slowly, testing his balance. His head swam as his senses returned to normal.
The white marble altar was gone, as was the etched glass tapestry. The Scroll Master stood nearby.
“We succeeded, Jin’Sai,” he said. “You survived the ordeal. Your blood is red once more. It now also holds the three Forestallments the Ones dictated that I grant you. If you like, you may check to see that I am telling the truth.”
Tristan took one of his throwing knives from its sheath, held the blade against the palm of his left hand, and made a small incision. He took a quick breath as he saw that his blood was indeed red again.
Several drops fell to the floor and began to twist and turn into his familiar blood signature. He wiped the knife on his trousers, placed it into its sheath, and bent down to look. Three crooked forestallment branches led away from his signature, rather than the dozens that bristled from it when his blood had been azure. He stood in amazement.
“This cannot be,” he said.
“And why is that?” the boy asked.
“Before now, the red water of the Caves had to be combined with my blood in order for my blood signature to form. The wizards said it was because my blood has not yet been trained. So how can my signature form on its own?”
“The Forestallments that I have granted you,” the boy said, “enliven your blood to the point that the Cave waters are not necessary for your signature to form. Two days from now, when the Forestallments vanish, the Cave waters will again be required. Your blood will be as it was the day you were born.”
The boy pointed to the three Forestallments and explained what powers each would grant the prince, and how to call them forth. Awestruck, Tristan listened intently to every word.
“Ther
e is something else that you must know,” the boy added. “Even though you are the reigning Jin’Sai, and your blood now carries activated Forestallments, you still may not be able to beat Wulfgar. Doing so will take everything you have—perhaps more than you have. You may still fail.”
Tristan’s jaw hardened. “Why?” he asked. “The Forestallments you granted me come from the Ones, do they not?”
“Yes,” the boy answered, “just as Wulfgar’s come from the Heretics. He has had ample time to become proficient with them, and you have not. Be exceedingly careful, Jin’Sai. He means to kill you, and his gifts are strong.”
So are mine, Tristan thought. Then he remembered Celeste. “How much time has gone by?” he demanded.
“Three of your hours have passed,” the Scroll Master said sadly. “I’m afraid it is too late.”
Tristan felt as though a dagger had been plunged into his heart. “What do you mean!” he shouted.
“Come with me,” the boy answered quietly.
The Scroll Master glided over to one of the shelves and pointed. The breath rushed from Tristan’s lungs, and he fell to his knees.
Behind another pane of glass, encapsulated in azure light, was Celeste’s death mask.
Tristan wept, shaking uncontrollably. When he was finally able, he lifted his head again and looked into the face that he so loved.
It was Celeste as he would always remember her—young, lovely, and vibrant. Her eyes were closed, the generous bell of hair falling down over part of her forehead and cheek. The Forestallments she had possessed when she died twinkled in the case just below.
“I am sorry, Jin’Sai,” the boy said quietly. “Had you found me sooner, she might have lived. Even so, I told you she was not your destiny, no matter how much you loved her. I know how much it hurts you to hear this, but the fact that the two of you found each other and married is of minor importance in the forthcoming scheme of your life. In fact, had she lived, you would have gone on to hurt her far more than she might have been able to bear, for you would have been forced to leave her. You are meant for another—another whom you will love with an ardor even greater than you felt for Celeste. It is she who will become your queen and be the mother of your children.”
The boy held out his hand. “Come with me, Jin’Sai,” he said. “We must return to your First Wizard. There is little time to lose.”
Tristan looked at the floor. “So she has turned to ash?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.
“No,” the boy answered. “I have granted her body the ability to hold its earthly form until you can hold her in your arms one more time. But even I cannot do so for much longer. Hold my hand, and I’ll take you to her. Your mind needn’t be stilled as we travel this time, for your blood is strong enough now.”
Tristan took the boy’s hand. The young Scroll Master felt cold and lifeless, like a statue that had been left outside all winter.
“Behold,” the boy said.
The glow of the craft surrounded them. Tristan felt his body lighten, then cease to exist altogether. As the thousands of shelves and the endless hallways flashed before him, all he could think of was Celeste.
“WIGG…” TRISTAN SAID SOFTLY.
The wizard sat cross-legged on the marble floor. Celeste’s head lay in his lap. He did not turn around. As he held his daughter’s lifeless form, his body shook and he sobbed quietly.
Finally he looked up. Tears ran down his face, and for several moments his mouth moved but no sound came from it.
“She’s dead, Tristan,” he finally uttered. “Despite all my powers, I couldn’t save her.”
Tristan walked up to the wizard and placed one hand on his shoulder.
“I know,” he answered. “In the end, I couldn’t save her either. I’m sorry.”
As Wigg pulled Celeste closer, confusion crossed over his face. “I don’t understand why she has not turned to ash.”
“The Scroll Master is preserving her form,” Tristan told him. “But it will not last much longer.”
Wigg looked up at Tristan again. At first he thought that his grief was causing his mind to play tricks on him. But the longer he regarded the prince, the surer he became.
Tristan had changed. The changes were subtle but definite. He seemed slightly older, more mature, and his demeanor was somehow more commanding. There was a slight graying of his hair around the temples, and his dark, penetrating eyes looked even more lustrous than before. Concerned, Wigg tried to put his grief aside for the moment.
“What have you done to him?” he demanded of the Scroll Master.
“Nothing the Jin’Sai did not agree to, and only what the Ones dictated that I do,” the boy said. “All is as it should be.”
Wigg finally eased Celeste’s head and shoulders gently to the floor. As he stood, his knees shook. When he regained his footing, he looked carefully into the prince’s face.
“Are you all right?” he asked with concern.
“Yes,” Tristan answered. “But there is much to tell you.”
Wigg reached into his robe. With a shaking hand he produced an envelope sealed with red wax. As he handed it to Tristan, the prince detected the scent of myrrh.
“This is for you,” Wigg said. “She gave it to me just before she died. In the event that you did not see each other again, she wanted you to have it. She said that you would understand.”
Tristan took the envelope from Wigg. He broke the seal and removed the letter. It read:
My darling,
If you are reading this, my love, then I am dead. As I put quill to paper, it is nighttime at the palace. It is the night we lit Geldon and Lionel’s funeral pyres, and I have come to my chambers to collect my things so that we might be together. There is so much that I want to say to you—and so much that will, of necessity, remain unsaid—but I will try.
You must not feel guilt over my passing. If the Afterlife has claimed me, then it was meant to be and you must accept that. But also know that all that I suffered I would have gladly endured again, if it meant reclaiming even the brief months that we were able to share. They say that lovers can live a lifetime in a matter of days, and you and I proved them right. Please look after Father for me, as I know you will. The two of you will need each other more than ever now.
And, lastly, know that from wherever my spirit shall come to rest, I shall continue to love you. You were the light of my life, and the spark that you lit within my heart shall never die.
Goodbye, my love,
Celeste
As the tears streamed down his face, Tristan handed the letter to Wigg. The First Wizard read it slowly, then placed it back into his robe. Trembling, Tristan looked down at Celeste. The Scroll Master came to stand by him.
“It is almost time,” the boy said. “You must say goodbye to her before it is too late.”
Tristan nodded.
Kneeling, he took her into his arms. She looked even older, her face more wrinkled, her hair whiter than when he last saw her. But to his eyes she seemed as beautiful as ever. He pulled her to him and kissed her cold cheek for the last time.
“Goodbye, my love,” he whispered.
With that her body turned to ash and slipped between his fingers, falling lightly to the floor. He covered his face with his hands, and sobs wracked his body.
After a time he looked down again. Something caught his eye, twinkling in the gray ash. Reaching down, he plucked her wedding ring from the ashes and placed it into his worn leather vest.
“You and your wizard must leave now, Jin’Sai,” the Scroll Master said. “Your destiny awaits you.”
“Her ashes go with me,” Tristan said. As he turned to look at the boy, there was no compromise in his eyes. “I know it is in your power to make it so,” he added.
“As you wish,” the Scroll Master answered.
The boy wav
ed one hand and a golden vase appeared. It settled gently to the floor. Celeste’s ashes collected, whirled into the air, and flew into the vase. The vessel’s top sealed itself. Tristan picked up the vase and cradled it in his arms.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The boy nodded. “Farewell, Jin’Sai,” he said.
Tristan and Wigg heard the door in the wall of the pyramid slide open. Night had fallen. Several surprised warriors—Ox among them—stood there, gaping.
Without looking back, the Jin’Sai and the First Wizard walked through the door and into the night.
CHAPTER LXXXIV
_____
AS CAPTAIN MERRIWHETHER LOOKED OUT OVER TAMMERLAND from the bow of his Black Ship, he couldn’t have been more delighted. It was nearly midday and the sun was high. The captains of the five other Black Ships stood beside him at attention.
Thousands of K’tons had arrived only moments earlier to join Merriwhether’s waiting fleet. They had flown all night to reach him. Their speed had been astonishing; they could certainly outpace any Minion warrior who had ever lived. Their numbers darkened the sky for as far as he could see, and none appeared tired. Satisfied, he raised his spyglass and looked out over Tammerland.
The southwestern sections of the city already lay in ruins. Merriwhether had directed his airborne fleet to swing around and approach the city from the opposite direction in order to avoid the fires. The part of the capital that lay before him was as yet untouched, and he relished the idea of unleashing his servants upon it.
He would march his forces southwest, trapping the royal palace between his army and the raging fires. The flames continued to burn, and Merriwhether could smell the stench even from here.
Only moments before, he had read Wulfgar’s message, brought to him by a drooling K’ton.
Merriwhether:
The creatures that I have sent to you are called K’tons. Until I arrive with more, these are yours to command. When I have concluded my business with the Orb of the Vigors, my K’tons and I will join you, and victory will be ours. In the meanwhile, start at the outskirts of the city and destroy everything in your path as you make your way to the palace. Leave nothing standing; leave nothing alive—except the two wizards and the Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou. Leave them to me. I have scores to settle with them all.
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