His velvet cage—as he had come to think of his prison—was indeed sumptuous, but there was absolutely no way to escape it. The only exit was through double doors of solid marble, locked from the other side. Two armed, white-skinned slavers stood perpetual guard in the hall.
The chambers consisted of a bedroom with a gigantic four-poster bed, an adjoining drawing room with shelves full of books and a large fireplace, and a huge, ornate bath. The rooms were of highly polished marble, as was the open, low-walled balcony where he now sat. Below, the sea crashed against the nearby shore, and he could smell the crisp, salty sea air.
Looking toward the west and out over the seemingly endless Sea of Whispers, he was again reminded that his quarters were hundreds of feet in the air, and surely comprised but a small part of the massive building in which he was being held. One corner of his mouth came up knowingly. No one guarded him on this side of his quarters, for there was no need to. The exterior walls were slick and smooth. Any attempt to escape that way would mean a fall and certain death on the jagged rocks that lined the shore.
Tall, white-sailed ships arrived daily—no doubt transporting yet more slaves—and each time the swaying masts and graceful sails appeared on the horizon, the view steeled his resolve to escape—someday, somehow. But not before killing Janus, he promised himself, and as many of the grotesque slavers as he could.
During the last four days there had been little to do except sit and watch the restless ocean. He had tried to read the books in the drawing room, but they were all written in a beautiful-looking but utterly foreign language. The only words he recognized were Talis and R’talis, and they seemed to be repeated over and over. He was alone with unanswered questions. Why was he was being treated like a king, while his fellow slaves were supposedly confined somewhere else, somewhere far less comfortable? Why had such excitement accompanied his arrival at the docks? Things had been said and done to him there that he couldn’t even begin to understand.
Shame washed over him, and he closed his eyes.
The darkness momentarily brought back his dream, and his thoughts turned to his home in the coastal city of Farpoint, and the parents he loved with all his heart. As far as he knew, Jason and Selene were still alive and well, though surely they missed him. Jason still worked in the stables, but no longer performed the difficult manual labor required by his trade. Wulfgar, now thirty-five Seasons of New Life, had stayed on, taking over the blacksmith shop. His strong, hard body showed the years of hard work, his muscles sculpted by so many strikes of the hammer to the anvil. Although there had been several women in his life, he had yet to marry.
He had been abducted in Farpoint while making a trip to order grain for the stables. Rumors of the abduction of men and women his age had been circulating for days, but always the independent skeptic, he had ignored them and ventured into the city anyway. It was at the mill that several of the awful, white-skinned things had come at him at once. Sadly, he had been unarmed.
Nonetheless, Wulfgar had fought back like a lion, badly injuring several of them with his fists and feet before being rendered unconscious. He had awakened to the fire of a branding iron on his shoulder and was then bound in the darkness belowdecks on a ship that tossed its way through the Sea of Whispers for sixteen excruciating days.
He craned his neck to look at the brand on his left shoulder and was heartened to see that it had almost completely healed. He shook his head again at the insanity of it all. It had taken him three days of twice-daily bathing before he had felt truly free of the filth and stink of the ship’s hold. But he would never be free of the bizarre brand.
As he continued to stare out over the ocean, his thoughts turned to Eutracia, and to the royal family. Most people believed the king and queen to be dead, along with the Directorate of Wizards. It was widely rumored that they had perished in the royal palace on Prince Tristan’s coronation day. Some even said that the king had died at the prince’s own hand.
Questions about the survival of the royal twins had stubbornly remained. But if they lived, as so many people thought, why weren’t they coming to the aid of their citizens?
No one seemed to know. But if the other rumors were indeed true about the winged ones that had come and murdered both the royal family and the entire Royal Guard, then perhaps even Tristan and Shailiha could do little to stem the tide of the slavers—especially without the powers of the Directorate to help them.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bolt sliding, and the double doors of his bedroom swung open. Breakfast time.
Two demonslavers entered, swords drawn. A third slaver pushed the now-familiar silver cart loaded with food and drink into the room. Then, unexpectedly, two other persons came through the door. Wulfgar stood quickly and came in from the balcony.
Janus stood there proudly, dressed in his usual flagrant clothes. The twin iron spheres dangling, as always, from his right hip clanked together menacingly as he walked. The dark eyes surrounded by the red, painted mask surveyed the room cautiously.
Beside him stood a woman. Janus roughly shoved her forward, as though displaying her for Wulfgar’s approval.
She was beautiful. Tall and shapely, she wore her long, brunette hair in ringlets that twirled down to her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, and bright blue. A magnificent yellow taffeta gown trimmed with white lace draped gracefully from her bare shoulders to the floor, the hem just reaching the tops of her matching silk slippers. On her left shoulder was an angry, healing brand: R’talis.
As Janus took a few steps closer, Wulfgar cringed. Janus looked Wulfgar up and down, and then nodded his approval.
“You clean up nicely,” he cooed. “A vast improvement over that day at the docks, I must say.”
Without looking around, he raised one hand and snapped his fingers. The two demonslavers immediately grabbed the woman and tossed her onto the four-poster bed as though she were a toy. Surprisingly unafraid, she glared back at them with hate in her eyes.
“As you might have already guessed, she’s for you,” Janus said calmly, as if he were giving Wulfgar a birthday gift. “R’talis, of course. Nothing but the best for our honored guest. She pleases the eye, does she not? After four days of boredom, I thought you could use some ‘companionship.’ In any event, do with her as you will.”
Wulfgar turned to look at the beauty on the bed, then looked back at Janus. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said sarcastically.
“Think nothing of it,” Janus answered. “There are many more where she came from, should she displease you.”
He removed his gold snuffbox from a pocket of his doublet and snorted a pinch up one nostril. An explosive sneeze followed. He looked Wulfgar up and down another time, then cast his masked eyes back to the woman on the bed.
“Why am I here?” Wulfgar demanded. “What is this place? And why have I been granted such special treatment?”
Janus sighed. “I often forget how truly uneducated you are,” he said softly. “No matter. As soon as Krassus arrives, he will help you overcome your handicap. He is due to arrive in a matter of days. Then we will see just how strong you really are.”
“What is this place?” Wulfgar asked again.
“As I told everyone that day on the pier, you are on an island. It is a very special place. It has existed secretly for eons, under one master of the Vagaries or another. Even the Wizards of the Directorate did not know of it. It is called the Citadel, and for good reason.”
Wulfgar had no idea what Janus was talking about. He seized on the one idea that made sense. “No one can sail farther than fifteen days into the Sea of Whispers,” he countered. “How do you manage it?”
“Yet another secret you shall eventually learn,” Janus answered. “But, as I already said, Krassus is the one best suited to answer your inquiries. He will be most delighted to learn that you are finally here. We have been looking for you for some time. Others have searched even longer.”
“Why?” Wulfgar demand
ed. “I don’t even know this Krassus. He’s nothing to me. Why should he care about my welfare?”
“He cares because of an oath he swore to one of your distant relatives just before the man’s unfortunate demise,” Janus answered. It was clear that he was enjoying his riddle.
“Ironically, he was murdered by yet another of your relatives. But you wouldn’t know about that yet, would you?”
“That’s impossible!” Wulfgar snarled. “My relatives are not murderers!”
Janus shook his head knowingly. “Oh, but they are,” he answered. “Yet another fact you will soon be forced to deal with.”
He snapped his fingers again. From a shelf beneath the food cart, one of the slavers produced an hourglass and handed it to his master. Janus looked first to the woman on the bed, and then back to Wulfgar. He turned the hourglass over and placed it on a nearby table.
“You have one hour to do all you would like to this woman,” he said nastily. “Then we shall come back for her. Should she not please you, tell me when I return, and I will see to it that she is appropriately punished. As I said, nothing is too good for our very special guest.” The painted monster smiled again.
“And now I must bid you good-bye,” he said. “Enjoy her, Wulfgar,” he added. “I must say I envy you.” He gave them both a short, sarcastic bow.
With that he turned and walked purposefully out of the room, the twin spheres at his side clinking together ominously, the demonslavers behind him. As the massive marble doors closed with a decisive thud, Wulfgar heard the bolt slide into place on the other side.
Turning, he looked at the beautiful woman on the bed.
CHAPTER
Twelve
You had best be successful this time, Grizelda,” Krassus said sternly. “I am growing tired of your failures.”
Swaying on her knees, the haggard herbmistress looked up at Krassus. As she did, her stomach lurched again.
She had been seasick for the last four days, and even a dose of nerveweed had not helped. But she was not too ill to understand that the next few moments could mean either the continuance of her life, or a torturous death at the hands of the wizard, should she displease him.
After vomiting into the nearby bucket for what seemed the thousandth time, she slowly wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her tattered robe. Regaining her composure, she surveyed the shifting deck of the Sojourner, her lord’s flagship, as she made her way east across the Sea of Whispers. Alabaster-skinned demonslavers hurried about their duties, crewing the ship and keeping the hundreds of slaves chained belowdecks under tight control. Sojourner’s bright, white sails were full, and seawater occasionally splashed up over her decks as she pitched up and down in the restless sea. Two other frigates, the Wayfarer and the Stalwart, followed in her wake.
After the herbs and potions Krassus and Grizelda had stolen from Abbey’s cottage had been loaded aboard, the three ships had departed Farpoint. They were making good time running before the steady, westerly winds.
Krassus turned to the demonslaver standing next to him. The monster immediately came to attention.
“Make sure all the crow’s nests remain manned upon each of our vessels,” Krassus ordered. “Signal them to continue keeping an especially sharp lookout, not only on the sea, but also in the sky. With the capture of the prince, I have no doubt that the wizards have sent their Minions after us. I believe we are already well beyond their flying range, but Wigg and Faegan are nothing if not resourceful.”
The demonslaver nodded curtly. “My lord,” he answered with a bow. He then left to fulfill his orders. Krassus returned his attention to the woman on her knees.
He and Grizelda were on the aft deck, the mizzen sail having just been furled. This would reduce their speed somewhat, but it couldn’t be helped. What Grizelda was about to attempt was hazardous, especially with a full sail directly overhead: an uncontrolled fire on board ship in the middle of the Sea of Whispers was something to be avoided at all costs. Besides, performing these rituals in the confines of the chambers belowdecks was unthinkable.
When Tristan had been rendered unconscious in the alley by the slavers, he had been immediately taken to Krassus, then placed aboard the Sojourner. There Krassus had induced a deep sleep over him, and the prince was being force-fed liquid nourishment. The beard Faegan had conjured for him had since disappeared, and in its place there was now a shorter, two-day growth of dark, natural stubble. Still dressed in his usual clothes but his weapons gone, he lay peacefully belowdecks in a windowless stateroom guarded by demonslavers.
Krassus smiled. Capturing the prince had been an unexpected treat—a gamble risked and won. Satisfied, he took a deep breath of the nighttime sea air. But the cold, clear saltiness was too much for his lungs, and he let go a small cough. Several droplets of his blood spewed forth to hit the deck, where they immediately began twisting their way into familiar signatures. Sighing angrily, he wiped them away with the sole of his boot.
Thinking, he turned again to look out over the whitecapped ocean, where waves danced continually in the moonlight. Although Tristan was still untrained in the ways of the craft, Nicholas had warned Krassus that the prince’s blood—the strongest in the world—possessed Forestallments that had been placed there by Failee, the failed first mistress of the Coven.
Krassus had been well trained by Nicholas in the art of imbuing Forestallments. The powers imparted thusly into the blood were delayed, or “forestalled,” to be brought to life later, either activated at a predetermined time or catalyzed into being by the performance of certain specified acts by their possessor. If the Forestallment was time activated, there was no way to know when it might show itself, unless one knew the nature of the spell to begin with. If it was event activated, it could manifest at any time, provided that the correct action or sequence of actions had been taken by the person in whose blood the Forestallment had been placed. Krassus had no way of knowing the nature of the Forestallments that Failee had placed in Tristan’s blood. Her did not want to accidentally activate one of those as-yet-untapped gifts. He would have to be exceedingly careful in his handling of the prince.
His plans were proceeding well, but he could not afford to become complacent. The two ancient wizards of the Redoubt remained very powerful. To defeat them and also accomplish his other goals, he would have to be very clever indeed. And he would have to get his hands on both the Scrolls of the Ancients and Wulfgar, Morganna’s bastard son.
True, he still did not have the Scroll of the Vigors, and leaving Eutracia without having found it gave him great pause. But he had the Scroll of the Vagaries, and the work of his consuls back at the Citadel needed to begin. Besides, once his herbmistress was finally able to view the other scroll, he could always instruct his demonslavers to retrieve it for him, wherever it might be.
“The prince continues to sleep belowdecks?” Grizelda asked, breaking into Krassus’ thoughts.
Krassus placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his blue-and-gray robe. “Yes,” he said. “Although untrained, he can still be quite dangerous, as he has so adeptly proven a number of times. As a precaution, I have decided to have him transferred to one of the other ships. Under no circumstances shall the Chosen One and the Scroll of the Vagaries be allowed to continue sharing the same vessel. Should the scroll fall into the hands of the wizards in Tammerland, our cause might be lost.”
He smiled again. “I wonder if the good prince knows how to row,” he added nastily. Suddenly impatient, his dark gaze bored its way into her.
“Now then,” he said. “I suggest you get on with it.”
Krassus smiled. He was gradually finding himself a reluctant admirer of the old woman’s talents. Before finding her, he had located several partial adepts, but none had the particular combination of talents he hoped would help him fulfill his oath to Nicholas. As a precaution, he had killed them on the spot. He wished he had killed Abbey, too. But he hadn’t dared, fearing he might need her as leverage with Wigg. Should s
he ever cross his path again, he swore, he would not make the same mistake twice.
In order to accomplish his goals, he needed to find Wulfgar. In addition, there was no telling what other persons or things of the craft he might need to collect while on his path to victory. For this, only a well-trained partial adept would do. He immediately set out to locate one.
He had finally discovered Grizelda in the city of Warwick Watch. She had been doing sleight of hand and other, lesser aspects of her arts for the amusement of the crowds, apparently living on whatever meager offerings they might deign to throw into her bowl. He had watched her for some time, then closed his eyes and reached out to her blood with his specialized senses. Finally sure, he waited until the small crowd had dispersed and the shadows of the day were beginning to lengthen. Picking up her meager things, the haggard woman counted her coins carefully, then tied them up in a dirty rag and scurried into the depths of a nearby alley.
Following her, Krassus saw her stop at the end of the alley, near the protection of its angled, dead end and the large wooden box that sat against one wall. A few rusty cooking utensils lay nearby. Crouching, she set down her makeshift coin bag and began to light a small fire.
Silently, Krassus came to stand before her.
She did not see him until the length of his shadow crawled toward the flames. Looking up, she snatched her coin bag to her breast and scrabbled back toward the false security of the dilapidated wooden box.
Krassus regarded her carefully. She was very old. Her long, gray hair fell crazily over her shoulders, and her face was weather-beaten, presumably from living for so many years out of doors. Wrinkling his nose, he wondered how long it had been since she had bathed. Her plain, black robe, tattered and worn, covered a thin, unremarkable figure.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Her piercing, dark eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence. “What do you want?”
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