After the incident at the ball, Shailiha had quickly ordered the Acolytes of the Redoubt and Duvessa’s warrior-healers to tend to the injured ball guests. She had then commanded Traax to immediately take a flying phalanx of warriors to the azure pass, to see whether Xanthus and Tristan might arrive there.
The remaining Conclave members were in agreement that the pass was where Xanthus had probably entered Eutracia. Shailiha had her doubts about whether the warriors could stop the Darkling from taking Tristan back through it, but they had to try. Following Xanthus was impossible, because he had vanished, taking Tristan with him. Stopping him at the pass was their last, best chance.
Faegan groaned, and Wigg reached down to place a gnarled hand on his friend’s forehead. After a time Wigg removed his hand. He looked at Jessamay.
“His fever has returned,” Wigg said gravely. “When it broke earlier, I had hoped it was for good. But he grows weaker by the moment.”
Faegan moaned again and started thrashing about like he was in the midst of some awful nightmare. Wigg and Jessamay had seen this several times during the last three hours. Clearly, there was more going on than Faegan’s struggle to survive.
Wigg lifted the covers and looked at Faegan’s mangled legs. After being captured by the Coven during the Sorceresses’ War, Faegan had been tortured for days. Failee had ordered that his legs be shredded by the craft until their muscles, nerves, and blood vessels lay exposed down their entire lengths. Since then they had been useless to him, causing exquisite, never-ending pain.
One wasn’t often reminded of Faegan’s legs, because his robe always hid them. Faegan had been able to overcome some of the pain by using the craft to partition it away in his mind. It was a constant struggle, and one that he sometimes lost. He had tried for the last three centuries to formulate a spell that might heal them. But even his great intellect had failed to unravel Failee’s particular brand of wickedness.
Faegan cried out again, louder this time. With tears in his eyes, Wigg looked over at Jessamay. They each knew why the crippled wizard was suffering so. Unconscious and on death’s door, Faegan’s mind had lost its ability to control his leg pain.
After lowering the covers, Wigg again leaned down to put a hand on Faegan’s forehead. The injured wizard soon calmed, which told Wigg that his spell was taking hold. Sighing, Wigg stood upright.
“This is the third time I have had to assuage his agony,” Wigg said worriedly. “I fully understand that he is weak and fighting for his life. But my spells should be longer lasting. I was not affected during Xanthus’ attack. Therefore, any spell that I conjure should sustain itself until I choose to end it. But each of my pain-cessation charms has mysteriously withered away. As they die, I can literally feel them slipping from my grasp. I can already sense the new one starting to erode, and I have never seen its like. It is almost like my spells are somehow being crowded out.”
Wigg looked toward the room’s far side. Still dressed in their ball gowns, Shailiha and Tyranny were talking worriedly and drinking wine. Tyranny anxiously smoked one cigarillo after the next while she paced around the room like a caged tigress. Wigg was about to admonish her, then thought better of it; everyone worries in his or her own way.
Wigg’s immediate concern was to help Faegan regain consciousness. When struck by a craft bolt, the victim often died outright. If one wasn’t killed, the main threat became withering bodily functions, because of the massive energy that had surged through the organs and nervous system. The secondary issue was skin burns. In many ways, it was like being struck by lightning. The longer the unconscious state persisted, the less the chance for recovery.
Faegan’s torso had been badly burned. Luckily, his face had been spared. Wigg had treated the burns. Provided Faegan lived, they would heal.
But the First Wizard was at a loss about how to strengthen Faegan’s fading life force. Wigg had tried everything he knew to buttress it. Even so, Faegan’s heartbeat, breathing, and brain activity had all fallen to critical levels, and they were sinking ever lower. If they became further depressed, death would be inevitable. Hoping that a potion might halt the downward spiral, Wigg had ordered Abbey and Adrian to rush to Faegan’s herb cubiculum, to see what they might come up with.
Leaving Jessamay to watch over Faegan, Wigg walked over to Shailiha and Tyranny. The look on his face was discouraging. He poured himself a glassful of wine.
Tyranny finally stopped pacing. Blowing smoke from her nostrils, she tossed her spent cigarillo into the fireplace. She gave the First Wizard a hard look.
“Will he live?” she asked.
Wigg took a long slug of wine, then shook his head. “Only if Abbey and Adrian can come up with something unprecedented,” he answered. “His heartbeat is almost nonexistent, and his lungs barely rise and fall. It might be only a matter of time.”
Jessamay walked over to join them. There was obviously something on her mind.
“What is it?” Wigg asked anxiously.
“I have an idea,” she said.
Wigg put down his wineglass. “What is it?”
Jessamay pointed to the cluttered desk sitting in the corner. “A blood criterion and a signature scope sit over there,” she said. “I believe we should examine his blood. It can’t hurt.”
Wigg scowled. He was willing to do anything to help Faegan, but he failed to see how Jessamay’s suggestion would help.
“We can,” he answered, “but it won’t tell us anything. You know as well as I that blood signatures always look the same, whether the subject is ill or not. So what do you hope to learn?”
“I have no idea,” Jessamay answered. “That’s why I believe we should do it.”
“Very well,” Wigg answered. “As you say, it can’t make things worse.”
He turned to Tyranny and Shailiha. “Fetch me some blank parchment,” he said. “Then clear the desk, except for the criterion and the scope.”
Eager to contribute, the women hurried to the desk. Shailiha shuffled through the drawers while Tyranny cleared off the desktop. Holding up a clean parchment sheet, Shailiha looked over at Wigg.
“We’re ready,” she said.
“Place the parchment on the desktop,” he said. Shailiha did as he asked.
Wigg walked back over to the bed. Faegan remained calm, but Wigg knew it wouldn’t last. Reaching down, he lifted Faegan’s hand. The First Wizard summoned the craft.
A short incision formed in Faegan’s palm. Liberating one blood drop, Wigg caused it to hover in the air. The wound closed. With a short wave, Wigg sent the blood across the room to land on the thirsty parchment.
Wigg went to the desk and sat down. He drew the scope nearer and positioned the parchment beneath it. When he was satisfied, he stared down through the lens.
He adjusted the scope over the paper until the wire crosshairs embedded in its lens split the signature into four perfect quadrants. As expected, the scope showed Faegan’s blood signature leaning far rightward. The curved lines forming half of the signature came from his mother. The other half, containing straight lines and sharp angles, was from his father.
Wigg sighed. “It’s just as I expected,” he said as he continued to read the signature. “His recent trauma is not evidenced here. Perhaps the criterion will tell us something, but I doubt it. Either way, I-”
Wigg suddenly stopped speaking. His mouth fell open.
“What is it?” Jessamay asked.
Wigg quickly raised one hand, demanding silence. The three curious women crowded nearer. After a time, Wigg lifted his face.
“I beg the Afterlife…,” he whispered.
“What is it?” Jessamay asked.
Wigg stood from the chair. “Look for yourself,” he said. “Please tell me I’m dreaming.”
Taking a seat, Jessamay looked down through the lens. At first she noticed nothing unusual. Then she saw the source of Wigg’s amazement. Confused, she looked up at him.
“How is this possible?” she asked. “Yo
u told me that neither your signature nor Faegan’s carried Forestallments.”
Wigg stared into Jessamay’s eyes. “That’s right!” he answered. “At least not until now!”
Wigg caused a small incision to open in his hand. A blood drop lifted from it to land on the parchment. Sitting down, he quickly repositioned the scope, then looked through the lens. Anxious moments passed. Finding himself at a loss to explain things, he slumped back in the chair.
“As expected, my blood carries no Forestallments,” he whispered.
“I don’t understand,” Shailiha said. “When did Faegan grant himself a Forestallment?”
“Don’t you see?” Wigg answered. “He didn’t!”
“How can you be so sure?” the princess asked. “He’s forever tinkering around down here. Maybe one day he-”
“No, no!” Wigg interrupted. “Don’t you see? He couldn’t possibly have done this!”
“Why not?” Tyranny asked.
Jessamay looked at the two women with knowing eyes. “The answer is simple,” she said. “We don’t know how.”
“She’s right.” Wigg said. “We have the Scroll of the Vigors, but we do not know how to imbue its Forestallment formulas into one’s blood.”
“Then how did Wulfgar come by them?” Tyranny asked.
“There can be only one answer,” Wigg said. “Someone at the Citadel possesses the needed skill. How he or she learned is another matter.”
Wigg turned to look at Faegan. He was grateful to see that the crippled wizard was still calm. He looked back at the three women.
“You haven’t grasped the larger question, have you?” he asked.
“I have,” Jessamay said quietly. Worry showed on her face. “Who granted the Forestallment to Faegan’s blood?” she asked.
“Who indeed?” Wigg said. “There can be only one answer.”
Shailiha suddenly understood. A look of astonishment overcame her face.
“Xanthus,” she breathed, scarcely believing it herself. “But how-when?”
“I believe the Forestallment was granted to Faegan’s blood when Xanthus attacked him,” Wigg answered. “The Darkling’s bolt carried the calculations. When the bolt’s energy shocked Faegan’s system, the Forestallment calculations entered his blood. Faegan gave Xanthus the perfect justification to do this when he attacked him. Remember, Xanthus said that his powers came directly from the Heretics. Is it so difficult to imagine that the Darkling could do such a thing? Before he went with Xanthus, Tristan wisely deduced that it had not been Xanthus’ intention to kill Faegan, because the bolt struck his chair, rather than Faegan’s person. Xanthus’ attainment ofK’Shari supposedly means that he never misses his intended mark. Xanthus left Faegan alive on purpose, so that he might carry the Forestallment.”
“By imparting the spell into Faegan’s blood that way, the Darkling intended us to discover it later,” Shailiha mused. “He wanted us to find it during our efforts to heal him. But something doesn’t figure. Why would Xanthus bother to grant Faegan a Forestallment, when he must have also known that the bolt carrying it might kill him?”
“There might have been no choice,” Wigg said thoughtfully. “It could have had something to do with the high power requirements needed to perform both acts simultaneously. In doing so, Xanthus took the chance that Faegan would survive.”
Wigg looked back over at his injured friend. “If Faegan dies, his blood signature will also die. We might never know what this Forestallment does.”
When Wigg looked back at the three women, there were tears in his eyes again.
“What I am about to tell you will be shocking,” he added softly, “but it needs to be said. I will do everything in my power to save him-you know that. But if he dies, it might be for the best.”
Shailiha was immediately outraged. “What are you talking about?” she shouted. “Have you suddenly gone mad? The man lying in that bed is your greatest friend!”
“Of course he is,” Wigg answered calmly. “But you’re forgetting something. Xanthus is a Vagaries servant, sent here by the Heretics. He said so himself. After hearing that, do you really believe that Faegan’s new Forestallment is something benevolent? Why else would Xanthus do such a thing, if not to advance the Heretics’ cause? I humbly submit that you’re wrong, Princess. I agree that Xanthus wants Faegan to live. But he wasn’t hoping that we’d find the Forestallment. Instead, he was hoping that wewouldn’t. ”
“Why?” Tyranny asked.
Jessamay turned to look at the three others. Her face had gone white.
“So that he might create an enemy in our midst,” she whispered. “The new Forestallment carries several branches. Even now one might be slowly altering Faegan’s signature to the left. Just imagine-a wizard with Faegan’s power, secretly controlled by the Vagaries and possessing Forestallments we know nothing about. He could destroy everyone before we knew what hit us.”
Stunned, Shailiha looked back over at the injured wizard. She couldn’t imagine Faegan as an adversary. But she had to respect the possibility. Until Tristan came home, the hard decisions would be hers. She suddenly felt the world lying heavily on her shoulders, but she adamantly resolved to take up where Tristan had left off. She looked sternly into Wigg’s eyes.
“Despite his blood, Faegan is still one of us,” she said. “We will make every effort to heal him. If he dies, he dies. There may be nothing we can do about that. If he lives, we will watch him closely. I want his blood signature examined every few hours. If any changes are detected, we will deal with them then.”
Wigg found himself smiling at her. Shailiha had made the wise and moral choice. In the world of the craft, that was not often a simple thing.
“Well done,” he said.
Just then the doors opened. Everyone turned to see Sister Adrian and the herbmistress Abbey standing there. They were both out of breath from hurrying. Abbey held a dark-colored vial in her hands.
The women scurried across the room. Abbey gently passed the vial to Wigg.
“We did the best we could under the circumstances,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Adrian and I put every type of stimulant into it that we could find. In fact, I worry that it might betoo potent. If Faegan’s heart has been damaged, he might not survive it. Then again, if the potion isn’t strong enough, it won’t work. Time is running out. If this doesn’t succeed, we won’t have the luxury of another chance.”
Wigg walked the vial to the other side of the room. Jessamay followed him. As he held it to the firelight, they examined it closely. Like they had a life of their own, the potion’s violet undertones moved about on their own accord. Wigg removed the vial’s top, then cautiously sniffed its contents. Recoiling smartly, he scowled. He quickly shoved the stopper back into place. Looking back at Abbey, he was almost afraid to ask.
“What on earth did you put in here?” he demanded. “It smells awful!”
“The best of the best,” Adrian answered. “We used crushed nether root, oil of ground black adder, and dried patchouli leaf, to name a few. They’re all very strong stimulants. A single taste in these combined dosages might keep you awake for a week. Patchouli is especially noted for strengthening the heartbeat. But the resulting mixture tended to thicken. So we added some Slippery John blossom, to make sure that the mixture wouldn’t morph from its liquid state into a colloidal suspension. That’s what makes it move on its own. The liquid form will be far easier to digest, resulting in greater effectiveness.”
Adrian suddenly blushed. “The Slippery John blossom was my idea,” she added softly.
“And a good one,” Abbey said.
“You must hurry, my love,” Abbey warned Wigg. “Given its volatile nature, this bastard concoction of ours may have a brief shelf life.”
Wigg looked tentatively at Jessamay. She thought for a moment, then nodded her concurrence.
“I agree,” she said. “It seems we have no other choice.”
Just then they heard Faegan moan and
start thrashing about again. It was clear that Wigg’s charms were wearing off.
Wigg looked at Jessamay. “I will need your help,” he said.
“Of course,” she answered.
They hurried to the bedside. Faegan’s convulsions were wilder now, causing the covers to fall off. That shocked the others. None of them had seen Faegan’s gruesome legs. Abbey, Adrian, and Tyranny looked to the floor. Determined to watch, Shailiha forced herself to hold fast. The princess finally saw with her eyes what her heart knew Faegan had to continually endure. She had never believed it possible that her respect for the old wizard could strengthen, but it did.
Wigg looked at Jessamay. “Follow my instructions exactly,” he ordered. “I will conjure another spell to ease his pain. As I do, summon the craft to open his mouth. Remember, Faegan is immensely powerful. Despite his weakened state, it might take everything you have. I will conjure another spell to keep his throat open. Then I will administer the potion. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Jessamay answered.
“Good,” Wigg said. “Let’s start.”
Suddenly Wigg had another thought. He turned to look at Abbey. “Assuming this potion works, how long will it be before it takes effect?” he asked.
“Several minutes,” she answered. “After that, things will happen fast. Because it is a stimulant, the potion might temporarily raise his power. You might have to control him as it goes about its work.”
Shaking his head, Wigg rolled his eyes. “Nowshe tells us!” he grumbled.
Wigg summoned the craft, then placed one hand on Faegan’s forehead. Almost at once the crippled wizard started to still. After Faegan had calmed, Wigg looked over at Jessamay.
“You may start,” he said.
Calling the craft, Jessamay summoned the needed spell. Faegan’s mouth parted a bit, then stopped. His unconscious mind was fighting Jessamay. Concentrating harder, she managed to open his mouth a bit more, but not much.
“Is that the best you can do?” Wigg asked.
Jessamay nodded. “Even in his weakened state, his gifts are exceptionally strong.”
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