Again and again she protested, telling them that they were all stronger together than they were apart. That they should all make a last stand here, in their home city of Tammerland, no matter the outcome. What had come over these two mystics that would make them want to turn and run away?
Have I been wrong about them all of this time? she wondered, feeling as if her heart were cracking in two. Without their powers, are the wizards craven?
And then her patience finally turned to anger. Anger at the entire world for bringing these awful events upon them, and anger at the wizards for what she saw as their cowardice. She didn’t want to run—she wanted to stand next to her brother and fight back. She looked up at them both. Her hazel eyes were resolute and defiant.
“I will not go with you,” she said, her jaw clenched. “Even if it means my death, and the death of my daughter. You may run away if you want, to protect your precious art of the craft. And take with you your famous magic stone and your unreadable sacred book, for all I care! For me, all that matters is the fact that Tristan is my brother, and our blood bonds us in a way that even the two of you shall never fully understand. Just as he was willing to go to the far corners of the earth for me, I will now stay with him until the end. And if that means dying by his side, then so be it.” She clamped her mouth shut.
Sitting back in his chair, Wigg let out a great sigh. “I told you she would never agree,” he said drily in the direction of Faegan. “She and her brother were truly cut from the same cloth.” The first smile she had seen from him all afternoon finally crept into the corners of his mouth. “So much like their mother,” he added softly.
“So it would seem,” Faegan replied.
Reluctantly, Faegan reached into his robes, producing a parchment. He rolled it out flat on the table as Shailiha skeptically watched.
And then he began to talk to her in quiet, measured tones, trying to make her understand. It was to become perhaps the single most important conversation of the princess’ life.
CHAPTER
Forty-seven
Tristan stood on the balcony of one of the great rooms of the palace, Traax and Ox on either side of him. Light, fluffy snow was falling gently through the slowly brightening sky; he hoped the weather would warm as the sun rose. Pulling his gray fur jacket closer to him, he stared down intently at the war maps that covered the marble conference table before him. He had been studying them most of the night, trying to discern the best strategic point at which to attack Nicholas’ hatchlings. He knew that his first, highly concentrated assault would have to be as devastating as possible.
For as outnumbered as he and his warriors were, they would most likely be denied the opportunity of a second one.
He reached out to bite down into one of the rich, brown rolls he had requested from the gnome wives, following it with their strong tea. The comforting warmth felt good going down. One corner of his mouth came up as he remembered Shawna the Short berating him for remaining out in the cold when he could have just as easily been inside. “You’ll catch your death,” she had said, one of her small fingers waggling before his face. He had simply smiled, knowing that standing here on the snowy balcony was surely not what was about to kill him.
Remembering a technique from his days at the royal war college, Tristan had remained here to try to become more accustomed to the frigid temperatures. He would need every advantage possible if he was to lead the Minions in the manner to which they were accustomed. They will expect me to endure all the hardships that they must.
Taking his eyes away from the maps for a moment, he looked out over the balcony and to the amazing scene outside. In the last two weeks it seemed the entire world had come strangely alive with the winged warriors he had once so hated.
Their campsites now stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Yesterday the wizards had sadly informed him that there would be no more Minions arriving from Parthalon. Due to his vastly decreased powers, Faegan could no longer hold the portal open. The truth, Tristan realized, was that the wily wizard was trying to preserve his remaining powers to help those still living below escape. And with this the prince had no argument.
Tristan rubbed his sore, severely weakened right arm. Each of our warriors must kill two of the enemy, simply to survive the struggle, he realized. And to win, many of them must kill three. Long odds against our survival, indeed.
It was his plan to attack the following day. Unless, of course, the hatchlings appeared earlier, forcing him into action. But in his heart, Tristan knew there was another, even more compelling reason that was keeping his son from unleashing his creatures against them.
Nicholas was waiting, still hoping that Tristan would join him in his struggle to return the Heretics to the earth.
For the thousandth time he attempted to fathom how things could have ever come this far. Both his family and the Directorate of Wizards were now many months dead, and he, impossibly, was the new lord of the ones responsible for their murders. The land he so loved had been made virtually barren of the craft of magic; the only remaining wizards willing to help him had become mere shadows of their former selves. And all of them here, at one time deadly enemies but now wary allies, were struggling to defeat a son he had believed to be dead.
“Chosen One all right?” Ox asked. He looked concernedly into the prince’s face.
Tristan smiled slightly. “Yes, Ox,” he answered. He and the two Minions had spent most of the night talking about their battle plans. Hearing footsteps in the adjoining room, Tristan turned. Wigg and Faegan were making their slow way out to the balcony, Wigg holding weakly onto Faegan’s chair for guidance.
As he looked at them, Tristan felt a great measure of sadness. The once-vibrant, powerful wizards appeared much older now. Their faces were sallow, and their bodies seemed sunken, almost hidden beneath their robes. The Paragon’s power will soon be gone, and then they will turn to dust, vanishing forever. And no doubt I will shortly follow them into the Afterlife.
Tristan, Traax, and Ox spent a good deal of time showing the wizards their plans. Wigg and Faegan listened intently. On more than one occasion the two wizards gave them advice resulting in a few minor changes in geography and tactics. But overall the wizards agreed with the strategies.
At last Faegan cleared his throat, something else apparently on his mind. “If you would be so good as to leave us,” he said to Traax and Ox, “we have private business with the prince. It shall not take long.”
The Minion warriors looked to Tristan. When he nodded, they each went to one knee. “We live to serve,” their strong voices said in unison. Then they flew off the balcony and were gone.
Tristan beckoned the ancient wizards into the adjoining room and closed the cracked, stained-glass doors to the outside. After guiding Wigg to a dusty chair, he took one himself.
“We have made a decision,” Wigg began softly. “One that we are hoping you can agree with. But agree or not, we still feel it must be done.”
“I will make it easy for you, old friend,” Tristan answered before the wizard could continue. He leaned forward in his chair, placing his arms upon his knees. “You are going to flee the palace, and take everyone, including Shailiha, with you.”
“Yes,” Faegan said. “How did you know?”
“Your usefulness here is now very limited,” Tristan answered. “And I have long believed that you would eventually want to get the Paragon, the Tome, and my sister as far away from the danger as possible.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, trying to find the words. “Given the fact that my death is certain, your first concern, and rightfully so, must be the preservation of the craft.” He looked back up to the wizards. “But if there are additional reasons for your leaving,” he added, a hard edge to his voice, “I would like to know what they are.”
Tristan did not mean to be harsh with them, but he had long been of the opinion that they were not telling him everything. And if they were indeed holding anything back, he was determined to find
out what it was, and why.
“Our reasons are exactly as you have just described, and no more,” Faegan replied. He coughed—a small, ragged sound—and pulled his gray robe closer about him. “First and foremost is the preservation of magic, if such a thing is still possible. To help protect us, we request that you grant us litters, and a host of Minions to carry them.”
Tristan thought for a moment. “It’s a pity the portal has become so unstable. You would no doubt be safer in Parthalon.” He remained silent for a moment. “You just mentioned my fate,” he finally said, looking down at the ominous veins running through the back of his hand. “There will be no antidote, will there?” Already knowing the answer, he did not immediately look back up.
“No,” Faegan answered sadly. “I am truly sorry.” He looked away, one of the few times in his long life he was completely unsure of what to say. It seems I have failed yet again, he thought sadly.
Wigg lowered his head and rubbed his white eyes, then leaned his forehead on his fist in obvious despair. “And ironically, I will actually be glad to have lost my sight,” he said softly. “The death of the Paragon is not something I wish to watch.”
Tristan sat back in his chair and regarded his friends—the once-imposing practitioners of the craft. They had changed so much it almost seemed as if he no longer knew them. “You will go to Shadowood, will you not?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “We will flee to Tree-Town. That makes the most sense.” He looked into Tristan’s dark eyes, not knowing how to say farewell to the one he had loved for so long.
“We have also come to say our good-byes.” Wigg continued haltingly, “for we think it prudent that we leave as soon as possible. In fact, the Tome is already transformed, and ready to go. Shailiha and Celeste have asked to see you next, so that they might say good-bye in private. We all know you will do your best to keep Nicholas and his creatures at bay for as long as you can. You are the last hope Eutracia has. Fare thee well, Chosen One. Please know, for as long as you have left, that you shall forever remain in my heart.”
Wigg raised his arms, beckoning the prince to come to him.
Tristan rose from his chair, tears in his eyes. But with his very first step toward the wizard came the horrifying, sinking feeling.
He fell to the floor, tremors jangling his body like a marionette. Spittle foamed from his mouth as his tongue slipped down the back of his throat.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER
Forty-eight
Nicholas, his white robe billowing gracefully around him, sailed effortlessly above the Gates of Dawn, reveling in their beauty. The magnificent archways had been finished the evening before. As he gazed upon their soaring majesty, he knew he was close, so close now, to bringing home his parents of above. But still his other father, the father who had supplied the seed of his making, had not come to him.
But he would, Nicholas knew, if he desired to live.
Joyously, the voices of the Heretics had revealed themselves to his mind again, just as dawn had crept over the hills. You have done well, they whispered. The Gates of Dawn are perfect. You have also collected into yourself almost all of the dynamism of the stone, thereby rendering the Chosen One’s wizards nearly powerless. But you must wait two more days before our coming, for he of the azure blood may still bow to you. This he must do freely. We must either have him come willingly to our bosom or see him dead. If he does not come to worship you, it shall be time to destroy all that he holds so dear, before we descend to rule again.
After that the morning had broken cold and clear. The fresh snow below him was pure and unadulterated, just as he knew the Gates were. Rising two hundred meters into the air and curved at their tops, they had finally taken the form of three great archways. The azure veins running through them glimmered with the promise of an ascendancy that had not been seen for eons.
Satisfied, he looked above him to see that his second-generation hatchlings were still guarding the sky over the Gates. And looking down, he was equally pleased to see that his other powerful creatures of the Vagaries—the carrion scarabs—were arriving to guard the ground around the bases of the Gates, marching across the snow in an undulating, teeming mass of life. Covering the area surrounding the Gates for hundreds of meters in every direction, their greatly magnified numbers fanned out like an encroaching stain upon the ground.
Hovering closer to the Gates, the young adept laid his brow on the coolness of the stone, then caressed it with his cheek as if in the grip of some ravenous, sexual need. The marble seemed to welcome his touch, as if the blood of the Heretics trapped within could already sense the power he possessed. With the final construction of the Gates the three majestic arches literally called to him, silently begging him to perform the spell this very morn. Groaning softly but knowing he must wait, he finally spoke.
“Parents,” he whispered. “It is now to me that the most difficult part of the burden falls—the agony of waiting to enact the Confluence. I must desist for two more dawns. In your infinite wisdom you never taught me that the call would be so wondrously irresistible. But wait I shall, for you order it.” Nicholas continued to hover there, lovingly pressing his face against the coolness of the marble.
“It is to you I owe my allegiance and no one else, including the untrained one of azure blood who did nothing but unwillingly create me. Obey you I shall. In two more days, the Confluence shall be yours.”
He finally pulled himself away and soared off to the embankment where the blood stalker was waiting.
Standing in rows behind Ragnar stood the hundreds of consuls who had initially resisted the young adept, before his greater powers came to control their consciousnesses. Mindless, staring out at nothing in their dirty, torn robes, they waited silently for his word.
“The Gates are completed, my lord?” Ragnar asked. He pulled his fur coat closer, then sampled some of the fluid from his ever-present vial.
“Yes,” Nicholas answered softly. “All that remains is for the Chosen One to come to his senses, and join me. If he has not prostrated himself before me by tomorrow’s dawn, I will send my hatchlings to destroy his Minions. The following morn I shall enact the Gates.”
“And the rest of the consuls?” Ragnar asked hesitantly. “Those who joined us willingly—are they safe?”
“Again, yes,” Nicholas answered. “They are some distance from here, waiting for the return of the Heretics. I have also used the Forestallment necessary to test the quality of their hearts, just as my parents of above ordered me to do. They are mine, body and soul. You need neither fear them, nor fear for them.”
Nicholas glided behind the stalker to face the ones in the dark blue robes.
At the adept’s signal, Scrounge called a squadron of hatchlings down.
“Take them,” Nicholas said simply.
Nodding, Scrounge signaled for the hatchlings to begin the slaughter.
The great birds swooped down with their swords drawn and sliced the helpless consuls from neck to groin. The endowed blood of the Brotherhood poured out everywhere upon the white, snow-laden ground. Every remaining member of the Brotherhood of Consuls who had tried to remain true to the practices of the Directorate and the preservation of the Vigors fell dead.
Scrounge smiled, wheeling his bird around to face the young adept. “As you have ordered, Master,” he said.
Nicholas nodded once more.
Scrounge then ordered the hatchlings to rip away the dead consuls’ robes and organs. Once done, they flew the corpses toward the newly constructed Gates of Dawn, where they dropped them directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs.
The females immediately began to crawl up and over the corpses and deposit their eggs into the still-warm body cavities. The males stood guard nearby, their antennae sensing the air, their tiny, black eyes missing nothing.
Scrounge flew his bird back to his master’s side, awaiting his next orders.
“Well done,” Nich
olas said softly. “You are to return to Fledgling House, to rest. Do not leave there for the remainder of the day, or the coming night. Tomorrow you lead the hatchlings against the Chosen One and his Minions. I will discuss my battle plans with you this evening.”
“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered. He nodded his leave, then wheeled his bird around and took flight for Fledgling House.
Nicholas turned his dark, exotic eyes upon the stalker. “Joshua is dead,” he said simply.
Ragnar stood in the cold morning sun, wide-eyed for a moment, his mind trying to digest the news. “How?” he finally asked.
“No doubt by way of the rather crude weapon you so kindly supplied him with,” Nicholas answered. “My blood felt the shudder of his passing into the Afterlife the very moment it occurred.”
“But how did the Chosen One’s wizards discover him?” Ragnar asked, nervously tasting yet more of the thick, yellow fluid.
“Never forget that Wigg and Faegan are exceedingly clever,” Nicholas answered. “I do not yet know how they discovered Joshua’s true intentions, but it is of no consequence. Nothing can stop us now. And as for you, my friend, at last your day has come.”
Thinking of his next mission, of perhaps finally reclaiming Celeste, Ragnar could hardly contain himself. “Where is it in your service you are sending me this time?”
Nicholas took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. “To the Afterlife.”
Ragnar stumbled backward, almost falling. The vial of brain fluid spilled onto the ground, hissing as it burrowed into the melting snow.
“But why?” he whispered, his voice cracking with fear. “You said as a reward for my loyalty I was to serve you always, even with the coming of the Heretics!” His breathing was heavily labored; his knees had begun to shake.
Nicholas smiled slightly as a sudden gust of wind blew through his long, dark hair. “The answer is simple, stalker,” he whispered. “I lied.”
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