“Your argument is very enticing,” Wigg said skeptically from the other side of the table. “But again I must ask you, where is your proof?”
“In Egloff’s scroll,” Faegan answered. “You see, unknown to the rest of the Directorate, he was already deep into studying the blood of the screaming harpies and the blood stalkers. It was the sudden reemergence of these creatures after three hundred years that initially piqued his interest. He knew there had to be a logical reason. He used the waters of the Caves just as we have done here today, and his field experiments revealed the undeniable existence of an anomaly in their blood signatures, compared to the samples you and I took from stalkers and harpies during an earlier part of the Sorceresses’ War. Do you remember now? The early signatures had no Forestallments. But the later ones, the ones that surfaced just before Tristan’s coronation, did. It is my belief that near the end of the war even Failee could see that her cause was hopeless, and she planted the Forestallments within the remaining of her creatures, causing them to lie dormant until her eventual return. We never knew how it was that the stalkers and harpies suddenly seemed to vanish at the end of the war, then returned just when the Coven needed them. Now we do. This also proves the approximate time of her mastery of these incantations—very near the end of the war, yet after you and I took the initial blood samples from her creatures.” Lost in his thoughts, he closed his eyes for a moment.
“When coupled with the unexplained, similar anomaly in Shailiha’s blood, and her sudden ability with the fliers, it is the only answer that fits,” he added finally.
“But what activated the Forestallments within the stalkers and harpies, and at just the proper time?” Wigg asked, apparently becoming more convinced. “The Coven had been exiled from Eutracia for over three hundred years, and could not possibly know when or even if they would ever return. How did they know when the creatures would be needed, if ever?”
Faegan’s eyes became shiny with the unmistakable advent of tears. Using the sleeve of his robe, he wiped them away. “Telling you this is perhaps the most difficult of my duties this day,” he said sadly. “You are forgetting Emily, my only child, the first reader of the Tome. Also known as Natasha, the duchess of Ephyra. The unknown sorceress Failee so cleverly left behind. I believe it was she who activated the Forestallments in the stalkers and the harpies. This was designed to scare both the citizens and the wizards, just before the invasion of the Coven and the Minions.”
“I’m sorry, Faegan,” Wigg said compassionately. “I know how much all of this must hurt. But there is still one thing that doesn’t make sense. If Egloff knew all of this, why didn’t he tell us?”
Finally regaining his composure, Faegan looked at the prince. “Tristan,” he said softly, “would you please read aloud the date at the bottom of the scroll?”
The prince obediently unrolled Egloff’s scroll. “Seventy-third day of the Season of New Life, 327 S.T.,” he read aloud. The import of the date did not register with him.
Clearly, however, it was not lost on Wigg, whose mouth opened slightly in sudden realization. “So now we know why. . . ,” he said gently.
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“The Seventy-third day of the Season of New Life, 327 S.T.,” Wigg answered, “was the day of your ill-fated coronation.”
Tristan closed his eyes for a moment.
“This is why Egloff didn’t tell us of his findings, isn’t it?” Wigg asked Faegan. “He probably planned to do so right after the coronation. But as it turned out he never had the chance.”
“Correct,” Faegan answered. “The scroll confirms the fact that he had not formulated his final theories until late that day.”
Shailiha had suddenly had enough of talking about magic. She was deeply concerned for the well-being of both her brother and Wigg, and was determined to broach the difficult subject. “I wish to speak of what Tristan and Wigg suffered at the hands of Ragnar and Scrounge,” she said emphatically. The look in her eyes said that she would not be dissuaded. “There must be something we can do for them.”
Faegan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I truly hope you are right, my dear,” he said wearily. “But only a detailed study of the Tome will tell us whether we can help either of them. The problem, of course, is that such a thing takes time. And time is the one commodity that we are in short supply of . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment as he retreated into his thoughts. “Adding to the confusion is the fact that there are now other complications making the researching of the Tome particularly difficult.”
“Such as?” Shailiha pressed.
“First and foremost is the decay of the Paragon,” Wigg said. “Soon it may not be powerful enough to allow Tristan to decipher the Tome.”
Smiling bravely, Shailiha reached her free hand out and placed it atop one of her brother’s. If there was any way to cure him, she would find it or die trying. He had risked his life time after time to bring her back from Parthalon, and she would do no less for him. Realizing she was hugging the baby too tightly, she relaxed her arm and looked over at Faegan. “Please tell me what Tristan can expect, given his condition.”
Faegan lowered his eyes slightly. “Given the fact that he is the Chosen One and his blood is the most pure in the world, it is difficult to say,” he began. “I can only describe to you what has always happened to others of endowed blood. It will consist of a series of convulsions that are sometimes preceded by fever and sweating. The area of the original wound will grow weak and painful. In between these attacks the victim often feels fine, as though there is nothing wrong with him. But as the infestation progresses, taking over more and more of the victim’s blood, the attacks begin to come closer together. In the end one dies either during a convulsion, or due to his or her weakened state.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at the prince. “No cure has ever been found. In every single case, the victim died.”
Tristan looked into his sister’s face, seeing the hint of tears that crowded out from the corners of her lovely, hazel eyes. If I must die, at least I kept my oath to my family and brought her back from Parthalon, he thought staunchly. Not even Ragnar can take that from me.
After a long period of silence, Shailiha spoke again. “And what of Wigg?” she asked, her voice cracking a bit.
“Wigg was more lucky, should one choose to characterize it as luck,” Faegan answered. “I don’t believe that the powder used on him can kill him, though I don’t know if we can restore his sight.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “There is one ray of hope in all of this, however.”
“What is that?” Shailiha asked eagerly.
“The fact that both Wigg and Tristan were infected with the same thing—the brain fluid of a stalker, and the same stalker. Had their afflictions been due to separate causes, our task would be twice as onerous. And given the limited amount of time before us, the future would be much more bleak.”
Wigg cleared his throat. “We also now believe we know the reason for the bounty on the prince,” he said.
Tristan snapped his head around, staring intently at the wizard. “What is it?”
“Faegan and I discussed it at length,” Wigg answered. “The most obvious conclusion is that they want to keep you from doing what you are supposed to do—commune with your citizens in their time of need. Branding you a criminal will turn many against you, and the price on your head will embolden some to try to capture you. In this way you are also kept from garnering support and raising a civilian army to fight off their hatchlings, assuming such a thing is even possible. All in return for one hundred thousand kisa in gold that Ragnar can very easily conjure up, ultimately costing him nothing. Clever, when you think about it.”
“The hatchlings must be stopped,” Tristan said adamantly. “With the Royal Guard gone the nation has virtually no means of protection against whatever it is they plan to do.”
“True,” Faegan said, “but that would be difficult, indeed.”
Again the table went silent. Tristan recalled the death and destruction caused by the winged warriors during their relentless onslaught against his homeland.
“Wigg and I have considered that, but it presents a great many problems,” Faegan responded.
“How so?” Shailiha asked.
“For one thing, how would we accomplish it?” Wigg asked. “Even Faegan can only hold his portal open for one hour each day—hardly enough time to bring a sizable force through very quickly. The first time the Minions arrived here they came by armada. We still don’t know how they managed to cross the Sea of Whispers, or how long it took them. We cannot even be sure whether the Minions continue to accept Tristan’s rule over them, for we have yet to hear from Geldon and Joshua. In fact, we have no way of even knowing whether our emissaries are still alive. Until we do, we can assume nothing. If the Minions of Day and Night do not recognize Tristan as their true lord, once they are here they might decide to take the nation for themselves, or even join in with the hatchlings. For all we know right now, this could be yet another of the things that Ragnar wants us to do. We must consider all the possibilities before acting.” The lead wizard’s eyebrow arched characteristically over his right eye.
“Additionally,” he continued, “there is also the prospect of Tristan’s personal involvement. Even if the Minions accept his leadership, it is only he they will follow. And if he does lead the Minions in a war against the hatchlings, he will only solidify in the minds of the populace exactly what Ragnar and Scrounge have been saying all along: that the prince is not only in league with but also commands the ones who butchered their nation.” He left out a great sigh. “Ragnar and Scrounge have planned exceedingly well,” he added softly.
Closing his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Tristan turned away. He felt very frustrated—an emotion he didn’t always deal with well. And it seemed that no matter what was proposed the wizards always had a thousand good reasons why it couldn’t be done. He understood Wigg’s points about the Minions, but he still felt in his heart that it was the only way. If only Geldon and Joshua would return, he thought.
“And in addition to everything else, we still do not know why Ragnar abducted the consuls,” Tristan muttered discouragingly. “Or what caused the incredible azure glow that Wigg and I saw in his chambers.”
“That’s true,” Faegan said. “Or why Ragnar needs some of your blood.” Then a hint of a smile appeared on his face. “But I believe that there is now another within these walls who might be able to help us.” He looked over to Wigg. “Old friend,” he said compassionately, “it is now time to learn the truth.”
Wigg took a breath, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” he replied softly.
“Can you discern whether she is truly Wigg’s daughter?” Tristan asked.
There was an audible gasp, and he turned in dismay to see the shock on Celeste’s face. Her full lips worked silently for several seconds before she uttered a word. “D-daughter?” she stammered at last.
Wigg turned in the direction of her voice. “It is possible, my dear, though I would have preferred to bring up the subject more gently.”
Tristan tightened his lips and shook his head in annoyance at himself. He had to learn not to be so precipitious, he told himself harshly.
“But before we discuss it, we should ascertain whether it is true, I think,” the lead wizard continued kindly.
“You will activate her untrained blood with the waters of the Caves?” Tristan asked.
“Correct,” Faegan replied.
“But what will that tell us?” Tristan countered, a puzzled look on his face. “Her blood signature, like everyone else’s, will be unique, will it not? How does that in any way indicate who her parents were?”
Smiling into the prince’s face, Faegan said, “Failee, onetime wife to Wigg, lead wizard of the Directorate. Blood signature, please.”
With that, yet another of the many drawers obediently opened, and a single sheet of parchment floated into place atop the table next to the others. The prince looked down at the blood signature.
“I still don’t understand,” Tristan said. “How does this help?”
“Look at each of the blood signatures in turn,” Faegan replied. “First Wigg’s, then Shailiha’s, and finally Failee’s. What is it they all have in common?” He smiled craftily. “I will even give you a hint. In a way, it is actually their differences that make them the same.”
Truly puzzled, Tristan looked down at the signatures for some time. To his eye, each of them seemed unique. “I still do not see it,” he answered.
“That is because you are looking past it, not at it,” Faegan said.
“I see it!” Shailiha suddenly said from the other side of the table.
“And that is?” Faegan asked.
“The tops are all made the same way, as are the bottoms,” she answered.
Faegan smiled. “Please explain.”
“In each of the signatures, there is a basically horizontal dividing line. All this time I had been regarding the signatures as a single design. I can now see a duality present in them that I had missed before.”
“Please go on.”
She furrowed her brow for a moment. “The lower portions are made up of straight lines, connected by sharp angles. But the top halves are softer, more fluid, and more roundly shaped.”
“And this helps us with our problem because . . .” Faegan said.
“I still do not know,” she answered.
“Go back to the word you yourself used to describe them,” the crippled wizard said gently. “That word was ‘duality.’ ”
She tilted her head for a moment. “Duality,” she said softly. “That means two sides. We are looking for two things, the mother and the father.” Her face lit up. “One of the halves represents the signature of the father, the other that of the mother!” she exclaimed.
“Excellent!” Faegan said. He looked over to see that Wigg was also smiling. “Now tell me, which is which?”
“The lower halves, the ones of the sharper angles and straight lines, are probably of the fathers,” she said. “And the top halves, the more fluid and softer of the two, would be from the mothers.”
Faegan sat back in his chair to give Nicodemus another scratch. “Well done, Your Highness,” he said softly.
“Indeed,” Wigg replied.
“I then take it that Celeste’s signature, if she is truly the product of Wigg and Failee, will be made up of Wigg’s male signature, and Failee’s female signature,” Tristan interjected. “This is why each signature of the endowed is the same in some ways, yet completely different in others.”
“Exactly,” Faegan answered. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
Narrowing his eyes, he enchanted two incisions into the parchment containing Wigg’s signature, neatly separating the upper from the lower. The bottom part then floated over the table to neatly cover the lower half of Failee’s signature, creating a new one.
Faegan sat back again in his chair, obviously pleased with the results of his labors. “If Celeste is truly the daughter of Wigg and Failee, then this is what her signature shall look like,” he said simply. “The top half indicating the father, the bottom half the mother. The result will be inviolate. She either will be their child, or she won’t.”
Tristan looked over to Wigg. He could tell that the old one’s anticipation was mounting by the second.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Tristan said.
“How so?” Faegan answered.
“You said that only twins, such as Shailiha and myself, have identical signatures. But if the blood signature of a child is always constructed in this way, then how is it that all of the children born of the same set of parents do not have identical signatures?”
Tristan snorted in disbelief. He remembered the day not so long ago when Wigg told him how the study of the craft was infinite. Little did I know, he thought.
Wigg turned his white eyes to Celeste. “My dear,” he said softly, “give me your hand.”
She slowly placed her hand into his.
Wigg felt along the length of it, stopping at the tips of her fingers. “Do you remember what I did to you in the forest?” he asked gently.
“Yes.”
“And did it hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
“I am going to do the same thing to you now, nothing more.”
Almost immediately, a small incision began to appear. “Faegan, if you please,” Wigg said.
Reaching out, Faegan turned her hand over, and the single drop of bright red blood landed softly on the parchment that held the combined blood signatures of Failee and Wigg. He then poured a single drop of water from the Caves onto it.
Tristan watched, transfixed, as the fluid moved and the design began to take shape. After a few moments he could clearly see the result.
The two blood signatures looked identical.
Faegan reached past Celeste and gripped his old friend’s shoulder.
The Gates of Dawn Page 29
