His bird stopped about midway to the top. The Minion forces quickly caught up, coming to hover in the gloom before their leader.
“What is happening, my lord?” Traax called out. “What is this place? Why are we stopping? Are we to finally turn and fight like warriors?”
A glance downward told Tristan that Scrounge and the hatchling army would shortly be upon them.
“Everyone turn around, and get ready to fight!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “There is no time for explanations!”
But just as Tristan’s forces started to fan out, their other brothers, carrying the shrew nets before them, gnomes still clinging perilously to their backs, plummeted down above the unsuspecting hatchlings. Approaching with incredible speed, the Minions drove the heavy, whistling nets lower, finally muscling them over the top of the awful birds. Realizing what was happening, Minions from Tristan’s group soared downward, helping their brothers to secure the great rope webs over the hatchlings in clumps as far down the length of the canyon as the prince’s eyes could see. The Minion warriors then began forcing the trapped birds closer to the canyon floor.
Tristan watched, dumbfounded. Amidst the confusion, the gnomes leapt from the backs of the Minions and began using stakes and mallets with a vengeance, securing the outer edges of the nets to the canyon floor and trapping the screaming hatchlings securely inside.
Realizing at last that what had just happened had largely been the work of Wigg, Faegan, and Shailiha, the prince drew his sword, ready to search for Scrounge somewhere beneath the nets. But just as he did so, his bird lurched upward again, carrying him up and out of the chasm.
Tristan fully expected the hatchling to drop him off next to where he could now see Wigg, Shailiha, and Faegan waiting for him. But it didn’t.
He finally realized where he was being taken. Exhausted, he had no choice but to lean forward on the neck of the bird, closing his eyes, and trust his life to the fates.
As she watched the tiny speck in the sky disappear, Shailiha wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “Will he live?” she asked Wigg.
“We have been fortunate this day, Princess,” he answered softly. In his unseeing way, he placed an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “But what you ask is not in our power to grant. I must tell you from my heart that there is no way for him to survive. What we do now is simply give him additional closure to his life, nothing more. For that is all we can do. His fourth and final convulsion will soon be upon him, and there is nothing that either Faegan or I can change about that. Nor is there any action we can take to stop the Confluence. As we said before, we didn’t think Nicholas would send his hatchlings after us until the construction of the Gates had been completed. My guess is that they are now finished. The Confluence thus cannot be far behind—perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”
“We should be going with him,” she said, her eyes still locked on the empty sky. “I simply cannot say good-bye to him like this . . .”
“We have already said our good-byes, Shailiha,” Faegan replied softly. “What he does now he must do alone.”
Looking up, the princess saw Caprice and the other fliers finally returning. She raised her arm, and the magnificent yellow-and-violet butterfly obediently came to rest there; the others swirled gently in graceful circles over their mistress’ head.
Her tears coming fully now, she grasped the gold medallion that hung around her neck.
Good-bye, my brother. I shall always love you.
CHAPTER
Fifty-three
Tristan kept nodding off atop the hatchling, but despite his exhaustion, the pain in his right arm kept him from truly resting. He had been traveling northwest for many hours, and the sun had long since set, bathing the world in darkness. The heavy, gray clouds he had so relied upon in the recent battle had finally departed, revealing a clear, frigid sky. Amidst uncountable stars, Eutracia’s three rose-colored moons hung against the inky, impenetrable night. Sunrise—when Nicholas, his only son, would begin the Confluence—could only be about two hours away.
Tristan coughed deeply and pulled his coat closer trying to keep out the cold. But the wind had become even more icy with the advent of night, and he could no longer feel his hands or his feet. Still, the hatchling beneath him soared unerringly to the place he was now sure his sister and the wizards were sending him, the only destination that made any sense: the site protecting the Gates of Dawn.
For that was where Nicholas would be.
He harbored no illusions about surviving. He was growing weaker by the moment, and he knew his fourth convulsion would come soon. His body shook, the fever that had overtaken him about an hour ago still rising.
He thought of the brain hook still hidden in his right boot, and again vowed that when his time came he would do his utmost to use it upon himself, rather than suffer the indignities of a final, mortal convulsion.
As the moonlit, rose-colored ground raced by below him, he couldn’t help but recall all the horrific things that had so recently occurred in his life. He thought of the death of his father, and of the rape and slaughter of his mother at the hands of the very troops he had just led into battle. He thought of the murders of the Directorate of Wizards, and of the travails he and Wigg had suffered to return his sister and the Paragon to Eutracia. In that, at least, they had been successful.
But this time there would be no happy ending. Everyone and everything he had ever held dear would soon perish. The Vagaries, the dark side of the craft that it was to have been his destiny as the Chosen One to combine with the Vigors for the dawning of a new age of enlightenment, would rule. Not only alone, but also forever, guided by the Guild of the Heretics, who would ensure that a new age of darkness reigned.
He had few illusions as to why the wizards and Shailiha were ordering his hatchling to fly him to the Gates. It wasn’t because they thought he could somehow stop the Confluence, or that by going there he would magically survive the agonies of his fourth convulsion. Nothing could stop those things now. Rather, it was because they knew he would want to confront his son for the final time.
He had already said his good-byes to those he left behind. Dying in a bed in the royal palace or in Faegan’s mansion in the trees while his body was being wracked by the fourth convulsion would only heighten the pain and grief of everyone involved. He was glad they would not be there to see his death. He wanted their memories of him to be of the strong man that he had once been.
This way, he would at least behold Nicholas one final time. It would be his last chance to look into the face of the son who, unbelievably, had survived that tragic day in Parthalon. No matter what kind of monster he had become.
He closed his eyes. His mind was becoming increasingly feverish, and his pain-wracked body was covered with sweat, despite the unrelenting cold.
He had sworn an oath to destroy his only progeny, and he understood that going to Nicholas would afford him some small, strange measure of peace. And Faegan and Wigg, he realized, knew that too. One corner of his mouth came up in irony. That was assuming, of course, that his final convulsion did not occur before he got there, leaving the hatchling flying far across Eutracia only to deliver a white, frozen corpse.
Scrounge would have no doubt been amused, he thought.
Coughing again, Tristan wrapped the reins tightly around his numb left wrist. Painfully reaching down with his right hand, he located the brain hook in his boot. With his hand still on it, he leaned all his weight onto the hatchling’s neck as it raced through the clear, cold night.
Somehow, he slept.
The combination of the hatchling’s great, descending turn and the first rays of the sunrise awakened him. He groaned and tried to sit up, but found he was frozen to the hatchling. Another coughing fit wracked his body, but when it finally ended he pushed hard against the bird’s neck. The fur on the front of his coat tore away, leaving bare suede. He didn’t care—he knew he wouldn’t need it much longer.
Frost stiffened his ha
ir, and his eyelashes were frozen together in places, making it difficult to see. He couldn’t feel his face. Numbly rubbing his cheeks and eyes with what had once felt like his right hand, he looked down.
The three Gates of Dawn lay just below him, about one hundred meters apart, in a row running east and west. Rising hundreds of meters from the ground, they resembled gigantic horseshoes, curved at the tops, their ends planted firmly into the earth.
Made of the finest shiny, black, Ephyran marble, they were shot through with brilliant azure. The blood of the Heretics, he realized.
As the hatchling soared closer, he noticed what he could only assume to be Nicholas’ carrion scarabs. Undulating back and forth in a black, riverlike mass, the hundreds of thousands of shiny beetles surrounded the legs of the Gates. Then his heart skipped a beat.
Within the dark ocean of seething scarabs were torn human bodies, their bloody abdomens overflowing with white, glistening eggs. The hundreds of torn, dark blue robes that lay everywhere, flapping hauntingly in the wind, told him the corpses must once have been consuls.
And then he noticed the lone figure standing atop the wide curve of the easternmost Gate.
Nicholas.
The young adept faced the rising sun, his white robes billowing in the wind, his long, dark hair flying out behind him. He seemed oblivious to the cold. Several strange-looking objects rested on the marble at his feet.
Tristan’s hatchling buffeted its leathery wings as it approached the Gate. It landed softly near Nicholas, then bent down so that the prince might dismount. After several tries with his numb fingers, Tristan managed to unfasten the leather straps that had held him in his saddle for so long. Then he weakly raised one leg up and over to slide off the bird and down to the top of the windswept Gate, where he fell to all fours despite his best efforts to remain upright. He remained that way, his head down, until he gathered the strength to make one attempt at standing. He pushed himself up—staggered, and almost fell again but caught himself—and finally managed. The bitter wind swirled around him.
Nicholas had watched, doing nothing to help as Tristan tried desperately to face his son on his own terms.
Tristan looked into Nicholas’ upturned, exotic eyes of hard blue. They gleamed almost as if they were made of polished stone.
Succiu’s eyes, he thought. And mine.
From all around Nicholas’ body radiated a glow such as Tristan had never seen, a power so immense that neither Succiu nor even Failee herself could ever have summoned it.
He has taken yet more of the power of the Paragon since I last saw him, Tristan thought. Is the stone now dead? Does he now hold all of the power it once contained? And if so, are Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste now dead also? He looked briefly to the sad, tattered handkerchief on his arm as it fluttered in the harshness of the wind.
Tristan’s breathing came quickly, in ragged, hard-won gasps, and it was becoming all he could do to remain standing against the gathering wind. Sweat ran from his face and body. His right arm, throbbing madly with pain, was virtually useless. He looked back into the unyielding depths of Nicholas’ eyes. Nothing can stop him now, he thought. The first rays of the sun were just starting to show themselves in the east, illuminating the majesty of the Gates with their glow.
For many long moments Tristan and Nicholas simply stood there, silently looking at each other, the wind howling around them as the thousands of black, angry scarabs swarmed below. The world was about to change forever, and Tristan knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. Finally, Nicholas spoke.
“And so you have returned to me, Father,” he began softly, his words almost drowned out by the wind. “You have chosen to become one of us after all. I am very pleased.”
From within his robes Nicholas produced a small vial. Tristan immediately recognized it as the same vessel he had seen in the Caves—the vessel containing the antidote to the poison running through his veins.
“If you will agree to join us, and allow me to confirm your intentions by testing the quality of your heart, I will administer the antidote.” Nicholas smiled.
Tristan stood silently for another long moment, staring hungrily at the vial his bastard son so tantalizingly held before him. Its contents would save not only his life, but also the lives of his sister and her only child. But at what price?
“No,” he said thickly. “I reject your offer. To bargain for my life is not why I have come.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, replacing the vial into his robes. “Then why have you come to me, Chosen One?” he asked politely. “Do not tell me that it is simply so that I may see you die? My poor, misguided father! If that is true then you misunderstand, and have therefore traveled all of this way for naught. I have no need to see your death actually occur, simply to know that it soon shall. Just as I have no need to see the sun rise tomorrow, in order to know that such a thing shall also occur.” His face became a bit graver. “Your fourth convulsion is almost upon you. I can tell.”
“I come one final time to ask you to stop this madness,” Tristan said softly. He was swaying back and forth now, too weak to steady himself in the strengthening wind. The normally reassuring weapons he carried across his back seemed to be made of lead, threatening to topple him over at any moment.
“Please come back to Shadowood with me,” Tristan whispered weakly. “Allow my wizards to try to help you . . . to bring you to the Vigors, and the light. I beseech you to release the power of the stone back to the Paragon, so that we might all work together to find a way . . .”
Life ebbed inexorably from Tristan’s body, and he did not know what to say. He weakly raised his palms in supplication. “My son,” he whispered. “I beg of you . . .”
Nicholas’ expression suddenly turned to one of extreme anger. He pointed a long, accusatory finger straight at his father’s heart. “You beg of me!” he thundered. “You of the azure blood, the Chosen One himself, who rejected his only son not just once, but three times? The son you ripped from the comfort of the womb with one of the very knives you still carry, leaving him to rot in a shallow grave of a foreign land? Then only to reject out of hand his compassionate offer of truly everlasting ecstasy in the craft, so graciously made to him that day in the Caves? And finally to reject his own seed yet again, at this exact moment, on the Gates of Dawn themselves? This time to insult that son’s vastly superior power and knowledge of the craft, by suggesting that it could be augmented by his powerless, vastly inferior wizards! And to ask his son to willingly consent to do nothing for all of eternity except to practice the deceitful, flaccid Vigors! He dares ask me to come to him? To therefore spurn the very ones who gave me back my life, returning me to the land of the living?” His eyes grew even harder. “No, Chosen One. What you suggest for me is slavery, nothing more. You would have fared much better had you allowed the lead wizard to burn my tiny body while it still rested, dead, within that of my mother,” he added softly.
Nicholas took a deadly, meaningful step toward Tristan and extended his right arm, palm outward. “Clearly, Father,” he said softly, “you haven’t been listening.”
With that, Nicholas pushed his white, perfect palm closer to the prince. Tristan collapsed, falling hard upon the cold, smooth marble, wracked by a scorching, twisting pain so excruciating he thought he would pass out. He felt as if he were actually being disemboweled with a searing, red-hot knife. But there was no blood. Nor was there any respite.
Wanting desperately to end his torment, he tried to reach down and grasp the brain hook in his boot. But his hands wouldn’t work. All he could do was lie before his son, silently begging that the horrific pain stop.
But it didn’t.
Somehow, he raised his face from the marble. “All of your hatchlings are dead,” he whispered. “And so is Scrounge.” A tiny, defiant smile came to his frozen lips. “At least I accomplished that much . . .”
Unperturbed, Nicholas placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, but the agony to
rturing Tristan did not abate. “It is of no concern,” he said simply. “How you and the wizards managed to accomplish their demise is of some small interest to me, but the truth of it is that the hatchlings only served to buy me time. Time to collect the consuls and have them construct the Gates, and time to keep your Minions at bay, once you finally brought them here. Which, of course, I knew you would. You had no other choice. But in the end all you have really accomplished is to grant me a blessing, don’t you see? For now I needn’t waste the time or the energy killing them myself. Neither the hatchlings, nor Scrounge, nor your Minions are worthy of any place in our new world. Nor even Ragnar, for that matter. He too has gone to his reward. As have the consuls who tried to resist me.”
Nicholas looked down briefly to the congested, swirling mass of carrion scarabs, black against the snow. “After the Confluence, the scarabs and their eggs shall also perish, their duties fulfilled. Like all my servants, they were never more than a simple means to an end. The spell that will destroy them is already in place. Even the wraiths who bled you are gone—easily conjured, and just as easily done away with.”
Tristan could scarcely breathe. Writhing and trembling on the cold, unforgiving marble, he curled up into a fetal position and clutched his abdomen, the searing pain slicing through him mercilessly.
“Tell me about . . . about the children,” he gasped, his tortured brain finally remembering what Scrounge had said. “What . . . have you done with them? Why must they live with you . . . forever?”
“Ah, yes, the children.” Nicholas finally smiled. “One of the greatest of the keys to all that has transpired, and all that is yet to.” He bent down, staring directly into Tristan’s eyes. “Did you know, Chosen One, that you should have gone to Fledgling House long before Scrounge, and taken the children for yourself? And do you also know that had your egocentric, blind lead wizard not been so protective of his silly secret of the training of young females in the craft, you could have easily stopped me from accomplishing all that I have? Not simply due to the fact that I needed their blood to bring forth the Confluence, because I would have taken the children back. No, Chosen One, there is far more to the story than that. It has to do with an ancient, underlying concept regarding young endowed females that even your wizards are not completely conversant with. The answer to stopping me was, as they say, right under your nose the entire time. But, as they also say, that is a topic better left for another day. Except you have no other such days left.” Nicholas paused to take a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if relishing the freedom from pain that the prince would never again enjoy.
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