Tristan’s daze evaporated, and he whirled around to find the stallion still lying on the ground, an unfamilar weapon tangled around his legs. Tristan felt his heart tear in two.
Both the stallion’s forelegs were smashed and bleeding. In horrific pain, Pilgrim whinnied weakly as he saw the prince look at him. Dropping to the ground, Tristan gently cradled the horse’s head in his lap.
His face stern, Wigg gave the care of the young man and the crying girl over to Faegan. Then he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe and came to stand next to the prince.
Tears flooding his eyes, Tristan looked beseechingly up at his old friend and mentor. But deep in his heart, he already knew the answer.
With a tear in one eye, Wigg slowly shook his head.
Crying freely now, his body shaking with grief, Tristan held Pilgrim closer. “Can you make it painless?” he asked, his voice cracking.
Coming nearer, the lead wizard placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Of course,” he answered softly.
For what he knew would be the last time, Tristan gently stroked Pilgrim’s velvety muzzle.
“I will never forget you,” he whispered. As if somehow understanding, Pilgrim whinnied back to him softly.
Without looking up, Tristan nodded. Wigg raised his right arm.
The dappled stallion closed his eyes.
Uncontrollably, shamelessly, Tristan raised his tear-streaked face to the sky and cried like a child.
CHAPTER
Fifty-eight
Come back to me safe, my love,” Serena said to Wulfgar. Placing one hand on her abdomen, she looked up into his hazel eyes. “Both I and your unborn daughter will be anxiously awaiting your return.”
As he stood with her on the stone terrace overlooking the ocean, Wulfgar reached out to touch her face. “Wish me luck,” he said softly. “For it is all about to begin.”
Then he turned to look at Krassus. The ailing wizard was sitting in a chair, taking in the last rays of the slowly setting sun.
“We both thank you for all of our gifts,” Wulfgar said to him. “If I never see you again, rest assured that I will not stop until I have accomplished all that I have been charged with. Thanks to you, the Chosen Ones shall soon suffer a fate even they could never have imagined.”
Smiling, Krassus looked up at his two magnificent creations. “It is not me whom you and your queen should thank for your gifts,” he answered weakly. “Nor for the mission with which you have been entrusted. It is the Heretics of the Guild upon whom you should shower your gratitude and undying loyalty. For they, in all their glorious wisdom, are the ones who are ultimately responsible not only for your powers, but also for the mission you have been honored to carry out.” Taking a short, painful breath, the wizard cast his dark gaze back out over the sea.
“And do not weep for me,” he added softly. “I am only thankful that I could live to see this day, and entrust all the wonders of this place to you.” He lifted his head and looked wistfully up at the sky.
“Very soon now I shall go to them, and I do not fear it. It is my reward, and I welcome its coming.”
Wulfgar walked over to the wizard, bent down, and gently kissed his creased, weathered cheek. Then he turned and embraced his queen.
He had no need to remind Serena that by now all of the remaining slaves had been turned to their cause, save for the forty who had been placed in confinement aboard his personal ship. Or that a specially selected group of demonslavers had been left behind to guard the Citadel, as had the consuls under his command. For these things his queen already knew. Wulfgar had by now enacted all of Serena’s Forestallments. In his absence, his servants would obey all of Serena’s orders as unquestioningly as if they had been his own.
Krassus had at first been against Wulfgar starting out on his quest so soon, for they were not yet in possession of the Scroll of the Vigors. But in truth, Wulfgar was now far beyond the wizard’s control in such matters. Besides, the consuls had recently come to him to say that the Scroll of the Vagaries had glowed suddenly and unbidden, and Krassus knew exactly what that meant.
Krassus’ senses told him that Wigg and Faegan had employed the vellum he had slipped into the prince’s boot. By now they had most probably perished in the attempt due to the enchantment he had so ingeniously placed upon it. If the wizards of the Redoubt were dead, Wulfgar’s chances of success had increased exponentially, especially since neither of the Chosen Ones was trained in the craft. But he had told Wulfgar that there was no way to be certain, until he arrived in Eutracia. Even so, it seemed the future now belonged to Wulfgar and Serena. And so, he had finally given his blessing to the early commencement of Wulfgar’s mission.
The new master of the Citadel reached out and snapped his fingers at a pair of armed demonslavers, who approached immediately. They briskly escorted him to the end of the terrace and down the short steps to the sea. The three of them climbed aboard the skiff tied there, and one of the slavers set it adrift. Then the creatures began rowing their master out toward his waiting flagship.
Placing one hand over her eyes to shield them from the setting sun, Serena looked over the scene. It was an awe-inspiring sight.
The moored demonslaver fleet stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. Each was heavily loaded with arms and provisions, and slavers by the thousands could be seen amassed on the decks. Their sails furled, the vessels swayed peacefully in the water, the gentle movements belying the deadly nature of their purpose.
Vast numbers of screechling maelstroms darkened the surface of the waves. And beneath them, mere shadows, writhed the hordes of sea slitherers.
As she watched, the sails of Wulfgar’s flagship finally unfurled and snapped open to the wind. The flagship snaked its way amid the others and began to lead the way west, toward the open sea. The sails of the other vessels followed suit and filled with wind. One by one, the warships of the great armada began plowing their way toward Eutracia, the screechlings and slitherers following obediently in their wake.
Serena and Krassus stood there for some time, watching the departing fleet disappear over the horizon. After finally bidding good night to the wizard, the queen of the Citadel walked up the marble steps that led to the throne room and proceeded on to her private quarters.
Krassus continued to sit silently as the night gathered around him. Shivering from the cold, he pulled his gray-and-blue robe closer and thought of all that he had been able to accomplish, and of the wonders that Wulfgar and Serena would yet live to see.
It was then that he finally felt the oncoming sensation, and he knew that it was over.
Finally giving way to their disease, his lungs ruptured once and for all, and he began drowning in his own blood. It flowed warmly from his mouth and splattered down on the floor of the terrace.
As if in slow motion Krassus fell gently from his chair.
With his passing came a sudden wind. Then lightning tore across the night sky in unbelievable streaks, its branches seeming to reach everywhere. As the howling wind increased, it roiled the sea, causing the waves to smash violently into the edge of the terrace.
And then the wind and the lightning slowly abated, leaving the dead body of the wizard silent and still in the pale, rose-tinted moonlight.
All of her oil lamps extinguished except one, Serena was about to retire. Then she saw the lightning flashes, and she knew. Raising one hand, she caused the transparent wall that had once barred her entrance to the balcony to vanish. Carrying her lamp out onto the balcony, she looked over the ocean. As the wind and the lightning finally relented, she smiled to herself.
Taking a breath, she blew out the light.
PART V
Retribution
CHAPTER
Fifty-nine
It is not for myself that I go forth to do this thing, but for all of those who came before, who tried but failed in their attempts to ensure that the Vagaries shall one day rule supreme.
—Wulfgar
&n
bsp; Glad to be home finally, Tristan sat drinking wine at a butcher’s table in the palace kitchens. It was early evening, and Wigg and Faegan sat there with him, along with the young man named Marcus. The massive hearths were directly behind them; copper pots and pans hung overhead, dangling from iron hooks.
When the gnome wives had first seen the two dirty, half-starved children, they had insisted on feeding them immediately, regardless of whatever the wizards might have to say about it. The wonderful smells of the women’s creations still hung stubbornly in the air.
Tristan felt mournful. The loss of Pilgrim had been a shock that he knew would take a long time to recover from. At least the stallion had not died in vain: They had successfully secured the Scroll of the Vigors, and for that he was glad. The document was safe and sound, locked below the palace in the Hall of Blood Records. But before they examined it, the two wizards wanted some answers, and they were determined to get them as soon as they could.
After Tristan had removed Pilgrim’s saddle and bridle, Wigg had lowered his head to call the craft and set fire to the horse’s body. At first Tristan couldn’t bring himself to watch. But in the end he had finally looked over, tearfully doing his best to honor the companion that had seen him through so much.
Then Wigg had respectfully done the same thing with the body of the artifacts dealer and what was left of the harlequin. As Wigg went about his work, frightened citizens had begun to mill tentatively around the edges of the plaza, but upon seeing the lead wizard’s use of the craft, none of them had approached.
On the way back to the palace, Wigg had explained to the prince what had unfolded in the plaza. Wigg had been the first to see Rebecca run away. Suspicious of such a young, obviously terrified girl running through the square, he had ridden his horse over to her and scooped her up. As for the artifacts dealer, it seemed that it had been Grizelda who had so conveniently plunged the dagger into his back. They still didn’t know who the bizarre harlequin had been, but they hoped that the herbmistress would soon shed some light on that subject, as well. For now, she was securely locked behind one of the hundreds of doors deep in the bowels of the Redoubt.
The clubfooted girl named Rebecca had been too terrified by what she had seen to be of much help with the wizards’ questions. Seeing this, Shailiha and Celeste had requested—and received—permission to take her away to feed her, bathe her, and reassure her as best they could.
Now the wizards wanted to hear from the young man named Marcus. His knife had been discovered and taken from him on the way to the palace. So far, the dirty, curly-haired redhead had barely stopped eating, and there seemed to be no end to the amount of food he could consume.
“Now then,” Wigg began. “What is the name of your family house?”
“First things first,” Marcus answered arrogantly, as if he owned the palace he was sitting in. He kept on chewing as he talked. “Where is my thirteen thousand kisa?”
Reaching out, he rudely swiped up yet more of the sliced lamb and stuffed about three bites’ worth into his mouth all at once. Chewing hurriedly, he washed it down with another glass of goat’s milk. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he turned to look greedily at Tristan’s wine goblet.
“Give me some of that, and I’ll gladly tell you who I am,” he said confidently. “It seems the least you could do. I didn’t ask to come here, you know.”
With a brief snort, Faegan smiled and shook his head. But it was clear that the lead wizard didn’t think any of this was particularly humorous.
Knowing that Marcus was still hungry, Wigg called on the craft. Almost immediately all of Marcus’ precious food and drink rose into the air. The young man’s eyes went wide. Then Wigg caused all of the dishes to go flying out the kitchen door and into the adjoining hallway. Without taking his eyes from Marcus, Wigg folded his arms across his chest and calmly leaned back in his chair. With that, everything fell crashing to the hallway floor—the dishes smashed, the food ruined, and the drinks spilled.
Frozen in place, Marcus stared at Wigg as if the wizard had just descended from one of the moons. Leaning in, Wigg cast his aquamarine eyes sternly at the young man and lowered his voice.
“Now that I have your full attention, let’s try again, shall we?” he asked quietly. “What is the name of your family house?”
Lowering his face slightly, Marcus scowled and placed his greasy hands on his lap. “Stinton,” he finally answered. “The House of Stinton.”
“And where are you from?”
“Ilendium.”
Wigg raised an eyebrow. “And the girl you travel with. She’s your sister, is she not?”
Marcus nodded. “Rebecca.” He added softly, “I call her ’Becca.”
“I see,” Wigg said a bit more compassionately. “And your parents. What of them? They must be worried about you.”
“They’re both dead. Killed by the great birds that came one night. ’Becca and I are orphans.”
On hearing about the “great birds,” Wigg looked at Tristan and Faegan. They nodded back. Marcus had to be referring to Nicholas’ hatchlings, the winged beings that had so ruthlessly destroyed the city of Ilendium just before the construction of the Gates of Dawn.
“I’m sorry,” Faegan said softly from the other side of the table. He was beginning to have genuine admiration for the brash young man, even if the boy was a thief. Master Stinton was nothing if not resourceful, he decided.
“How was it that the two of you were not also killed?” Faegan asked.
“ ’Becca and I had gone fishing at the head of the Sippora River. We used to like to do that sometimes. And it was helpful, especially when father wasn’t doing so well. But the fishing had been good, and we were very late getting home that night. By the time we did, everything was gone.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Wigg said earnestly. “But what did you mean about your father not doing so well? What was his trade?”
Marcus smiled again and puffed out his chest with pride. “My father was a pickpocket—the best in Eutracia. He could slip one hand into your drawers and come back out holding your private parts if he chose to, long before you felt the draft. And I’m just as good, if I do say so myself.”
Sighing, Wigg placed one hand over his forehead, closed his eyes, and leaned his elbow on the table. He shook his head slowly.
Tristan tried hard not to smile.
“And where did you get the scroll?” Wigg asked without looking up.
“We found them in one of the broken marble sections, left over from the destruction when those monuments, or whatever they were, fell to the ground,” Marcus answered simply. It was clear he did not understand the importance of the site he and his sister had visited.
“Everything there stayed so hot, it took a week before ’Becca and I could do a proper search of the place,” he went on. “We were on our own by then, and looking for food.” Then he smiled again. “But that wasn’t what we found.”
Wigg’s face shot up. “You said ‘them’. Do you mean to say that both scrolls were there when you first went in?”
“Yes. But they were so heavy I could only take one. And there was no way ’Becca could handle the other, especially with her bad foot. Later I came back for the other scroll, but it was already gone. Somebody beat me to it.”
“How did you get the scroll to Tammerland?” Tristan asked.
“In the rowboat we always used to fish out of. It was my father’s. On the way down the Sippora we fished, so as to eat. Kept us alive.”
“And was it always your intention to sell the scroll?” Tristan asked, his admiration for Marcus also growing.
“Of course. What would I want to keep the damned thing for?”
Tristan smiled. “And how did you find the artifacts dealer?”
“I asked around. It wasn’t hard. I had an appointment with him today, to finally exchange the scroll for the kisa. He was the only one I trusted. But he won’t be doing any more business, will he? From that point on, you know t
he rest.” Then Marcus’ face darkened. “I’m sorry about your horse,” he added.
“Thank you,” Tristan replied. “So am I.”
Wigg had apparently heard all he needed. He stood and walked over to one side of the kitchens, to give a tug on a velvet pull cord. In a few moments, a Minion warrior appeared.
“Take this young man to the princess’ quarters so that he may rejoin his sister,” Wigg ordered. “See to it that he is cleaned up and given some decent clothes. I want one of you to keep an eye on him and his sister at all times. They seem to have an unusually high predilection for larceny.”
The warrior clicked his heels together. “As you wish.”
Wide-eyed at his first glimpse of a Minion, Marcus was slow to rise from the table. Before leaving, he turned around and looked back at Wigg.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said.
Sighing, Wigg shook his head again. “I am the lead wizard of the Directorate,” he answered. “And I am not in the habit of dealing with pickpockets. Especially young ones.”
“Can you cure ’Becca’s clubfoot?” Marcus asked. “For as long as I can remember, it has been her dream to come into your Chamber of Supplication and request an audience for your help. If you cure her, I’ll even let you keep the bags of kisa.”
“As I remember, you no longer have the money,” Wigg answered. “It rests with us now. But leave it to you to bargain with something you don’t have. However, I did notice Rebecca’s foot. If it is within our powers to help, we will. But right now I want you to go, Marcus. We have urgent business to attend to.” Wigg then nodded to the Minion, and Marcus was escorted from the room.
“I’m assuming our urgent business is now with Grizelda,” Faegan said.
“Indeed,” Wigg answered. “And it should prove most interesting.”
The three of them stood from the table and headed for the Redoubt.
On the way Tristan requested that they go by the Great Hall, the room into which Faegan’s warp and Krassus’ destructive beams of light had been tossed. He was very curious about how much damage had been done. As they approached the room and walked in, the sight before them was disheartening, to say the least.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 52
