“Such a situation, namely our world without the craft, would be disastrous. Especially now,” Wigg said. “As time went on and our knowledge of the stone grew, the Directorate, through its compassionate use of the Vigors, was always able to keep control of the nation. We accomplished this via a monarchy that carefully ruled in the interests of the populace as a whole. Chaos is the natural order of the universe, and without the use of the craft to combat it and keep it in check, it will no doubt return. True anarchy will reign, just as it did during the Sorceresses’ War of three hundred years ago. And this time there will be no Paragon to save us.”
Tristan turned to his sister and saw in her eyes the pain that matched his own. She placed a hand over his, telling him that whatever they must endure, this time they would at least go through it together.
“Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this?” he asked the wizards.
“No,” Faegan said. “That is the maddening part. And now that the country is in chaos and there is a price on your head, going out from the Redoubt in search of the answers is doubly dangerous.”
“Nonetheless, that is exactly what you and I must do,” Wigg said, looking at the prince.
Tristan knew that the wizards must already have something in mind, and he was eager to hear whatever it might be.
“It is imperative that you and I leave at once for the Caves,” Wigg said. “Faegan and Shailiha will remain here, with Joshua and the gnomes. Shannon will accompany us there, to watch our horses, while we are inside. While we are gone, Geldon will continue his travels to the outside, providing those living here with provisions and gleaning whatever information he can. Joshua will also remain here as he continues to recuperate.”
The Caves of the Paragon, Tristan thought to himself. I am finally going back to the Caves.
He could still remember that warm, bright afternoon as if it were yesterday. The day he accidentally discovered the Caves—the day so many questions about his life suddenly came brimming to the surface. He had followed Pilgrim there in the horse’s mad chase of the fliers of the fields. He had accidentally fallen into the Caves, only to awaken in an unknown world of magic and secrecy. To him it was a sacred place, and his heart had ached to return ever since he had first found it, but until this moment, the Caves had been forbidden to him. Now, the thrill of going back made his endowed blood rise in his veins.
“Can you imagine why this is our strategy?” Faegan asked him, distracting Tristan from his memories of the Caves.
Tristan was stymied by Faegan’s question. “I understand the Caves is a place of magic, and our many problems clearly have to do with the craft. But other than that I do not see your reasoning,” he replied honestly.
“Understandable.” Faegan smiled impishly. “Tell me, what have you learned about the blood of the endowed?”
Tristan’s mind went back to another unforgettable day not that long ago. He and Wigg had been in this very room, and Wigg had told him—at last—why he was special. Wigg had also explained that the blood of the endowed was actually a living entity of its own. But until a person was trained in the craft the blood remained dormant, sensitive to the waters of the Caves but unaffected by the Paragon.
Again the prince was without a sufficient answer. “Endowed blood must first be trained to become active. But my blood and Shailiha’s is untrained, and therefore technically dormant,” he replied, “despite my blood being azure instead of red, as a result of my experiences in Parthalon.”
“Correct,” Faegan said. “Now follow that concept, and tell me where it takes you.”
Layers of thought and deed, the prince reflected in frustration. He had no immediate answer, but tried to delve deeper into the mystery of the wizard’s question. And then, after some thought, a kernel of realization came to him. “My sister and I are different,” he finally said, almost to himself.
“Ah,” Faegan said, nodding. “And in what way would that be?”
“We will not be affected by the decay of the stone.”
Faegan smiled. “And why will you not be affected by the decay of the Paragon?” he asked.
“Because we have not been trained in the craft, our blood is still dormant. As such, we have little or no powers. Therefore, unlike you, Joshua, and Wigg, as the stone decays further, Shailiha and I will not sense it.” Pleased with himself, Tristan sat back in his chair. But the wizards were not done with him.
“And?” Wigg asked from across the table, the infamous brow arched up over his right eye.
“And what?” Tristan asked, perplexed.
“And what truth logically follows this fact that you have just told us?”
Tristan cast his mind back through all he had learned recently—and then he came right up against something he was sure he did not want to see.
“You and Faegan are the only two here protected by time enchantments,” he began. “The Paragon is decaying. Therefore, so shall the enchantments. This will gradually leave the two of you subject to both aging and the ravages of disease for the first time in over three hundred years.” He paused, closing his eyes briefly in pain. “But as for the rest of us, other than Joshua’s loss of the craft, we shall feel no change in our lives. For us, things will remain the way they have always been.”
“I thought time enchantments were forever,” Shailiha said quickly. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Keep the subject free of sickness and aging for all time?”
“An understandable assumption,” Faegan replied, “but incorrect. Consider the following: The time enchantments, like everything else of the craft, rely on the continuous power of the Paragon. As we said before, ours may soon become a world completely without magic. And such a world certainly would not be able to sustain time enchantments.”
Tristan hated seeing the stunned expression on his twin sister’s face. Neither of them had ever seen one of the wizards of the Directorate growing old or becoming ill. It was awful enough that most of the Directorate was now gone, murdered. The thought of watching Wigg and Faegan age and die was almost more than he could bear.
And then he realized what else Wigg had been saying.
“We’re going to retrieve the Tome,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. The Tome of the Paragon. The giant book that was rumored not only to explain the craft’s many secrets, but to reveal much of Tristan’s future, and the future of his nation. The first volume of the Tome was the Vigors, and was dedicated to explaining the compassionate side of the craft. The second went into the Vagaries, the darker, far more self-serving aspects of magic. The third and last was the Prophecies, or the foretelling—the volume that only he, the Chosen One, was destined to read. “And you are about to begin my training in the craft.” He could feel his blood sing with the prospect.
“Yes,” Wigg said, finally smiling. “It is now time for you. But perhaps beyond time for our nation. Eutracia desperately needs the powers that you will eventually possess. Powers that are fabled to be beyond anything even Faegan or I could ever summon. But time is not on our side. Eutracia needs your training now more than at any other time in her history. Perhaps even more than during the recent return of the Coven. Whatever training we can give you, however slight, may be of great help in augmenting our own power. It is something that we simply cannot afford to delay.” He paused for a moment, the smile on his face disappearing before he continued.
“In our estimation even the Coven, as powerful as they were, could not have accomplished this apparent draining of the stone,” Wigg added. “And if we are truly up against a power of the craft that can perform such a terrible thing, then we are immersed in the depths of something even more deadly than our experiences with the sorceresses.”
“But there is yet another problem,” Faegan added. “And that problem has to do with what may be our most important foe: time. Do you remember what Wigg taught you about needing the stone to decipher the Tome?”
“Yes,” Tristan said, now beginning to understand Faega
n’s ominous point. “The Tome is written in a different language. Wigg has sometimes referred to it as Old Eutracian. It is believed to be the language of the Ones Who Came Before—the civilization of ancients who preceded us here in this land. They were the ones who wrote the Tome, leaving it behind for ongoing generations of the endowed to find, and employ. Since I have not studied Old Eutracian, the only way I can comprehend the language of the great book is to wear the stone. It immediately allows a wearer of endowed blood to read the text.”
“Excellent,” Faegan said, giving an approving glance toward Wigg.
“But there is still something I do not understand,” Tristan said. “If Faegan has the power of Consummate Recollection, then why can’t he simply recite the entire Tome to us, here in the Redoubt? Can we not find the answers we need without making this journey?”
“Although I have read the first two sections of the Tome, I have not read the Prophecies,” Faegan said sadly. “To do so is forbidden by anyone but the Chosen One. Wigg and I fear that much of what we may need, not only to help stop whoever is doing this but also to train you, may well reside within that last volume. And if the Tome is not brought back to us soon, it is quite possible that whatever we learn from the Prophecies we might not be able to employ. Because by then our powers may be too weak.”
Tristan looked around the table at all of the people who were now so heavily relying on him. Shailiha, Morganna, Wigg, Faegan, Geldon, and Joshua. And then he turned to look at the dead consul on the other side of the room, knowing that the lives and dreams of whatever consuls were still left in the countryside also rested squarely upon his shoulders.
“As much as I wish to retrieve the Tome,” he said, thinking out loud, “there is great danger, is there not, in simply bringing it back to the Redoubt with us? We will be out in the open. If we are accosted and they manage to take it from us, we might never see it again. This sounds far too risky to me! Is there no other way?”
“I must agree with the prince,” Joshua interjected. “Master Faegan, the lead wizard has told me of the portal that you summoned to transport them to Parthalon and back. Could that not be used for this purpose, making it safer to transport the Tome?”
“There simply is not enough time,” Faegan said. “The portal is summoned to a specific location through a series of complex calculations. And in truth, I have only ever directed its use between Parthalon and Shadowood. It takes weeks to complete the computations for a new destination, and that is a luxury that we just can’t afford.”
Tristan tried to take in the ramifications of everything he had heard that day. So much bad news had arrived in such a short period of time that it was difficult to comprehend it all. The vanishing consuls, the decaying Paragon, and an assassin named Scrounge who killed for pleasure and was bent upon not only distributing wanted posters of him, but sending him taunting notes written in blood. Not to mention Joshua’s strange flying creatures and the fact that there might be at least one blood stalker still on the loose who might somehow be in league with the one named Scrounge. He wondered if all of this was somehow intertwined, or whether these events were random acts, a result of the madness sweeping the land. He thought of the nation of Eutracia, lost in the chaos that had been brought by the Coven.
It pained him to know that his leaving the Redoubt with Wigg would be hard on Shailiha. But he tried to take heart in the fact that here in the Redoubt with Faegan, Geldon, and Joshua was the safest place for her. Even he could not protect her as well as the master wizard in the chair, and he knew it. But there remained yet another concern, one that had been haunting him since his departure from Parthalon. He was still unaware of the status of the Minions of Day and Night.
The Minions—the savage Parthalonian fighting force of over three hundred thousand who were responsible for the sacking of his nation and the deaths of his family. Incredibly, he now found himself to be their undisputed leader. Traax, the Minion second in command the prince had left behind to carry out his orders, had seemed completely committed to doing whatever Tristan ordered. But that did not mean things in Parthalon had changed.
The prince had given several commands to Traax that day. He had demanded the elimination of the brothels and the freeing of the Gallipolai—the enslaved offshoots of the Minions who had white wings, instead of the customary black. He had also ordered the task of reconstructing the terrible place called the Ghetto of the Shunned, the holding area the Coven had employed to contain the “undesirables” of the nation.
I am not only responsible for the welfare of Eutracia, he thought, but now for Parthalon, as well. For the nation across the sea is not advanced, nor does it have any history of the craft other than the Coven. If they chose to, the Minions could cut the Parthalonian citizenry down like locusts through a wheat field.
“If Wigg and I are to go to the Caves, there is something that I insist be accomplished while I am gone,” Tristan said adamantly. “I wish for Geldon to be sent through the portal to Parthalon. I want him to review the actions of the Minions, and to be sure that the nation is still at peace. And I want to know the warriors are continuing to carry out the orders I issued. Far too much time has gone by without such an inspection, and in my temporary absence I wish Geldon to do it. He has the most experience of any of us in this regard. He is, after all, Parthalonian himself.”
Tristan turned to look at the hunchbacked dwarf, the small man of such great stature and heart who had come to their aid time and time again. “Will you do this thing for me?” the prince asked. “Will you go as my emissary and bring me back a report?”
Geldon was stunned, and his face showed it. He owed Tristan his life, and would do anything he asked—but what if the situation in Parthalon was not as it was expected to be? He looked around the table for a solution to his dilemma, and then quickly realized what it was.
“I will gladly do as you ask, Tristan, but I have one request,” Geldon said. “We do not know what this journey might hold. None of us has been back since we left. I would therefore ask that Joshua accompany me on this trip. I may need someone to help protect me. And clearly you, Wigg, and Faegan must stay here. Joshua is trained in the craft. He is not as highly trained as the wizards, I know. Nonetheless, his gifts would be of great help, should we find it necessary to use his skill to either impress the Minions or to actually try to fend them off.”
Well said, Tristan thought.
The prince automatically turned his gaze to Faegan and Wigg. They seemed far from pleased. But Tristan meant to have his way in this. The responsibilities he had left behind in Parthalon had come to weigh heavily upon his mind in recent days, and he needed to know. Without giving either of the wizards a chance to object, he spoke directly to the consul.
“Will you do it?” he asked Joshua bluntly. “Will you accompany Geldon to Parthalon for me?”
“My authority has always come from the lead wizard,” Joshua said without hesitation. “But you do need my services, and you are the Chosen One. Meaning no disrespect to Wigg, I will do as you ask.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said. The wizards remained silent, but Wigg’s arched eyebrow was as high up into the furrows of his forehead as the prince had ever seen it.
“Then all is agreed,” Tristan said with finality. “Wigg and I shall go the Caves to retrieve the Tome, and Geldon and Joshua shall carry out my orders in Parthalon.”
From the other side of the table the prince heard Faegan take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was as if the entire weight of the world had suddenly fallen upon the crippled wizard’s shoulders. The intense, gray eyes looked into the prince’s with a sadness Tristan had seldom seen.
“ ‘And the search for the volumes shall draw them into dark, unknown places. Their minds shall be turned and deceived, their endowed blood strained to the utmost. For it is only in this way that they may truly attain their prize. But the ultimate victory that they seek shall remain elusive and ephemeral, the child forever watching,’ ” Faegan said.
“Another quote from the Tome?” Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Faegan answered softly. “But as usual, its meaning escapes me.” He looked around at Tristan, Wigg, Joshua, and Geldon.
“May the Afterlife see you all safely home,” he whispered.
CHAPTER
Twelve
As Tristan made the long walk to his sister’s chambers, he couldn’t help but reflect upon how lonely this place was. Lonely, yet at the same time so incredibly beautiful. The Redoubt was gigantic in size, originally meant for the training of the several thousand consuls who had once inhabited it. The relatively few people who lived here now seemed lost within the expanses yawning before them.
He knew that Shailiha greatly missed both her husband and their parents. Despite the fact that Faegan, Geldon, and the gnomes would still be here with her, it would be even lonelier for her with him gone.
But he had mixed feelings about leaving, he realized, as he listened to the heels of his knee boots ringing out against the marble floor. Although part of him wanted to stay here with his sister and see personally to the safety of both her and her baby, he also longed to be outdoors. He selfishly wanted to feel his stallion beneath him again, and to take in the pine-laden scent of the Hartwick Woods. Tristan was a man of action, and always had been. When there was no task before him his spirit always died a little, these last weeks in the Redoubt having been no exception.
As he finally approached Shailiha’s door he knocked softly once, then twice more. At the sound of her voice, he walked in.
Standing in the doorway and looking into her room, his first reaction was one of shock. But then his mind slowly uncoiled, realizing that what he saw before him was only the re-creation of a pleasant memory, nothing more. Shailiha was sitting with her back to him, before a great loom. As she sat there calmly working the threads, her long, blond hair trailing down over her shoulders, the prince had immediately mistaken her for their late mother. Morganna had sat tirelessly at her looms, eventually passing the art on to her daughter. Just as the queen’s mother had taught her, so long ago.
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