Die, Chosen One! . . . Die, Chosen One! . . . Die! . . . Die! . . . Die! . . .
CHAPTER
Fifty-four
As she so often did now, Shailiha sat quietly with Celeste, rocking Morganna softly in her arms. A fortnight had passed since they had returned to the Redoubt after learning of the destruction of the Gates and Nicholas’ apparent failure to return the Heretics. But there still had been no word of either Tristan or Nicholas.
Ox and Traax had gone out to search the area of the Gates, but had not found anything. If their bodies were ever to be recovered, they would no doubt eventually be found somewhere beneath the many tons of black-and-azure marble. And the wizards were uncertain about attempting to move the rubble, concerned as they were about what other calamities might transpire if they tried.
That being the case, Wigg and Faegan had ordered that no one be allowed to return to the site until they had inspected it in person. Strangely, though, the wizards had not yet visited there, remaining cloistered in their quarters instead. No doubt they still could not bring themselves to see the place of Tristan’s death, Shailiha reasoned.
After the hatchlings had all been killed and their bodies burned to ash in the depths of the canyon surrounding Shadowood, Traax had requested that the bodies of his slain Minion warriors be brought from Farplain and Shadowood to Tammerland, the home of their departed lord. The wizards had agreed. Additional litters had been constructed, and the corpses were flown back to the royal palace for the traditional burning of the dead.
Hundreds of pyres, stacked high with dead warriors, had eventually dotted the fields outside the castle grounds. Out of respect for those who had defended them, everyone living in the Redoubt had attended the lighting of the pyres. The flames and smoke had risen into the sky over Tammerland for five days and nights. Now their soot littered the whiteness of the snow for as far as one could see, turning it gray with the refuse of death.
Traax’s officers had also constructed an additional pyre, upon which no bodies were placed. It was an empty, silent tribute to Tristan.
Traax had asked Shailiha to light it. With a trembling hand, amid the cries of “We live to serve!” she had tentatively placed a torch to it. The flames roared into the sky, marking the passing of he who had been the lord of the Minions. It had been more than she could bear, and she’d had to turn her face away to hide her tears.
After that, Shailiha had been inconsolable. But Celeste had come to sit with her every day, and it had been those daily visits, more than anything else, that had finally helped to bring the princess partially through her grief. They had also solidified the bond between the two women.
But having no body to bury only made it harder for Shailiha. With no Tristan to hold for the last time, it sometimes felt to her as if the grief would never end. And worse, a great sense of sadness, along with a deafening, overpowering quiet, had captured the Redoubt, as if no one living there would ever be truly happy again.
The princess looked down at her sleeping child, wishing with all her heart that Tristan could have been buried with their parents and her husband at the family grave site.
But he is buried, she had finally realized one day, looking at the gold medallion around her neck, the one that matched the medallion her brother had once worn. He is buried with his only child, beneath the rubble of the Gates of Dawn.
“Do you think it is possible . . .” Her words trailed off as she realized she was asking Celeste the same question she had been asking almost every day. Lately, as both time and logic forced her mind toward reality, she found herself asking it less. Or at least trying to.
Celeste placed a comforting hand on Shailiha’s arm. “We must be strong,” she said quietly. “That was part of your brother’s last words to me. Despite the short time I knew him, I think perseverance is what Tristan would have wanted, perhaps even demanded of us. He is gone, Shailiha. And no one can change that. I do not mean to be hard, but I think we must believe what my father and Faegan have told us, and look to the future. I shall miss Tristan, and I know you shall even more. But for the sake of your country, your child, and the continuance of the craft, you must accept this.” She paused for a moment, to let her words sink in.
“You have lost so much, especially for one so young,” she went on. “But you are now the Chosen One.”
A tear ran down Shailiha’s cheek. Though she brushed it away, its moistness still clung to her eyelashes. She had long known that the mantle of Chosen One would fall to her should her brother ever perish. But she had certainly never wished for the title, nor expected it to come so soon. Sometimes she wished she had never heard of the craft.
Then a new thought struck her. “With Tristan gone,” she replied quietly, “your endowed blood is second in quality only to mine.” She remained quiet for a time, her mind again going over the other quite-unexpected occurrences that had transpired since the loss of her brother.
First was the fact that Wigg had slowly, miraculously, regained his sight. And the secretive wizards, although obviously very pleased by this event, had said virtually nothing about how it was accomplished.
The second and vastly more important occurrence was that power was very slowly returning to the Paragon. The jewel of the craft now hung around Wigg’s neck, and the gifts of the two ancients were gradually coming back from the brink.
But as had been the case with Wigg’s returning vision, the wizards had said nothing of how this wonderful thing had come about. The princess assumed that with the death of Nicholas had also come the cessation of his spells, thereby releasing the stone’s power and allowing its natural return to the Paragon.
Shailiha was, of course, very pleased by these things, but in the end they did little to assuage the torment she felt over the death of her brother.
“You cared for him a great deal, didn’t you?” she asked Celeste.
Celeste took a long breath, letting it out slowly. Her heavy-lidded, sapphire eyes lowered slightly, as if her mind had been taken to a different place and time.
“Yes, I cared,” she answered quietly. “Or should I say, I was starting to. But I am still . . . fearful of men. Perhaps I always shall be; I do not know. I hope not. There remains a hard spot in my heart that is reluctant to let anyone in. Even Tristan—the one who saved me. But he was the first man ever to treat me with kindness. And I shall never forget that.” She paused for a moment, thinking.
“Father and Faegan have told me that they have plans for me,” she said tentatively.
“Plans?” Shailiha asked. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Celeste answered. “Only that they have to do with the craft. Something they apparently think is very important.”
Celeste watched as Shailiha continued to rock her sleeping baby. More and more, she now dreamed of having a baby of her own some day, for she had finally achieved the freedom in which to foster such hopes. But when these thoughts started to creep into her mind, so too did her memories of Tristan. And then her fears would come again, forcing such pleasantries aside.
“Despite the unexplained death of Nicholas and the collapse of the Gates, there are still many problems,” Shailiha said thoughtfully, interrupting Celeste’s reveries. “The consuls that Nicholas said were under his control have still not been heard from. And we still do not know the whereabouts of the endowed boys and girls, or for that matter, the locations of the women our own age who have been trained in the craft.”
A sad sort of quiet reigned over them for a moment. Aside from the death of Tristan, it was the unnerving disappearance of the boys and girls that had affected Shailiha and Celeste the most. And on this subject, too, the wizards had remained strangely quiet.
“And that is to say nothing of the situation in Parthalon,” Shailiha finally added. “The swamp shrews continue to plague both the warriors and the civilian population alike.”
“And without Tristan,” Celeste said, “overcoming these problems shall be far more difficult.”<
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Shailiha did not answer, for she did not know what to say.
Trying to cross over had been difficult.
There had been voices. Frightening voices. Voices that came and went, hauntingly wending their way through the fog. Unintelligible words at first, then sometimes less so. But always, finally, they retreated into nothingness. Words that came from nowhere, went to nowhere, meaning nothing.
There had also been azure, the color of the craft. Swirling everywhere. Its dense, glowing texture always surrounding and caressing, but somehow never really touching. Finally also fading away into the blackness that always came, retreated, and came again.
And there had been pain. Pain everywhere. Unrelenting, and horrible. Pain in both the azure and the darkness. Always, always, the pain.
Voices, azure, darkness, and pain. Swirling, mixing together, everywhere.
“This is the last of our chances,” one of the voices said from somewhere far away.
“I know,” replied the other. “There is no other choice.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
A long silence followed. Then more voices. More azure. More darkness, more pain.
“Let us begin,” came the first voice.
“Very well,” replied the other.
The knock on the door was strong, insistent, and decidedly masculine.
“Come,” Shailiha said.
The door opened to reveal Traax. “Forgive me, my ladies,” he said almost apologetically. “But the wizards ask that both of you come with me.”
Shailiha turned to Celeste, a worried look on her face. Celeste looked back quizzically. The wizards had barely spoken to either of them for a fortnight. Something was very wrong. Even the look on Traax’s normally calm face said that some recent turn of events had affected him deeply. A rare thing, especially for an officer of the Minions.
Shailiha thought, biting her lower lip. It may be possible that some of Nicholas’ creatures have somehow returned. Or maybe Ragnar isn’t really dead . . .
She swallowed. Hard. Then she stood and squared her shoulders.
“Very well,” she said calmly. Cradling Morganna in one arm, she donned the sling; then she placed the baby in it, carefully not to wake her, and walked to the door, Celeste following behind.
They continued through the familiar areas of the Redoubt and eventually turned down long, cloistered hallways that were quite unknown to her. Shailiha was glad to see Traax finally slow before a rather large door.
“We are here,” Traax said simply. He walked to a place of subservience behind both her and Celeste and stood quietly, waiting for them to enter. Shailiha knocked once, then twice. Upon hearing Wigg’s voice, she opened the door and walked in.
Wondering what the wizards wanted of her, she glanced around the room. Then her eyes went wide, the blood rushed from her face, and she fainted away, falling like the dead into the arms of the Minion warrior behind her. A startled Morganna began to wail.
CHAPTER
Fifty-five
A short chuckle came from one side of the room, followed by a deep, hacking cough. “I told you she would react that way,” the voice said weakly. Then another cough came. “She always has. Trust me, she will never forgive you. Either of you!”
Prince Tristan of the House of Galland sat up in his bed as well as his sore muscles would let him. He hurt everywhere, and was still so weak he doubted he could even walk across the room. Gray and gaunt, his face carried two weeks’ worth of thick, dark whiskers.
Tristan had been awake since yesterday, trying to regain some of his strength and enjoying the simple fact that he was both warm and alive. How or why, he still did not know. Since his return to consciousness Wigg and Faegan had remained tight-lipped, concentrating solely on his physical condition. But he intended to get his answers soon, wizards or no wizards.
He looked to his twin sister lying inert in Traax’s strong arms. The baby had been handed to Celeste. His eyes welled briefly with tears. We both live, he thought. He then looked around the room at the others: Shannon, Michael, Ox, Geldon, and Celeste, not to mention Wigg and Faegan, of course. All of us live. We have been so very fortunate.
“Lay Shailiha down on that sofa,” Tristan ordered Traax, pointing to the large loveseat next to his bed. Traax did so. Lying there with her long, golden hair splayed out, Shailiha looked like an elaborate, limp, rag doll.
Celeste stood in the doorway, her arms hugging the baby, looking as if she had just seen a ghost. Her hands trembled slightly.
“Can it be true?” she asked softly, taking a tentative step into the room. “Are you really alive?”
“Yes.” Tristan smiled, holding out his hands.
Immediately Celeste went to him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The welcome smell of the myrrh in her hair came back, reminding him of so much he once thought had been lost forever. Between them, Morganna fidgeted, gripping Tristan’s hair with one tiny hand.
Faegan looked at Wigg. His friend’s lips were pursed tightly, making it abundantly clear that Celeste’s embrace of the prince had not been lost on him. Faegan grinned widely at Wigg’s apparent discomfort.
One of the lead wizard’s infamous eyebrows came up. He then purposely cleared his throat. As he did so, Celeste stood upright. Seeing that the handkerchief she had given Tristan was still tied around his left arm, she touched it and smiled.
“It helped,” Tristan told her quietly. “This handkerchief, and the medallion around my neck, always kept reminding me of what I was fighting for.”
“Don’t you think it’s time we revived your sister?” Wigg suddenly asked in that harsh but kindly manner only he seemed able to master. “By the way, now that I can see again, I no longer need ask any others in the room about what is truly going on.”
Tristan actually found himself blushing. “By all means,” he said. “Go ahead and revive her. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Wigg used the craft to wake the princess. Sitting up slowly, she looked around the room, her eyes finally falling upon her brother.
“Tristan . . . ,” she whispered. Tears welled up. “Can it be true?”
She reached one trembling hand out to touch him, as if expecting him to vanish at any moment. But he didn’t. Standing up on shaking legs, she crossed the short distance to his bed and fell on him, sobbing.
She remained that way for some time, his hand in her golden hair, until her gentle crying started to fade away. No one in the room spoke. There was no need. Finally she raised her head.
“They told us you were dead . . . I even lit your funeral pyre . . . How . . . ?” she asked, her words trailing away.
“I do not know yet,” the prince answered. He looked up at Wigg, then over to Faegan. “I’d say the wizards have a great deal of explaining to do.”
“The wizards . . . ,” Shailiha whispered. Her mouth twisted into a frown, and she got up and stalked toward Wigg. Raising her arm, she slapped him hard across the shoulder.
Wincing, Wigg raised an eyebrow and rubbed the stinging shoulder briskly.
“If you ever do anything like that again, you’ll be sorry!” she shouted. Tristan tried hard to stifle his laughter, barely succeeding. But Faegan could not, and actually cackled out loud.
Furious, Shailiha turned her narrowed, hazel eyes on the wizard in the chair. For the first time ever, Tristan saw Faegan’s face actually redden with embarrassment. The old wizard’s eyes widened, and he immediately closed his mouth. But, ecstatic at having fooled so many for so long, he recovered quickly. A snicker escaped his mouth, and then, giving in completely, he clapped his hands in glee. The princess scowled at him.
Celeste walked over to Shailiha and handed her the baby.
“I told you both she would react this way,” Tristan smirked. “Now then, I want some answers from the two of you. I don’t know how else to ask—how is it that I’m alive?”
“It’s a rather long story,” Faegan answered.
&nb
sp; “You’re both protected by time enchantments, aren’t you?” Shailiha countered sarcastically, tapping her foot impatiently on the marble floor. “From what I understand of the craft, you have plenty of time.”
Wigg cleared his throat. “Well to begin, as to why the prince still lives—”
“Actually,” Tristan interrupted, “tell me about the battle with the hatchlings. Everything makes sense to me up until that point. But then my bird took me away from the fighting. The bird that supposedly couldn’t talk! I was unable to control it, and the Minions followed me, thinking I had ordered a full retreat.” He turned to his sister, raising an eyebrow. “That was your doing, wasn’t it?”
Shailiha’s expression suddenly became more humble. “Yes,” she answered. “Mine and the wizards. That part of things I know, but little else.”
“Explain,” Tristan said simply.
“Do you remember the Forestallment Faegan discovered in my blood—the one that allows me to bond mentally with the fliers of the fields?” Shailiha asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, as you also already know, the wizards had been of the opinion that Failee placed it there to allow me, as her intended fifth sorceress, to have a mental link with the Minions. Wigg and Faegan believe it was her original intent, among others, for me to eventually be able to probe the Minion minds, allowing me to discern whether there was ever any desire on their part to revolt. As it happens, the Forestallment she infused into my blood apparently works with other winged creatures of the craft, as well. The wizards asked me to infuse the saying, ‘Trust the process, Chosen One,’ into the hatchling’s consciousness, along with when to say it, and other precise orders for it to follow during the battle. Other than that, the bird was ordered to say nothing. I repeated the phrase to you the day before the battle, so that you would make the connection and realize that what was happening was our doing. I then ordered the hatchling to fly to Shadowood, hoping that the Minions would follow and that the other hatchlings would pursue you.” She smiled. “They all did.”
The Gates of Dawn Page 59
