Shailiha is so much like her, he thought. And I am so fortunate to have her back in my life.
His sister turned to smile at him, but he could tell her expression was a bit forced. Clearly, his impending departure weighed heavily on her mind.
“Where did the loom come from?” Tristan asked her. “I thought everything in the palace was destroyed or looted.”
“Wigg was kind enough to conjure it for me,” she answered. “It helps to pass the time, and somehow seems to help keep me closer to the memory of our mother.” She paused for a moment, then looked up into her brother’s eyes.
“You’re leaving sooner than expected, aren’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Tristan nodded. “Wigg and I thought it best we leave in the dark.”
“I see,” she said softly. “Then I shall have to see to it that Morganna and I give you a proper good-bye.”
Standing, she looked at him and was struck again by how much he had changed. She glanced at the weapons he constantly carried, one of which—the dreggan, the curved sword of the Minions—was still rather unfamiliar to her.
“You look like you’re going into battle,” she said darkly. As she so often did when distressed, she bit her lip.
He grinned. “Don’t worry. Wigg will be with me. Should anyone try to interfere with us, he probably won’t even need his magic. In truth, I doubt there’s anything his sarcasm can’t overcome. He will probably just insult them to death.” He laughed, trying to lighten her mood.
He walked across the room to the crib and looked down into the face of his niece, Morganna. She always seemed to be such a happy baby. What hair she had was wispy, blond fluff; her large, expressive eyes were blue, like his own. He knew it was too soon to determine what her coloring would eventually be, but something told him she would remain blond, like her mother and her grandmother.
Looking down at her, his own sad memories of leaving his son in the little grave in Parthalon came back to revisit him. He no longer struggled to push away the pain of these thoughts, as he had tried to do immediately following the tragedy. There was clearly no longer any use in trying. His memories of burying the child had been returning to him in very graphic dreams lately. Several times he had almost talked to Wigg about it, to see if there was anything in the craft that could be employed to help make the nightmares stop. But in the end he had decided to hang on to his memories, the nightmares included, and let them come whenever they may. For it was all of Nicholas he had left.
Nicholas should be here, in the family cemetery. One day I will bring him back, and bury him where he rightfully belongs. He heard Morganna coo up at him then, and he returned his attention to the living, breathing child who lay before him.
Shailiha walked next to him, linking her arm in his, her smile apparently genuine as she too looked down into the crib. “So tell me something, little brother,” she teased, wrinkling her nose up at him in that special way of hers. “Just what is it that you did not wish to tell the wizards this afternoon in our meeting with them? I got the distinct impression you were hiding something. What exactly happened out there last night that you aren’t telling us?”
Turning back to her, Tristan snorted a short laugh of surrender. He might as well give in. She would be relentless in this, just as she always was whenever his welfare was concerned.
“I met a woman,” he said simply.
“Ah. Well, that’s nothing new, now is it?” she teased. “And just who is this woman?” Her face became humorously conspiratorial. “Is she beautiful?”
“Oh, yes, very,” he answered, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes slightly at the memory. Thinking back, he could almost smell the scent of myrrh that had come from her hair. His face grew a bit more serious. “She is perhaps the loveliest I have ever seen.”
“Really!” Shailiha answered, one of her eyebrows raised. “That’s quite an accomplishment, given some of the ones you have been with. Tell me, what is her name? Perhaps I know her.”
“I seriously doubt that you know this one.” He smiled.
“The name,” Shailiha demanded, lowering her voice in mock ferociousness.
“I don’t know, Shai,” he answered quietly.
“You don’t know?” she exclaimed, far too incredulously. Shailiha shook her head back and forth in comic ridicule, while she waggled an index finger in his face. “You’re slipping, little brother! The Tristan I knew would have gotten her name and much, much more.”
She took in the almost serious look on his face and decided to press a little more. Reaching out to grasp his chin with one hand, she turned his head to level her hazel eyes on his. “Why, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were smitten!” She laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he answered tersely, determined to change the subject and regain control of the conversation. “I don’t even know who she is.”
“No matter. Your secret’s safe with me,” she teased. But just as in the old days she had something to hang over his head, and she loved it. They smiled at other, happy to know that their relationship was back to normal.
Then she remembered that he was about to leave her, and her face darkened. “Tristan,” she said, more softly this time, “what would our world truly be like without the craft of magic?”
He didn’t really know how to answer her. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But what concerns me most is the fact that if the Paragon, is depleted, neither Faegan nor Wigg will be protected by the time enchantments. Their powers will wane, and then they will most assuredly die. And time is short, making things even worse.”
Her expression became more introspective, and she reached to touch the medallion around his neck. “I want to help,” she said, “but there seems so little I can do. Tell me honestly—do you think there ever might come a day when the wizards would let me learn the craft?”
He could see the hunger in her eyes, and understood it well. After all, her blood was nearly the equal of his, so her desire for the learning of the craft must be nearly as strong. But ever since the Sorceresses’ War, the Directorate had banned the teaching of magic to women—a custom that he now found to be cruel.
“I hope you may one day be trained,” he said. “Just as I am to be. But for now, the emphasis must be placed upon retrieving the Tome and stopping the decay of the stone. Until then, all of our other wishes must be put aside.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. “I must go now,” he said softly. “Wigg will be waiting.”
“Before you leave, would you please tell me about the graves?” she asked. It was almost as if she was afraid she would never see him again. “Were they truly undisturbed, as you told the wizards? Did you tell Mother, Father, and Frederick the things I asked you to?”
He closed his eyes, trying to fight back the rising grief. “Of course I did, Shai,” he answered. “I got down on my knees and told them everything. And they heard me, I know.”
Closing her eyes in gratitude, she gave him a long embrace. “Come home safe,” she whispered.
“I promise,” he assured her. With that he turned and walked out the door, purposely not looking back at her. Looking back would have been much too hard—for both of them.
Shailiha reached down into the crib and picked up her baby. She held Morganna tightly in her arms, as if by keeping the child close she could somehow also keep her brother safe. Then she looked over at the door her brother had just gone through.
Suddenly, from deep inside her, a cold, gnawing voice told her something she did not want to hear.
Neither Tristan nor Wigg will come home to you the same men as when they left.
PART II
The Stricken
CHAPTER
Thirteen
It is not how much one hates that is important, but rather how that hate is manifested. Nor is it how much one plans for revenge, as much as how that revenge is carried out. And it is not even so much the form of the revenge itself
that matters, but how long one can make it last. It is therefore not in the doing of the thing that one derives the greatest pleasure—for the act itself shall surely be fleeting. No, it is much more than this. It is the sublime knowledge that the pain administered shall be never ending.
—FROM THE PRIVATE DIARIES OF RAGNAR, BLOOD STALKER
Geldon and Joshua stood in the cool morning sunshine of the country called Parthalon, looking down at the city that for over three centuries had imprisoned all of those deemed undesirable by the Coven.
The Ghetto of the Shunned.
The Ghetto’s walls had been repaired, the dwarf noticed, and the drawbridge over the filthy, dank moat had been reconstructed. The drawbridge was raised and locked, seeming to haughtily reject all visitors to this once-desperate place. The flags of the Coven had all been removed, and from their perch high up on the hill, Joshua and Geldon could see movement upon the catwalks that lined the top of the wall. But the area surrounding the Ghetto was strangely abandoned, an eerie sense of quiet pervading it.
The figures standing guard atop the walls of the Ghetto were easily discernible to the dwarf. They were some of the winged warriors and former taskmasters of the Coven—the Minions of Day and Night.
Joshua and Geldon had not been able to come to Parthalon immediately, as Tristan had wished. After discussing their journey with Faegan, the three of them had decided it would be best for the consul and the dwarf to be delivered outside of the city walls, rather than inside. This would hopefully allow them to take stock of the situation before trying to enter. And since the wizard’s only calculations for the portal would exit them at Geldon’s destroyed aviary in the heart of the city, he was forced to restructure the spell slightly. Despite the proximity to the original destination, it took him three days of working day and night to produce the desired effect.
The trip through Faegan’s azure portal was dizzying, but worse for Joshua since it was his first experience. Faegan had instructed them that when they wished to return home they should go to the exact spot of their arrival at high noon, just as Geldon and the others had done the previous time, that day not so long ago when Tristan had become the new lord of the Minions. The wizard would re-create the portal and hold it open for an hour each successive day, until such time as they returned.
The dwarf and consul had then walked into the swirling maelstrom . . . and landed in the grass at the top of the hill. It had taken them both several moments to regain their bearings and for the dizziness to stop. But they were now themselves again as they looked at the city below, trying to decide what to do.
“It is amazing!” the consul exclaimed softly. “Just as you said it would be. Did the Coven truly banish anyone here who was not to their liking?”
“Oh, indeed,” Geldon answered, his eyes still locked upon the drawbridge as he wondered what to do.
“Why did the Coven send you here, if I may ask?”
Geldon closed his eyes for a moment. “I stole a loaf of bread,” he answered sadly. “A simple loaf of bread. My family was starving, and I was sent here to languish. I never learned what became of them, or whether I have any descendants still living. I suppose I shall never know. It was shortly after my internment that Succiu, second mistress of the Coven, found me here and made me her personal slave.”
His hand automatically went to his neck, where he had worn the jeweled collar for three centuries, until its removal by Wigg. “She made me wear a collar. At night she would chain me to the floor of the Recluse, the Coven’s palace.”
“I’m sorry, Geldon,” Joshua said.
“We have other things to worry about,” the dwarf said quickly. “As much as I hate to say it, our only option seems to be to walk right up to the drawbridge and demand that the Minions lower it for us.” He gave the consul a hard look. “You have no experience with these beings, so let me do all the talking. I can only hope that there are some of those still present who will recognize me as a friend of the prince. Under no circumstances are you are to display your powers unless I order it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then,” the dwarf said with finality. “Let’s go.” With that the two of them began to approach the drawbridge.
As they neared the moat, about one hundred paces from the city walls, Geldon looked up to see two silver whirling disks flying toward them: returning wheels, the throwing weapon of the Minions.
He immediately grabbed the unsuspecting consul by the robes, stopping him short. The wheels, purposely underthrown, landed in the dirt at their feet. Geldon looked up to see the silhouettes of several dark, winged figures standing on the city walls, and he raised his hands high in a gesture of surrender.
The Minions would wish to speak first, to establish their control over the situation. Geldon gave the consul a tacit glance that spoke volumes. Joshua nodded.
“Come no closer!” a strong, masculine voice cried out from atop the walls. “We have express orders to allow no one near. If you persist in advancing, you will be killed! You have been warned.”
“I am Geldon, the emissary of the Chosen One, your new lord,” the dwarf shouted back. “I have come from across the Sea of Whispers to confer with you. This man next to me is Prince Tristan’s representative of the craft of magic. Are you going to lower the drawbridge, or must I return to Eutracia and tell your lord that you will not let the servants of the Chosen One enter?”
A long silence followed. Then, from atop the wall, came the next words.
“If you are who you say you are, you may enter. But first you must prove that what you say is true.”
Momentarily stymied, Geldon thought for a moment.
“Joshua, can you damage the drawbridge?” he asked the consul quietly. “For many of these warriors, violence is all they respect.”
“Yes,” Joshua answered. “I do not have enough power to destroy it completely, as Wigg or Faegan could. But I can surely cause it damage.”
“Good. When I tell you to, do so,” Geldon answered. He turned back to the figures on the wall. “Remove your troops from the area of the drawbridge,” he shouted. “For it is now you who have been warned!”
Complete silence followed for several moments as Geldon and Joshua waited. Then the dwarf nodded to the consul.
Joshua raised his hands. Slowly the familiar glow began building around them, and finally a small, azure bolt of energy flew from his hands toward the center of the drawbridge, making a great crashing noise as it hit. Splinters of wood careened and whirled into the air, some falling into the water of the moat.
As the smoke cleared, a neat hole could be seen directly through the drawbridge. The figures once atop the walls were gone. The drawbridge began to come slowly rattling down.
“You may enter,” a voice called out.
Geldon turned to look at Joshua. There was no going back now. Awkwardly they made their way across the sound sections of the shattered drawbridge. The scene that greeted them inside the city wall stunned Geldon.
Hundreds of Minion warriors were down on bended knee, just as they had been that day when they recognized Tristan as their new lord. And then, in a single, earthshaking chorus came the familiar oath.
“We live to serve!”
Hundreds of Minion warriors, kneeling before me—the onetime slave of the second mistress! Geldon thought in disbelief. But calmly, he said, “You may rise.”
Standing, the Minions were even more impressive. They were all large and muscular, most over six feet tall, some approaching seven. They were uniformly armed with both the dreggan and the returning wheel. They all seemed to have dark hair worn long; some of them had braided it down the center of their backs. Their uniforms varied slightly, but for the most part consisted of black leather body armor, with long leather boots and gloves. And over the top of each of their shoulders could be seen the tips of dark, leathery wings.
One of the larger ones stood before all of the rest, and Geldon took him to be the leader. He was tall,
with brown hair down the back of his neck and a matching, dark brown beard.
“Are you in command here?” Geldon asked bravely.
“Yes,” the warrior answered. “I am Rufus. There are approximately fifty thousand of us here.” The warrior stood before the dwarf with a defiant gaze.
Geldon realized he must be supremely careful in how he handled this. A revolt by the Minions was not something they needed to deal with just now. “Is there somewhere in the shade we could talk in private?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rufus replied. After dismissing his warriors to their duties, he directed Joshua and Geldon to a nearby building, where they sat together on the porch.
“We come under the protection of the Chosen One’s wizards,” Geldon said calmly. He indicated the consul seated next to him. “This is my friend, Joshua. He is the Chosen One’s representative of the craft while I visit here.”
Rufus looked with curiosity at the young consul. “You say little,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have no tongue?”
Joshua looked to Geldon, and the dwarf nodded. “Uh, er, yes, of course,” the consul answered politely.
Rufus snorted a short, almost insulting laugh, then turned back to Geldon. “At least it is good to know that you received our messages, asking for your help. That is why you are here, is it not?”
Geldon paused for a moment, his heart pounding. He took a deep breath. “Your messages?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” Rufus answered quizzically, furrowing his brow. “We considered sailing to Eutracia to express our concerns directly, as the armada we used to invade your land still rests intact at anchor just off Eyrie Point, waiting to be used. But it would have proven too problematic.”
Their armada is still intact, Geldon thought. But of course it would be! That could prove very useful.
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