“But why would a partial’s gifts be limited to only certain aspects of the craft?” Shailiha asked. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I can understand your confusion,” Faegan replied. “As is true with so many things of magic, the answer has to do with the Paragon.” He held the square-cut, bloodred stone up for inspection.
“If you were to count the facets of the surface of the Paragon, you would find there to be twenty-five in all,” he told her. “Just as there are twenty-five major facets of the craft, such as the Kinetic, the Sympathetic, and the Formative. The facet, for example, allows the practitioner certain dynamic uses of the craft, such as the throwing of azure bolts. The Sympathetic facet allows the user certain gifts associated with sound, touch, and vibration. And as you might well guess, the Formative facet has to do with the conjuring and altering of things—or their disappearance. These are but three of the twenty-five.”
Neither Tristan nor Shailiha had ever heard this, and it put the Paragon in an entirely new light.
“How do you know all of this?” Shailiha asked.
“This information came to us from the preface to the Tome,” Faegan answered. “The Ones Who Came Before constructed the jewel as the living passageway between endowed blood and the orbs of the Vigors and the Vagaries—the two fountainheads of all that is the craft. The twenty-five facets that the Ones cut into the stone represent what they considered to be the most important disciplines of the craft.”
“But that still doesn’t explain why a partial adept’s gifts are limited, and vice versa,” Tristan pressed.
“That is because the Ones granted those of fully endowed blood sole access to all of the facets save for one,” Faegan told them. “The arts of that one facet are divided between those of fully endowed blood, and the partials.”
“What is that facet called?” Tristan asked.
“The Organic,” Faegan answered.
“And what aspects of the craft does the Organic facet control?” Shailiha asked.
“Those arts that are made possible only through the use of such organics as herbs, oils, plants, water, and so on,” Faegan explained. “These arts have the greatest effect of all on the plant life, water, and air of the world. The Ones Who Came Before channeled some of the arts of the Organic into the weaker blood signatures of the partials, and the rest into the blood of the fully endowed. A wizard has access to a far greater number of skills, and has much greater power, but partial adepts have access to some Organic skills that we do not.”
“But why would the Ones do that?” Tristan asked. “Wouldn’t they want the fully endowed to have all the gifts, so that they could be used to their greatest advantage?”
“Enabling one group to employ all of the arts of the Organic discipline to their utmost was precisely what the Ones were trying to avoid,” the wizard said.
“But you still haven’t answered why,” Shailiha pressed.
“It seems that what the Ones wanted most, second only to the preservation of the craft, was to prevent any future recurrence of their war with the Heretics of the Guild. The preface to the Tome tells us that during their War of Attrition, as they called it, vast areas of the world became scorched and lifeless. If they couldn’t preserve the land, air, and sea for future generations, humankind ran the risk of becoming extinct.” He paused for a moment in thought.
“People are replaceable, I suppose, should one care to characterize things in such a manner,” he went on, as their litter continued to bounce along through the air. “But the earth we walk upon, the water we drink, and the air we breathe is not. And without them we would soon perish, taking the craft with us. For in the final analysis, our endowed blood is the ultimate resting place of the craft, and our lives the instruments by which it is passed down through the generations, thereby making it timeless. That is why the Ones devised the Organic facet of the Paragon the way they did: gifting some of the most dangerous of these arts only to those of partial blood. That way, they hoped, no one would ever be able to use them again in a manner that was so destructive.”
“But if these Organic gifts are so potentially destructive, why allow them to be used at all?” Shailiha asked.
“Because their potential to be used for good is just as strong,” Faegan answered. “If all these aspects of the craft had not been preserved, knowledge of them would have died with the Ones. Even now we have no way of knowing how many of their arts may have vanished with the Ones’ passing from the world.”
Suddenly something Faegan had said earlier began gnawing at the back of the prince’s mind. “What is a blaze-gazer?” he asked.
Faegan pursed his lips. “A blaze-gazer is a partial adept who is able to use herbs to see events that are occurring some distance away. Or so goes the myth. That art is said to be very rare, and almost always the province of women, rather than men.”
“Can you blaze-gaze?” Shailiha asked.
“No,” Faegan answered testily. True to form, he was becoming irritable at the questioning of his abilities. “Nor can any other wizard I have ever known—including Wigg. I would love to learn to blaze-gaze, but it is doubtful that a partial adept would ever share such knowledge with an outsider, or even that the Paragon would allow me that skill.”
“And Krassus now travels with a partial adept,” Tristan mused. “Or at least he claims to.”
“Yes,” Faegan agreed. “If what he said is true, that does not bode well for any of us.”
“Krassus said that Wigg knows one,” Shailiha commented. “And the lead wizard became very defensive when we asked him about it. Could it be true?”
Faegan raised an eyebrow. “First of all, it is Wigg’s nature to be defensive,” he said. “You know how secretive he can be. When he does not wish to speak about a subject, even wild mules can’t pull the words out of him.” A bit more somber now, Faegan looked out the window again.
“You know, part of what Krassus said is quite valid,” he mused.
“What part?” Tristan asked.
“He said that although I am the greatest keeper of the craft, Wigg is the greatest keeper of secrets,” Faegan said softly. “That is so true. When thinking of Wigg, always remember that he has survived over three centuries in the maze of politics and magic that is Eutracia. The things he has seen and the secrets he still keeps may well be uncountable.”
Tristan sat back in the seat, thinking. Something Wigg had told them that day still haunted him.
“Is it true?” he asked the ancient wizard. “Would Wigg have really done it? Would he do it still?”
“Do what?” Faegan asked.
“Would he truly kill Wulfgar, should our brother be found and his left-leaning blood signature induce him to the Vagaries?”
Faegan’s expression darkened. Removing his hands from the opposite sleeves of his robes, he leaned forward. “Would Wigg obey the orders of a dead queen, and kill your half sibling in order to protect the craft? Or for that matter, would I? And even more importantly, would the two of you let us? Or could you stop us, should you choose to try?” His gray-green eyes narrowed.
“Those very thoughts have consumed my mind ever since Krassus revealed himself to us,” the wizard said. “All I know right now is that we must find Wulfgar before he does, or none of it will matter. Not to mention these scrolls he searches for.”
Suddenly there came a harsh, insistent pounding upon the side of the litter. Ox stuck his head out the window.
“Speak!” he ordered the Minion officer flying close by.
“Farpoint approaches, sir!” the Minion shouted. “You ordered us to let you know when we neared!”
Ox looked back questioningly at Tristan.
“Tell him they should land us about one quarter league from the outskirts of the city,” the prince ordered. “Place us down in the woods, if possible. We must not be seen.”
“I live to serve,” Ox replied, and shouted Tristan’s orders to his warriors. The litter began to tilt downward. Faegan�
�s manner suddenly became even more serious.
“It was only after much discussion that Wigg and I agreed to let you come here,” he said. “In truth, I doubt we could have stopped you, anyway, short of using a wizard’s warp on you both. But that doesn’t mean that we think this is a good idea. If it is to be done, it will be done our way. I have not visited Farpoint for many years, but I remember it as an exceedingly rough place. Eutracian fishing towns always are. Tristan, I want you to push my chair for me. If questioned, you are to say that you are my bodyguard, and my ward. Shailiha, you are to pretend to be my nurse. Remember, we are here only to observe, not to participate.” He pursed his lips.
“One other thing,” he said, sounding solemn. “Tristan, should anything untoward happen, I want you to employ your skills to protect us, rather than my resorting to the use of the craft. I don’t want anyone here to know I am a wizard unless it becomes absolutely necessary. For all we know, Krassus may even be here. He has already sworn to kill Wigg and me. At the very least he is probably expecting us to take the bait by simply coming here. Therefore, I will be cloaking our endowed blood—a job that, because of the combined, exceedingly high quality of our blood, shall take a great deal of effort. Only in the direst of circumstances will I drop the cloak and employ the craft. Otherwise, it is your duty to protect us. And let me do the talking. The first thing I want to do is to find a carriage for hire. It will be faster and safer than walking the streets. Do you understand?”
Both the Chosen Ones nodded.
Faegan sighed and shook his head. “Then may the Afterlife watch over us.”
The six Minion warriors gently landed the litter in a small glade surrounded by fir trees. Then the other six landed, dreggans drawn, and formed a protective ring. The four occupants descended from the litter and onto the soft grass of the forest, the Minions handling the wizard’s chair for him.
“Stay here, out of sight,” Tristan ordered Ox. It was plain to see by the look on the warrior’s face that he was severely disappointed not to be coming along.
“Sorry, my friend,” the prince said with a smile. “But your presence in Farpoint would cause a commotion, to say the least! Light no fires. And send no sentries into the sky, as you normally would. Do, however, post guards in the woods. If you are found and must defend your lives, do so. But if your attackers are simple townsfolk, try to subdue them, rather than kill them. I do not know how long we may be gone, but wait for us. There is food and water stored in the litter.”
Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. “I live to serve.”
Tristan nodded back. With that he and Shailiha grasped Faegan’s chair and began wheeling him out of the forest.
Pushing the wooden chair through the thick undergrowth was very difficult. Faegan could have levitated it, of course, but they could not risk being spotted using the craft. At last they came upon a hardscrabble road, which was smooth enough that Tristan could manage the chair without Shailiha’s help. Tristan longed to have Pilgrim, his dappled gray-and-white stallion, beneath him, but it was also good to stretch his legs, especially after the hours aboard the flying litter.
The prince had made several official visits to Farpoint when his father and mother were alive, and he had to agree with Faegan that the fishing town was a rough-and-tumble place. The seafaring folk were a stern, tough, and uncompromising lot. They worked hard. And when they returned to town with their clothes full of the stink of fish and their pockets full of gold coins, they drank too much, gambled too much, and fought too much.
It was not much longer until they entered the outskirts of the city, and Tristan, with Shailiha at his side, wheeled Faegan’s chair down one of the streets he felt would most likely provide adequate livery service. His magically acquired beard itched.
Several empty hansom cabs stood waiting on one side of the wide, cobblestoned boulevard. Tristan wheeled Faegan toward the first of them, and the old wizard turned his gray-green eyes up to the man sitting atop it.
“Good day,” he said politely. “Are you for hire?”
“I don’t be sittin’ up here for my health, cripple,” the driver snarled back. He spat, narrowly missing the wizard’s feet.
Faegan remained unperturbed. “How much?” he asked.
“How far?” the driver countered, his careful eyes examining the old man in the wheeled chair.
Faegan took a slow breath. “We heard there is to be some special activity here today,” he said. Then he winked conspiratorially up at the driver. When the driver remained silent, Faegan pressed, “You know the kind of activity I mean. And we have money to spend. But we are new here, and we do not know the way. Now will you take us there, or do we have to go to one of your competitors?”
Blatantly craning his neck to look over at the next carriage, Faegan conjured some kisa—the gold coin of the realm—into one of his robe pockets. Reaching in, he jangled them together loudly.
Scowling, the driver rubbed the salt-and-pepper grizzle on his chin. Then, looking down from his seat, he gestured toward Tristan.
“Except for that nasty-looking bastard with the sword and the knives, you don’t look like the usual lot who goes there,” he said cautiously. “Not only that, but if the two younger ones know what’s good for ’em, they won’t go there at all. The white ones will be there, ya’ know.”
This piqued Faegan’s interest. “How much?” he demanded.
“All right, all right!” the driver said. “Don’t get your robe in a twist! Twelve kisa should do it.”
“Six!” Faegan countered.
“Eight!” the driver hollered down.
“Done!” the wizard said.
“Get aboard.” The driver sighed, reaching for his whip. It was abundantly clear from his posture that helping Faegan in was not going to be part of the bargain.
Tristan opened the hansom door and helped Shailiha in, then walked around to the back of the coach. He was dismayed to see that there was no storage compartment large enough for Faegan’s chair, and no way to secure it on top of the carriage.
“Go ahead,” Faegan said, giving Tristan a wink. “You’re strong enough. I know you can do it.”
Smiling, the prince suddenly understood. Reaching down, he grabbed the chair, wizard and all, just as the driver finally decided to come down from atop his seat to berate them for taking so long. The man approached just in time to see Tristan smoothly, effortlessly lift both the wizard and chair and place them through the open door of the coach as though they weighed no more than a feather.
The driver’s eyes went wide; his grizzled jaw dropping with disbelief. “How in the name of the Afterlife did you do that?”
As Tristan climbed into the carriage, Faegan poked his head out the window. “As I said, he’s very strong.” He winked mischievously.
Scratching his head, the bewildered driver clambered back atop the carriage. With a whistle to his horses and a snap of his whip, the coach started rumbling down the streets of Farpoint.
Despite the danger of their situation, both Tristan and Shailiha began to laugh.
“ ‘He’s very strong?’ ” Tristan asked the wizard. “I thought you weren’t going to use the craft!”
“I couldn’t resist.” Faegan chuckled. “The driver deserved it after all he put me through. I sensed no endowed blood nearby, so I dropped our cloak momentarily. We had to get me into the carriage somehow, didn’t we? Besides, what is the good of being a wizard if you can’t have some fun once in a while?” He cackled gleefully.
Shaking his head and turning to look at his sister, Tristan had to laugh again. Traveling with Faegan was certainly different from traveling with the lead wizard!
Looking out the carriage window, Faegan grew more serious. “Pay close attention as we go down the streets,” he ordered. “If you notice anything unusual—anything at all—tell me right away. Remember, we still do not know where we are going, or what we will find when we get there.”
“Faegan, who are ‘the white o
nes’ the driver spoke of?” Shailiha asked. “He seemed to fear them.”
Faegan shook his head. “I have been wondering the same thing,” he replied.
Tristan looked out the window of the carriage. There were few people on the streets for this time of the day, he mused. Perhaps that was due to the fact that they were still on the outskirts of the city.
At first that seemed to be the answer: As they continued farther into town, he began to see the usual smattering of elderly and middle-aged people going about their business. There were children, too, and the usual groupings of teenagers. But then he began to notice something else, and his blood ran cold.
The city seemed to be completely devoid of people his own age.
The longer he looked, the surer he became. He saw no one who looked to be between the years of twenty to forty Seasons of New Life.
He told himself he was imagining things, that as they continued on, he’d certainly start to see more people of all ages. But he didn’t.
Then he noticed something else. Most of the people he saw seemed weary and downtrodden. Some were even sobbing. It was as if some great pall had descended over the town.
He looked over at Faegan. “Do you see it?” he asked quietly. “Or am I dreaming?”
Faegan looked somber. “This is no dream,” he replied. “Something dark has come over this place, and we must find out what it is.”
He thought for a moment. Then he spoke again. “Tristan, I want you to go up and sit with the driver. He probably won’t be happy about it, but be cordial. Try to get as much information out of him as you can without raising his suspicions. If you see anything untoward, return at once and inform me.”
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 8
