The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Faegan knew what was happening to him. The poison was already causing the occasional agitation of Tristan’s blood, and therefore of his mind. He also knew that the first of Tristan’s convulsions could not be far behind. If the prince was not quickly cured of the poison, the unbelievably high quality of his blood might soon make him uncontrollable, even for the two wizards.

  No one in the room moved; no one spoke as they waited for the prince to calm himself. Finally, the attack passed. The tension in his face subsided, and he again took his place at the table. Shailiha placed an affectionate hand over his, giving him a small smile.

  Uncharacteristically, Tristan did not smile back. Instead, he focused his dark blue eyes on Wigg. “I believe you have some explaining to do,” he said bluntly. “What is Fledgling House, and who are the children Martha refers to?”

  “Indeed,” Faegan added from the other side of the table.

  Wigg took a deep sigh. “Tristan,” he began, “do you remember the first day I brought you to the Redoubt and you saw the nursery—the place where the sons of the consuls were being looked after?”

  “Of course,” Tristan answered angrily. That day, among many others, was one the prince would never forget. He had been overwhelmed at the amazing acts of the craft the many young boys were performing. The wizard had sworn him to secrecy on the spot.

  “Well,” Wigg said, “those boys were only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tristan asked.

  “I’m talking about Fledgling House,” Wigg answered simply. “When your mother convinced us of the need to begin training the girls in the craft, we decided to do so in secret, somewhere away from the boys and the majority of the consuls. You see, despite how long ago the Sorceresses’ War ended, there is even today great sentiment against the teaching of the craft to women. It was our hope that we could eventually introduce the trained females into the population gradually, thereby reducing confrontation, bigotry, and misunderstanding.” He sighed.

  “The neophytes of Fledgling House are neither sorceresses of the Coven, nor practitioners of the Vagaries,” he added. “They are only young girls, trying to do their best.”

  Tristan, his mind finally cleared of his rage, was stunned at Wigg’s words. How many more secrets have the wizards and our parents kept from Shailiha and me?

  “In any event,” Wigg continued, “the boys of the Consuls’ Nursery and the girls at Fledgling House were very special. Only those of the most highly endowed blood were allowed to enter these schools, and neither group of students knew of the other. Duncan, the headmaster of Fledgling House, was one of the very best of our teachers. I named him to the post myself. Martha, who is not of endowed blood, oversaw the other needs of the girls. Having one’s child accepted for training at Fledgling House or the Nursery of the Redoubt was truly deemed an honor.” Suddenly Wigg’s face became grave. “But now those very same children have been taken by Ragnar and Scrounge. And we still do not know why.”

  After many long moments, it was Faegan who spoke. “There is still something I do not understand,” he said. “You mentioned to Martha that it was forbidden for her to come here. Why would that be?”

  Wigg managed a half smile. “For the simple reason that she is female, of course. This secret place of learning is still available only to men, and Martha would be known only to those consuls whose daughters attended Fledgling House.”

  “Yet another safeguard?” Faegan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And Fledgling House itself,” Faegan asked. “Where is it located?”

  “A small castle was especially constructed for our needs, in the highlands between Ilendium and Tanglewood,” Wigg answered. “It lies just west of the Sippora, close to the base of the Tolenka Mountains.”

  “It sounds like a special place, Father,” Celeste interjected, calling Wigg by that name for the first time.

  “Oh, it is,” Wigg answered his daughter. “It is a very special place indeed.”

  “And how long has Fledgling House been in existence?” Faegan asked.

  Already knowing where this inquisition was heading, Wigg smiled. “The training began five years after the birth of the Chosen Ones. It took us that long to see the reason in Morganna’s plans, determine the site, build the castle and the nursery, and select the first groups of students.”

  Tristan looked quickly to Shailiha. The equally shocked expression on her face told him that she had also figured it out. “That was twenty-five years ago!” the prince exclaimed. “That means—”

  “Yes,” Wigg said, purposely interrupting him. “There is already one mature generation of females, at least partially trained in the craft, living in Eutracia. Presuming, of course, that they still live.”

  “But there is more to this, isn’t there?” Faegan asked. His eyes shone with certainty that he had unraveled a riddle. “These women, the first of their kind in centuries, were to eventually form their own group, weren’t they? Queen Morganna was apparently both wise and persistent.”

  “What do you mean?” Shailiha asked.

  “Unless I’m wrong”—Faegan smiled—“there was to have been an adjunct to the Brotherhood of Consuls. A secret sisterhood, if you will, made up of these women who had studied the craft. In this way two things could be accomplished.”

  Again Wigg smiled. “Go on,” he said.

  “First of all, if and when Shailiha was to be trained, the citizens would accept the princess more readily, if there were already other endowed women of training acknowledged in the kingdom.” Faegan smiled. “Cleverly done, Wigg.”

  “Thank you,” Wigg answered. “But you mentioned two reasons. What do you believe the other to be?”

  “The formation of this other secret society,” he mused, “would have finally given the queen something she wanted so much for Eutracia. Namely, equality for females of endowed blood.” Looking first at Tristan, then Shailiha, Faegan cackled in glee and slapped one knee. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I never had the privilege of knowing your parents, but all that I have heard about them leads me to only one conclusion—they were two of the finest persons in the realm.” He rubbed his chin with one hand. “And do these women now practice the craft?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Wigg answered. “But only in secret, doing anonymous good deeds about the countryside, like the consuls of the Redoubt. And just like the consuls, should any of these women attempt to practice the Vagaries, death enchantments would immediately be enacted.”

  “What are they called?” Shailiha asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Such men are called consuls,” Shailiha said. “What name was given to the women?”

  “We call them the acolytes of Fledgling House,” Wigg answered. “Just as the consuls all wear dark blue robes, the acolytes wear capes of the deepest red. And they bear a tattoo of the Paragon on one shoulder, as do the consuls.”

  “I see,” Faegan mused. “Considering everything that transpired, you took a great risk in doing this.”

  “The Coven had been gone for over three hundred years,” Wigg countered. “And the queen was adamant.” Smiling he turned his face in the direction of Tristan and Shailiha. “She could be quite persuasive, as well.”

  “All things change, don’t they?” Faegan asked. Then his face became more serious, his voice lowering. “And where are these women now?”

  Sighing, obviously not wanting to answer, Wigg placed his tongue against the inside of one of his hollow cheeks. “I don’t know,” he replied softly.

  Faegan leaned forward on his arms, more than a hint of disapproval showing on his face. “You don’t know?” he asked incredulously.

  “After they leave Fledgling House, they, like the consuls, are free to scatter throughout the realm,” the lead wizard answered. “They are waiting for the official announcement of the existence of their society by the Directorate—the Directorate that no longer exists. But as for keeping track of the
specific location of each of these women, well, that was the task of Tretiak. But of course, Tretiak is now dead.”

  “And did Tretiak keep any written records of these women?” Faegan asked.

  “Yes,” Wigg answered rather sadly, “but I do not know where. They could be anywhere in the vastness of the Redoubt.”

  “Do the consuls know of the acolytes?” Tristan asked.

  “Only those who are their fathers,” Wigg answered. “And they were of course sworn to secrecy. Just after what was to have been your coronation, the Directorate was planning to bring them all together at once—the consuls and the acolytes—and reveal the existence of one to another. It was to have been a wonderful day—one your mother was especially looking forward to. But then the stalkers and the harpies began to reappear, followed by the invasion of the Coven. Your mother’s dream of a sisterhood of the craft still survives, but she never lived to see it come to complete fruition.”

  “And how do we know that whoever is doing this has not gone after the acolytes the same way they have the consuls?” Faegan asked.

  “We don’t know,” Wigg said. “But I don’t believe they have.”

  “Why not?”

  “The training of the consuls has been going on far, far longer than that of the acolytes,” Wigg explained. “The oldest of the acolytes would be only about thirty New Seasons of Life, making them far less experienced—and thus less powerful—than most of the consuls. Also, there are far fewer of them. However, we cannot assume that the acolytes are safe. Our enemy may well be going after them—or have plans for them later. Only time will tell.”

  Scowling, Wigg laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table. Recognizing Wigg’s mood, Faegan finally became silent.

  Tristan sat back in his chair, stunned at the revelations that had just been unearthed.

  “But still more important questions remain, old friend,” Faegan said darkly.

  “Such as, why did Ragnar and Scrounge abduct the children,” Wigg replied, “not to mention the source of the power behind the strange, immense glow Tristan and I saw in the Caves.”

  The situation descended on the people seated at the table like it was the weight of the world. But to the minds of the wizards, things other than worry over Fledgling House had to take priority.

  “The rape of Fledgling House was indeed a travesty, as was the death of my friend Duncan,” Wigg said quietly. “Nonetheless, these recent events must not dissuade us from the most important of our goals. We must concentrate our efforts on the cure for the prince, and on solving the riddle of the draining of the Paragon. For if these two things are not correctly and quickly addressed, all is lost.”

  Wigg turned to his left, searching for Martha’s hands. Finding them, he took them into his own. “My dear friend,” he whispered, “despite your recent loss, there are still things of importance I would ask you to do for both the realm, and for myself. That is, if you will consent to remain in my service.”

  Her tears came again, and the kindly matron bowed her head slightly. “Anything, Lead Wizard,” she whispered back.

  “First, I would like you to help my daughter,” Wigg said. “As I will explain to you later, she is not really of our world, and knows nothing of either the history or customs of Eutracia. I would like you to teach her these things for me. Please instruct her as quickly as you can, so that she may become an equal, participating member of our group. Other than the prince and princess, her blood is of a quality never before seen. And I can think of no one more ideally suited to help her than you.”

  Martha looked over at the tall, red-haired beauty. “It would be my honor,” she said. “And the other request?” she asked.

  “That you would also care for yet another young lady, if need be.” Wigg smiled. “Unknown to you, there is a new royal in the world. Shailiha has given birth to her first child. A daughter, named after the queen. We have just learned secrets regarding new, unexpected talents that Shailiha now possesses, related to a spell lying within her blood. If these things are indeed true, her services may prove invaluable. Therefore, please care for the daughter of the princess if Shailiha is required elsewhere.”

  “Of course,” Martha answered.

  Although pleased to hear these requests, Tristan’s mind had already been taken to a different place. Parthalon. Ragnar’s hatchlings, thousands of them, are camped in Farplain. I must deal with them. And the only way to accomplish that is to bring back the Minions.

  He closed his eyes against the pain of his memories, wondering if he could summon up the courage to again confront the brutal, winged killers of his family. I shall do this, regardless of what the wizards say. And I must accomplish it before I die.

  “Wigg,” Faegan said from the other side of the table, “we have talked long enough. Now is the time for action. One of us should immediately recite the incantation for Celeste’s time enchantments, before any discontinuance is used by Ragnar.” He smiled again. “But I think, given the circumstances, the honor should be yours.”

  “Thank you,” Wigg said.

  “Shannon,” Faegan said, turning to the gnome, “would you please familiarize Martha with the Redoubt?”

  “Yes, Master,” Shannon answered. He and Martha started toward the door. The little man raised the ale jug to his lips again on the way out.

  “Now then,” Faegan said, looking to Wigg.

  “Celeste, please kneel before me,” Wigg said.

  Celeste obediently rose from her chair, going down on her knees before her father. Wigg reached out his hands, turning up his palms.

  “Place your hands in mine, close your eyes, and bow your head,” he said quietly. She did so. Then Wigg began the incantation:

  “Your form and substance shall remain forever new,

  The progress of time around you, rather than through.

  Of neither disease nor time shall you further fear,

  Nor the sands of the hourglass seem so dear.

  For from this time on you shall be forever the same,

  Frozen in the moment from which you just came.”

  The people at the table remained still as death as the familiar azure glow of the craft appeared all around Celeste. It filled the Hall of Blood Records with its majesty, increasing in intensity until Tristan thought he might have to cover his eyes. Then it finally faded away, leaving the room as quietly and quickly as it had come.

  “Arise my daughter,” Wigg said, quietly brushing away a tear that had formed in one of his milky eyes. “You are henceforth protected by my time enchantments. Now, even if Ragnar decides to discontinue his enchantments, mine shall protect you. But please always bear in mind that should you feel any unexpected shudder in your blood, you must tell us immediately. For that will mean he has discontinued his ministrations, and that is something we should know.”

  “Yes, Father,” she answered, her voice cracking slightly. “Thank you.” Celeste returned to her seat.

  “Princess,” Faegan said, “if you would, please place your child down on the table.” Shailiha did so, the baby remaining still and content.

  Faegan silently commanded one of the many drawers in the walls to open. Another blank sheet of parchment arose from it, coming to rest on the table next to the child. Then Morganna gently rose into the air, landing quietly back down on the paper. A tiny incision painlessly appeared in the first finger of Morganna’s hand, and a single, perfect drop of her blood fell to the paper. Morganna immediately began to cry, so Shailiha reached out and took the baby back into her arms, kissing the cut finger. Slowly, the baby calmed.

  Faegan poured a single drop of water from the Caves onto the child’s blood. The fluids then began to wend their way hauntingly across the thirsty paper, revealing the infant’s signature.

  At seeing Morganna’s blood signature, Shailiha’s first reaction was to take a sudden breath and cover her mouth with one hand, fearing that there was something wrong with her baby. Tristan was also perplexed. The signature looked
somewhat like the others he had seen this day, but was also radically different. Looking at it more closely, he finally realized why. The father’s portion of the signature was missing.

  “Is something wrong with my baby?” Shailiha asked urgently, pulling Morganna close to her breast. “Why does her blood signature look like that?”

  “There is nothing wrong with Morganna, Princess,” Faegan answered reassuringly. “In fact, had her signature been any different, you would have had some rather difficult explaining to do.” In that way in which only Faegan could, he smiled cattily at the inference. “Your husband, the father of this child, was of common blood, was he not?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her eyes still glued to the parchment.

  “As such, Frederick had no blood signature. Nor would he ever have. Therefore nothing of his blood can be shown in this way. Only your portion and the child’s own form Morganna’s signature. A ‘partial’ endowment, if you will, and entirely normal when one of endowed blood reproduces with one of common blood.”

  “Of course,” Shailiha answered softly. “Now I understand.”

  “But look more closely,” Faegan said. “For the reason I wished to reveal your daughter’s blood was not to teach you this, but to look for something else.” The princess looked down at the child’s blood signature again, and this time she saw it. There were branches leading off from it; they looked identical to the ones in her signature.

  She drew a quick breath, immediately understanding. “Morganna has my Forestallments,” she whispered. “It’s true. Forestallments can be passed from the parent to the child.”

  Faegan smiled. “Well done. This is exactly what I thought we would see. But we needed to confirm it with our own eyes.”

  “Is it really true?” Wigg asked from the other side of the great table. “Forestallments can be handed down?”

  “Apparently so,” Faegan said absently, thinking to himself. “But now the question becomes, will Morganna’s talents be the same as her mother’s or something quite different? Only time will tell.”

  “And now there remains but one more thing to do, before you and I turn our attention toward other, more pressing matters,” Wigg said to Faegan. “We must examine the blood of the Chosen One himself.”