The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Forgive me, Father, he cried silently. And then he left the palace, hoping to leave behind the ghosts that plagued him so.

  Guiding Pilgrim along the rather dark and muddy path, he knew in his heart that he was not visiting the graves simply as a favor to his sister. He was also going for himself. Turning his palms over, he could see the scars on each of them—the results of the blood oath he had taken upon himself the last time he had come here.

  He stopped Pilgrim a short distance from the grave site and tied him to a tree. Then slowly, silently he drew his dreggan and stepped into the moonlit clearing.

  This place had been chosen for the royal cemetery both because of its secluded location, and the fact that it overlooked one of the finest views of Tammerland. One side ended just short of a very high cliff; the other three sides were surrounded by forest. The graves appeared to be undisturbed, and for that he was thankful. The forest surrounding the grave site rustled quietly in the wind, the only other sound the quiet, reassuring calls of the tree frogs. Both the dew and the remains of the recent rain covered the ground, shimmering in the light of the three red moons. Everything seemed peaceful, and deserted.

  Then, as Tristan started toward the graves, he realized that he was not alone.

  Someone was standing across the clearing, his dark robe blending into the edge of the woods to Tristan’s left. The hood of his robe was up over his head. His face bowed down and his hands clasped in front of himself, he was apparently giving homage to the dead. Heart racing, Tristan waited to see what the stranger would do. And then it hit him.

  He’s a consul of the Redoubt, he realized. He must be. Who else would wear such a robe and pay his respects to these graves? But how did he know who was buried here?

  The unknown consul began to sob. Tristan debated whether he should make his presence known. After all, the consuls were friends. Thinking back to Joshua’s plight, he thought that perhaps this consul had suffered the same fate of losing his entire squad to brigards—or to those so-called birds of prey. But before the prince could make up his mind, the consul started to move. Running as fast as he could, the consul headed directly across the tops of the graves and toward the edge of the cliff.

  Tristan froze. The consul was committing suicide!

  The prince dropped his dreggan and tore from the edge of the forest, running across the graves at a right angle to the speeding consul. But the consul had been too fast, and Tristan had to change direction to have any hope of catching him before the man went over. With a last effort of will the prince launched himself forward, tightly gripping the consul around the knees. They both landed hard upon the wet earth, skidding to a stop just feet from the edge.

  Tristan immediately got up on both knees, trying to turn the consul over to speak to him and to get a better look at his face. What he got instead was a quick, unexpected fist to the side of his chin—a very hard right that nearly knocked him unconscious. The consul then tried to push the prince away with pounding fists.

  Tristan’s first reaction was to raise a fist to strike back, but he stopped himself. No doubt the consul did not realize who the prince was—only that he had been suddenly attacked. If the man was truly alone, he was probably frightened to death, especially if he had lost his squad.

  Lowering his fist, Tristan held the consul’s arm strongly with one hand, and pulled back the hood of the man’s robe with his other. What he saw there in the moonlight took his breath away. The person in the robe was a woman.

  Tristan sat there, stunned. Not only was this person no consul, but she was the most intensely beautiful woman he had ever seen. When the Parthalonian Gallipolai named Narissa had died in his arms, he had felt sure no other woman would ever equal her raw, physical beauty. But now he knew he had been wrong. Still holding her arm, he simply sat there in the wet grass, staring.

  She leveled her eyes upon his with a look that seemed to go straight through him. “You’re hurting me,” she said hesitantly. There was a great deal of fear in the dark, husky voice, and her declaration to him was more than a simple statement of fact. It was an undeniable plea to let her go.

  Unsure of what to do, he kept her in his grip. “If I release you, do you promise not to try to kill yourself again?” he asked. Knowing that a battle of wills had begun, he looked hard into her eyes. The memory of her blow still recent, he smiled slightly, rubbing his chin with his free hand.

  “I suppose it really is true,” he said wryly. “No good deed goes unpunished. And I shouldn’t like to be struck again, especially since my deed was such a truly good one.” One corner of his mouth came up in hope that she would return his smile, but she did not. “Do you promise not to try for the cliff?”

  “No,” she said simply.

  Nonetheless, he let go of her arm. As a precaution, he turned his body slightly. Sitting directly across from her would make it much harder for her to get past him. The knowing look in her eyes told him she was well aware of what he had done. Still, she did not speak.

  Tristan used the moment of silence to take in her beauty. Thick, dark red hair that was parted on the side cascaded in undulating waves down past her shoulders. A small swell of those same waves curved gracefully down over part of her forehead, all the while turning slightly in the night breeze. Below the hairline were large sapphire eyes, heavily hooded but never seeming to blink. Her gaze was commanding, and direct. The whites of her eyes could be seen completely encircling the bottom portions of her irises, giving them a knowing, seductive quality. Dark, fine eyebrows arched up and over them gracefully; the slim nose rested above a mouth whose lips were almost too full. The high cheekbones and perfect, white teeth helped complete the picture, the final detail being just a hint of a cleft in the firm, proud jaw.

  Although the rest of her was covered by the robe, he could tell that her form was tall, yet curvaceous. Strong, yet also sensual. He caught just a hint of myrrh from her hair as the night breeze flowed around them.

  He looked at her robe. Dark blue, and obviously far too large for her, it had clearly once belonged to a consul of the Redoubt. But how had she acquired it? She might have stolen it—but how could she have managed to steal the robe of an endowed consul? Had there been another, more insidious reason for her to come to these cliffs in the middle of the night? He also sensed danger. Given the alarming information he and the wizards had just acquired from the consul Joshua, he was determined to learn more. Beautiful woman or not.

  “Who are you?” he asked gently.

  “No names,” she responded quickly. “Nor do I wish to know who you are.” Her tone told Tristan that she was doing her best not to seem afraid.

  “Why are you wearing that robe?” he pressed. “Where did you get it?”

  He thought he saw a touch of sadness come to her face, but she regained her composure. “It is of no matter.” She frowned, running one hand back through her hair. As her locks moved heavily across her shoulders, the scent of myrrh came to him again.

  “Why were you trying to kill yourself?” he asked bluntly. “There are easier ways to do it if you’re really serious about it.” He smiled, hoping for some hint of her mood lightening.

  Her eyes closed for a moment and opened again, this time with just a glimmer of shininess. “It’s easy for people like you,” she said softly, looking directly at him. “Besides, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Her face lowered slightly. “You want to live,” she whispered.

  Her words went through the prince’s heart like a knife. I’ve captured a bird with one wing down, Tristan realized. And I don’t even know who she is.

  He looked up to the sky, realizing that he must finish his business and leave soon if he was to return to the Redoubt before daybreak.

  “At least tell me where you live,” he said to her. “Perhaps I could see you again. We could talk further.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away.

  “No,” she said simply.
She began to stand up. He stood with her, making sure she did not try to run off the cliff. Her eyes were almost on the same level with his.

  “You have done me no favor by saving me from myself this night,” she said sadly. “And it would be impossible to involve you in my life.” She paused for a moment. “Besides, you would not like what you found there. Your heart would never survive it.” The shininess had reappeared in her eyes. Blinking her tears into retreat, she again proved herself the mistress of her emotions.

  “Is your situation truly so bad?” he asked her honestly. “Perhaps I could help.”

  “No one can help me,” she told him. “It would be foolish of you to try.”

  “At least promise me that you will no longer try to take your life,” he said seriously. “You are far too beautiful to leave this world so early. The Afterlife can wait.” He reached out to touch her cheek. Almost as if it were a habit, she flinched.

  “I cannot make such promises,” she said. “But if for some reason you cared enough to save me from myself, then care enough to let me go without further questions. Just let me leave this place, and you may then do whatever it is you came for.” The sapphire eyes did not waver as they stared into his own with strength and candor.

  He had no choice, and he knew it. No matter how badly he wanted to know more about why she was here, there was no time. Another Tristan from another time would have let her go and then followed her, his curiosity overriding his common sense. But not this Tristan—and not on this night.

  This Tristan would honor his promise to his sister, then return to the Redoubt. Taking this mysterious woman with him was out of the question. He felt his heart tug, knowing he would most probably never see her again. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “You are not my prisoner, and you are free to leave. But if you can, please find some peace for yourself in this life. You are far too rare a thing to live in such pain.”

  Her expression softened a bit. “Thank you,” she said. With that the nameless woman walked away into the forest, the leaves and branches closing behind her.

  A final, brief hint of myrrh came to his nostrils and then quickly vanished, telling him she was gone. He stood there, gazing at the place where she had reentered the forest. He wondered again who she really was. But his heart told him he would never know.

  He turned to the graves. Going down on both knees before them in the fading moonlight, he bowed his head and grasped the gold medallion around his neck with both hands. He remained that way for a long time.

  So much had happened to him, yet so much still seemed unresolved. He missed his parents deeply, just as he missed the wizards of the Directorate who were also buried here. This small clearing by the cliffs would always have a special place in his heart of hearts.

  Finally he stood and walked to the edge of the clearing to retrieve his dreggan. Before he left the little glade he turned, almost hoping to see her there again. But of course he did not.

  When he returned to Pilgrim, the horse immediately rubbed the length of his face against Tristan’s shoulder, telling the prince it was good to have him back. Tristan mounted and wheeled the horse around. The morning sun was just beginning its struggle up over the jagged horizon of the mountains as he made his way sadly back to the Redoubt.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Faegan sat in his wooden chair on wheels, happily playing his magnificent, centuries-old violin, one of the few personal treasures he had allowed himself to bring from Shadowood. All around him, the fliers of the fields turned and wheeled through the air, their colorful wings tracing delicate patterns as if in response to the music. Sometimes they teased him, flying close then suddenly darting away; sometimes they actually landed upon his shoulder or knee as he played. Each one had a body as long as a grown man’s forearm, with a wingspan of several feet. And each pair of diaphanous wings contained a riot of colors, in patterns that somehow were never duplicated from one flier to the next. There was nothing else like them in the world, and they were particularly special to Faegan.

  He had not personally created the giant butterflies, for they had become endowed more than three centuries earlier, due to their accidental consumption of the waters of the Caves of the Paragon. But it was he who was responsible for the amazing attribute that set them apart from all the other creatures of the world, save man himself. For these butterflies were able to communicate with humans.

  One of the first things Faegan had done upon arriving at the Redoubt was to construct an aviary for his winged treasures. He had spent several days conjuring it from one of the larger rooms. The chamber in which he now sat was over three stories tall, made from light blue marble, and lit by numerous glowing oil lamps. A balcony provided a wonderful view of the entire space.

  Inlaid into the floor of the room were two very large, black marble circles. One contained the letters of the Eutracian alphabet, fashioned in white. The other contained the numbers one through ten, all fashioned in red. Recently Faegan had been busy trying to teach the butterflies the basics of the Eutracian numerical system. Wigg had originally been rather critical of the elder wizard spending so much of his time in this manner, but he had finally relented when Faegan had explained.

  We may have great need of these friendly, beautiful creatures, the master wizard had said. And perhaps much sooner than we would like to think.

  So far Geldon had been their only link to the outside world. They had briefly considered sending one or more of the gnomes out into the city to collect information, but they were afraid that would only invite undue attention, since none of their kind had been seen in this part of Eutracia for over three centuries. Therefore it was Faegan’s plan to eventually use the butterflies, who could fly unseen—at least at night—and reach places the gnomes and Geldon could not. Using the two wheels in the floor, they could then report their findings.

  He laid his violin gently down on his lap. Then he raised a hand, and a particularly beautiful flier of violet and yellow came to rest upon his forearm. It remained there calmly, slowly opening and closing its great, elegant wings. They sat there, man and butterfly, regarding each other.

  Faegan knew of Wigg’s impending presence long before he saw him. Wigg approached slowly, coming to stand next to the elder wizard’s chair. He admired the fliers as they soared about the room.

  “And how does it progress?” he asked.

  “They are coming along well, but are still not yet ready,” he replied. “I fear they still need more time than we may have, especially since we are unsure of the dangers that seem to be gathering against us.”

  Wigg leaned his long, lanky frame against the balcony rail. “Do you have any more thoughts about Joshua’s flying creatures?” he asked hopefully. “I have been endlessly scouring the libraries here for a clue, but I have not yet found anything to enlighten us. Other than the fact that they are of the Vagaries, they remain a complete mystery.”

  Faegan scowled. He had not been able to produce more insight into the situation other than his initial, cryptic quotation from the Tome. He slammed his free hand hard on the arm of his chair in frustration. Startled, the yellow-and-violet flier flew away. “You realize, Wigg, that we are looking in the wrong places,” he said. “If we truly wish to solve this riddle, there is another, far more valuable source where we must seek the answer. Perhaps when Geldon returns, he can tell us it is safe enough to venture out.”

  “Yes,” Wigg said sadly, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “Perhaps.”

  Each knew what the other was not saying: that the truth of whatever was behind both Joshua’s birds of prey and the mysterious disappearance of the consuls could most probably only be found in the Tome, somewhere within the volume of the Prophecies—the only volume Faegan had not read. But the Tome was deep inside the Caves of the Paragon. Faegan sighed. The Caves might as well have been a thousand leagues away, for all the good they could do them right now.

&
nbsp; “And how is Joshua?” he asked.

  “He is better. Now that he is eating properly, his strength continues to improve. But despite my continued questioning, he has been able to add little to his original story. It appears that everything happened so fast, much of it is still just a blur to him. Perhaps it always will be.”

  The two wizards remained quiet for a time, lost in their individual thoughts as they watched the fliers soar about the aviary.

  At last Faegan decided to force himself free of his depression. Carefully placing the violin on the floor, he called on the craft and suddenly levitated his chair up and over the brass rail, joining the fliers. Laughing raucously, he whirled about the room, chasing the magnificent butterflies.

  Wigg simply scowled. Placing his weight upon one foot, he folded his arms across his chest, shook his head, and arched his right eyebrow sarcastically. Despite his mastery of the craft, he can be such a child! he thought, irritated. There was a task they both needed to attend to, and now was not the time to be frolicking with butterflies.

  “You really must try this!” Faegan exclaimed as the giant butterflies careened and swooped about him. “Come on, Wigg!” he shouted. “Don’t be such an old curmudgeon!”

  Smiling widely, the wizard in the chair soared to the brass rail directly before Wigg and hovered there. Two brightly colored fliers came to land, one upon each of Faegan’s shoulders. As far as Wigg was concerned, it only made the entire situation more ridiculous: Faegan looked more like some bizarre vendor at a Eutracian province fair than the most powerful wizard in the world.