Nicholas turned to Scrounge. “You may leave us now,” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” the assassin answered without hesitation.
When he was gone, Nicholas turned his dark, upturned eyes on the stalker. “You trust him completely?”
“Without reservation,” Ragnar replied. “He has been with me virtually his entire life. I discovered him as a young orphan, long after my partial conversion by the Coven. Although he is not blessed by the time enchantments as you and I are, his talents for killing and gleaning information are unsurpassed.”
“Good,” Nicholas said. “For just as you are my link to the Chosen Ones, Scrounge is our link to the outside world.” He paused for a moment, smiling. “In truth, our relative situations are not that different. The Chosen Ones and the wizards are imprisoned within the Redoubt. And we, for other reasons, are imprisoned here. But they will soon come to us, rest assured.”
Ragnar again touched the unhealed wound in his head, realizing he was in sudden need of ingesting more of the odorous, yellow fluid. It had been Wigg who had chained him to the ecstasy of his own stalker brain fluid—and it was that very liquid by which both Wigg and the Chosen One would suffer. Poetic justice indeed. He smiled.
Nicholas smiled back. “I have plans for the wizards. I also have very specific intentions for the Chosen One—my father of this world. None of them are to be killed, nor is my presence to be revealed to them until I tell you differently.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now leave me,” Nicholas said calmly. “I still have much to do.”
With that the stalker left the boy, making his way back to his personal quarters, where he wasted no time in grabbing up the vial containing the yellow fluid. He drank deeply, feeling its ecstasy ripple through him as it went down.
Revitalized, he replaced the vial and headed out again, this time to one of the several bedrooms he kept occupied. Without announcement he abruptly entered the room.
The woman seated before the mirror was his favorite of those he kept here. She looked up tentatively at him. Seeing in his eyes the power of the fluid, she braced herself for what she knew would follow.
He fell upon her, taking her roughly, as though she were a mere possession.
CHAPTER
Seven
It cannot be true,” Faegan breathed as he looked at the Paragon. It was lying on Wigg’s palm, and the lead wizard’s hand was shaking.
“Nonetheless, there it is,” Wigg answered softly. A quick glance at Shailiha’s bed reassured him that the princess continued to sleep peacefully. He looked back at the Paragon in his hand.
The square-cut, bloodred stone that sustained the power of the craft of magic would have seemed, to the untrained eye, to be quite normal. But to Faegan and Wigg its subtle, yet discernible alteration was readily apparent. Especially when coupled with the subsequently small, almost minuscule loss of power they had both felt in their blood during their time with the princess. Quite clearly, the Paragon was beginning to die.
The uncalled-for change in the stone was a calamity of unparalleled proportions. Such a circumstance had never occurred since the Paragon’s discovery, over three hundred years ago.
“Why?” Wigg whispered in horror.
“I do not know,” Faegan answered quietly but with equal emotion, moving his chair a little closer to the stone.
They both stayed that way, each of them trying to absorb the disaster that was unfolding before their eyes. What they were now witnessing had always been believed to be a complete impossibility. The continued, unchecked ramifications of this would mean the end of all they loved, had for so long held dear, and had so many times risked their very lives for. Faegan sat back in his chair, his normally crafty, mischievous expression replaced by one of defeat.
“How is such a thing possible?” Wigg asked. “The stone, provided it is being worn by one of the endowed blood, has kept its power for over three centuries. Why would it suddenly begin to dissipate?”
“I can only believe it is being influenced by someone or something beyond these walls,” Faegan answered, already lost within his own thoughts. “That is the only possible explanation, and the philosophy from which we must start. Although we still do not know how such a thing is possible, it must be tied to the appearance of Joshua’s creatures. Someone is once again practicing the Vagaries, and these two occurrences simply cannot be coincidental.”
Wigg wondered if Faegan even knew his hands were balled into fists. The elder wizard’s face was a study in contempt.
“How can you be so sure?” Wigg asked, his constantly skeptical attitude launching one eyebrow up.
Faegan closed his eyes. He searched his mind with the power of Consummate Recollection, attempting to retrieve the obscure passage from the Tome. After several long moments, he began to speak.
“ ‘And the stone shall one day begin to expire. With this shall come those of the scarlet beacons,’ ” he began. “ ‘The guardians of the stone shall therefore struggle to maintain its life in a great conflict, part of which shall be determined in the firmament. For if the stone dies, all those of the Vigors shall die with it, the child forever watching from his place of victory.’ ” He opened his eyes again.
“Yet another reference to ‘those of the scarlet beacons,’ ” Wigg ruminated. He carefully replaced the Paragon beneath his robes.
“Indeed,” Faegan answered, almost to himself. “But what disturbs me most is the repeated reference to ‘the child.’ The only child of importance I am aware of is Morganna, and for the life of me I cannot comprehend what meaning she may have in all of this. For she is truly an innocent.” Taking a deep breath, he shook his head in frustration.
“There is something else that makes no sense, assuming your theories are correct,” Wigg said cautiously.
“And that is?” Faegan asked.
The lead wizard turned back to the wizard in the chair. His right index finger went up into the air, just as it had done so many times before when he had been Tristan’s teacher. “Assuming that someone or something is indeed causing the stone to lose its power, you have postulated that this unknown presence is of the Vagaries. I now agree. And as the stone loses its power, so shall we. But because the stone empowers all of endowed blood, the force behind this shall therefore lose its powers as well. This will eventually render us all equal, and quite powerless in the craft. Why would such an endowed person or thing want to dissipate its own power of magic, despite the fact that we lose our powers as well? Assuming this scenario to be true, we all lose. It makes no sense.”
Faegan furrowed his brow and pursed his lips in thought. “Well done, Wigg,” he said. “A point that up to now had escaped me, much as I hate to admit it. Why would he or she want to do such a thing indeed?” Yet another question was now swirling its way through his mind, just as he suspected it was bothering Wigg. He finally decided to bring it out into the open. “Based upon the rate the stone is decaying,” he asked quietly, “how long do you give us before our powers become of no consequence?” He already had his own estimate, but wished to see what Wigg’s would be.
The lead wizard put a finger to his lips as he contemplated the answer. The loss of power he had felt had been minuscule, but real nonetheless.
“Several months, at most,” he said. “Then the craft as we know it shall cease to exist.”
Faegan’s guess exactly. Neither of them spoke for the moment.
“You realize what it is we must do, despite the danger?” Faegan asked finally.
“Yes.” Wigg had known the answer in his heart the second he had first seen the stone. He was immensely glad that Faegan, the rogue wizard who loved riddles and could prove so prankish, was alive and here by his side.
We shall need all of our combined talents to survive this, he thought. And both of the Chosen Ones must be told. For their help in this will be essential.
Saying nothing more, the two wizards left the room. Closing the door quietly behind them, th
ey entered the endless hallways of the Redoubt in search of the prince.
CHAPTER
Eight
As Tristan guided Pilgrim down the narrow, little-used path back to the palace, the sun was just coming up over the horizon. He knew he had to hurry if he was to return before his disappearance was discovered, but a part of him couldn’t resist flaunting the rules of the wizards. And he wanted to see more of the country he should have been ruling over.
Eutracia was in the waning days of the Season of Harvest. The leaves on the trees had long since turned scarlet and orange, and many of them had already fallen to the earth. The cities would normally have been teeming with trade as farmers brought their crops to market and the citizens bought their provisions for the coming cold period. But this season had been particularly harsh, bad weather destroying many of the crops. Coupled with the damage wrought by the Coven and the Minions there was now little to eat. That much they had learned from Geldon. And as the prince had made his way back to the palace this morning he had seen that many fields were indeed barren. His countrymen were starving before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to help them. The unusually harsh Season of Harvest was a sign that the next period, the Season of Crystal, would be particularly cruel. The thought made him shudder.
Adding to the problem was the fact that Eutracia was geographically isolated on all sides, allowing her no other nation with which to trade easily. Until Tristan and Wigg had learned of the nation named Parthalon that lay across the Sea of Whispers, the entire populace had always thought their nation to be the only civilization in the world. The jagged Tolenka Mountains bordered Eutracia on the northern, western, and southern sides, making a great semicircle of solid granite. A pass through the mountains had never been found.
The Sea of Whispers, the great body of water that lay to the east, had never been successfully crossed by boat until the exile and unexpected return of the Coven. Before this feat, no one had ever sailed farther than a fifteen-day journey and returned home to tell about it. No one in Eutracia even knew why it was named the Sea of Whispers; it just was. The prince had long felt that this great ocean held more than its share of secrets. One day, when his nation was whole again, he would try to discover what they were.
Traax, second in command of the Minions, might know how the warriors had been able to cross the Sea of Whispers, but the Minions of Day and Night were still in Parthalon. The thought of seeing the murderers of his family again, despite the fact that he was now their leader, gave rise to many mixed emotions within his heart. Because of this, his mind usually sheered away from the subject.
Before he entered one of the secret tunnels leading to the Redoubt, he wanted to view the exterior of the palace in the daylight. He wanted to be able to hold the image of his once-happy home in his mind, especially if it became necessary to spend another long period of time in the depths of the Redoubt. But as he finally came to the moat that surrounded the castle, he was dismayed by what he saw.
The very fine, pale gray Ephyran marble of the palace was scorched and destroyed in many places; the once-magnificent stained-glass windows were all smashed. Every sign of the lion and the broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland, had been eradicated. The drawbridge was lowered and partially destroyed, making him wonder about its safety. All of the once-beautiful flags of his family crest were gone. In their places flew the banners of the Coven, the symbol of the five-pointed star. Seeing this token made his blood churn with hate, and he did his best to remind himself that the sorceresses were dead, killed by his own hand.
He lowered his head for a moment, trying to comprehend the meaning of the death and destruction that had occurred here. He knew his life would never be the same. And then what was perhaps the most painful memory of all came to revisit him.
Nicholas, his heart whispered. Your firstborn, your heir, lies in a shallow grave in a foreign land. And it is your fault.
After what seemed a long time he finally opened his eyes and raised his face, as if by doing so he would somehow see the palace reborn in all of its previous glory. But of course it was not.
He turned to go, and then stopped, as his eyes focused upon something he had missed before.
Lying near the drawbridge, curled up in shadow, was a naked body. It appeared to be male.
He jumped down from his horse, drew his dreggan, and walked forward slowly, listening and watching as he went. When he finally reached the corpse, he had to swallow back bile.
The man lying on his side was of middle age, with red hair. Tall and athletic-looking, he was clearly dead and had been for some time. The tattoo of the Paragon could be clearly seen on his upper right arm. The prince slowly lowered his sword.
He rolled the body over carefully. When he saw the man’s face the air went out of his lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
One of the consul’s eyes had been gouged out. A rolled-up parchment, neatly tied with a red ribbon, had been inserted directly into the gaping socket.
Looking more closely, Tristan could discern a second, less-visible insult to the man’s face. There was a very small but deep hole directly in the center of the consul’s forehead. Dried brain matter and blood spattered its edges. The hole appeared to be a wound from an arrow, but it seemed too small.
Refocusing his attention on the bizarre parchment, Tristan reached out and removed it from the dead consul’s eye. The now-empty socket glared silently back at him, almost as if in anger. Tristan stood there for a moment in silence as he held the scroll, wondering whether to read it here or take it directly to the wizards.
Glancing quickly around, the prince saw that he was still alone. He quietly replaced the dreggan into its scabbard, then untied the red ribbon and unrolled the gory parchment. The note seemed to be written in blood. The hideous nature of its words made his endowed blood cry out for vengeance:
I enjoyed killing this one, and taking his blue eye,
Killing him was simple, yet I found it so sublime.
But please, dear prince, when we finally meet,
For your life do not beg and whine.
Please try to be a better foe, and more truly worth my time.
S.
His hands shaking with anger, Tristan rolled the parchment back up and replaced the ribbon around it. This murder had been committed in cold blood by someone truly depraved, one who also challenged the prince to the same fate. And killing a consul of the Redoubt could not have been a simple thing.
As Tristan continued to stare down at the dead consul and the scroll, he searched his mind for anyone with the first initial “S” who might want to kill him. Or, for that matter, who would want to kill one of the consuls of the Redoubt. No answers came.
But I will find you, wherever and whoever you are, Tristan promised himself. And you shall not find me such easy prey.
He hoisted the dead consul on his back and walked the body to Pilgrim, then laid it just before the saddle. As he mounted, he scanned the area around him, but saw nothing else of note. Finally he prodded the stallion toward the closest of the secret tunnels leading into the Redoubt.
The long, lean figure hiding behind the trees just past the prince’s gaze retreated farther into the woods.
Good, he thought gleefully. The Chosen One has found the dead consul and the scroll. This is even more than we could have hoped for. Now he will surely come to us.
He very quietly walked back to his horse and climbed up. Checking the odd, yellow-tipped arrows in the crossbow on his arm, he smiled.
One of these is for you, Prince Tristan, he thought. And your day shall shortly be upon us.
Launching his horse forward, the assassin named Scrounge quickly disappeared into the woods.
CHAPTER
Nine
Tristan was missing. His bed had not been slept in, and his quarters were empty. If for some reason he had actually left the Redoubt and not yet returned, it could only add to their troubles.
> The two frantic wizards ordered Shannon to go and awaken Joshua and have him join them in the quarters of the princess. Tristan might have slept the night in her room, watching over her. But Wigg felt in his heart that the prince was not in the Redoubt.
Wigg’s mood darkened even further as he followed Faegan down the hallways. They desperately needed the Chosen Ones now. The wizards knew they must win a battle against time if their world was to remain safe.
Tristan, where are you? Wigg shouted silently as they approached the princess’ door. After a soft knock, they heard Shailiha bid them to enter.
The princess was fully dressed and sitting in a rocking chair, holding Morganna. Her pale blue gown flowed beautifully down around her waist and ankles. The gold medallion that carried the heraldry of her family lay around her neck, twinkling in the soft light of the room. Morganna cooed softly, and the princess smiled and wrinkled her nose at the baby as the wizards walked in.
The Shailiha that Wigg and Faegan saw before them was the woman they had hoped she would be—the woman she had for so long deserved to be again. Her hazel eyes and firm mouth showed both her intelligence and strong sense of purpose, where for so long there had been only lost, sorrowful gazes. A happy, compassionate personality radiated outward from her, just as it always had before the coming of the sorceresses.
Shailiha was indeed an image of her mother, the late queen—except that the princess had more strength, and an even greater sense of purpose. Like her twin brother, she also had a commanding sense of both physical and moral courage. Unlike many other women of her day, she had never been afraid to speak her mind in the company of men.
“You are well, Your Highness?” Faegan asked first. He wheeled his chair closer to the princess, looking deeply into her hazel eyes. “No ill effects from yesterday?”
She smiled at him. “I feel wonderful, thanks to the two of you.”
“And the prince—have you see him today?” Wigg asked quietly. “Did he stay here with you last night?”
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