With a sigh and a slight shake of his head, Tristan looked over at his sister. She was watching Faegan with an expression of disbelief. As one corner of his mouth came up, Tristan reminded himself that she was not as familiar with the wizard's eccentricities as he was.
"Faegan," Tristan asked, "have you ever heard of something called a demonslaver?"
"A what?" Faegan asked, his full attention firmly locked upon the prince. Then Tristan heard someone clear his throat.
"May I be of assistance?" a different voice suddenly said.
Turning, Tristan, Shailiha, and Faegan looked behind the counter to see a thin, ruddy-faced man wearing wire spectacles that seemed far too large for him. Watching him push the spectacles back up the sweaty bridge of his nose, only to see them slide back down again, Tristan guessed that the automatic gesture had become a lifelong habit. The shopkeeper wore an apron covered with multicolored dust, and he appeared unusually nervous.
But when he saw the faces of the prince and princess, he turned absolutely white.
"Get out!" he shouted immediately. "You shouldn't be here! I don't want any trouble!"
"Nor do we," Tristan said courteously, taking a single step toward the counter. "All we want are the answers to a few simple-"
The twin doors to the shop suddenly blew open with such force that they banged into the walls beside them. Their etched-glass windows shattered, cascading to the floor in thousands of shards of prismed light. Moving instinctively, Tristan whirled around, reaching behind his back and drawing his dreggan. The ring of its razor-sharp blade resounded through the musty air of the shop.
There were five of them, and they were something out of a nightmare. The only way they seemed to differ from one another was in the various weapons they carried: in addition to swords, one of them carried a whip, another a trident.
Black leather skirts, slit down the front for walking, fell from their waists to the floor. Their chests and shoulders were bare. Their fingers ended in talons, rather than fingernails. Bright red capes cascaded down their backs. Short swords hung low behind their backs, almost to their knees. Tristan's experienced eye took quick note of the unique way the baldrics were hung, immediately sensing the ease and speed with which the things would be able to draw their swords. But it was their faces that were most unsettling.
Their skin was pure white-almost translucent-and seemed to shine. Polished metal caps covered their skulls and swept around their eyes and ears. The ears were long, pointed things, with earrings dangling from some of them. Their white, opaque eyes held no irises, but somehow seemed never to miss a thing.
Tristan's heart pounded in his chest, and his right hand tightened around the hilt of his dreggan. He heard the shopkeeper scream, followed by the sound of running and the slamming of a door. The prince knew better than to turn and watch the man run away.
He sized up the situation, and his heart fell.
He had never before faced five at once, he thought nervously.
Faegan wheeled his chair slowly toward the counter. Shailiha walked behind Tristan and over toward the far wall.
"What do you want?" Tristan barked. "Go away and leave us in peace!"
Two of the monsters walked closer. "We want you," one of them said as he approached. "You and the woman. We do not require the old man in the chair." The monster smiled, showing dark, pointed teeth.
"I don't think so," Tristan growled. He raised the tip of his sword a fraction.
In a blindingly fast motion, the other creature drew his sword. It was the quickest use of a blade Tristan had ever seen. Had his dreggan not already been drawn, he would surely have died on the spot.
The two gleaming blades clanged together with a force so powerful they sent sparks flying. As was his habit, Tristan quickly backed off, trying to gain some maneuvering room. But suddenly he stopped, realizing that he did not want to bring his attacker any closer to Shailiha than he must. He began hacking viciously at his foe. But the monster was as skilled as he was, and he could find no opening. Then at last, he saw the chance he had hoped for.
Teeth bared, his opponent suddenly screamed and rushed forward, his short sword raised high over his head. His intention was clear: to strike straight downward, cleaving Tristan's skull.
Just as the thing reached the zenith of his swing, Tristan rushed dangerously in and reached up, grabbing his attacker's sword wrist. And during the split second in which he held the monster's blade in place, he shoved the point of the dreggan to the thing's throat, angling it up.
He pressed the hidden button in the dreggan's hilt, and the blade shot forward the extra foot, entering just beneath the point of the thing's jaw and exiting the top of the head. The monster died immediately. Pressing the button again, Tristan retracted the blade and pushed the body off him.
Enraged, the second of them drew his sword as surely as had the first and with a scream, he rushed at the prince. But this time Tristan had the distance he needed.
Without hesitation he tossed the heavy dreggan from his right hand over into his left. Reaching back, he gripped the handle of his first throwing knife. With a whirl of his arm, the blade twirled unerringly toward its target and buried itself in the center of the thing's forehead with a sickening thud, stopping him in midstride. Stunned, the attacker simply stood as a trail of bright red blood snaked its sure, silent way down over his damaged skullcap and onto his white face. As if trapped in some impossible dream, the creature ran his fingers through it, then blankly examined it before staring back up at the prince. His sword slipped from his fingers and clanged noisily to the floor.
The white eyes closed, and he fell over onto his back, dead.
Chest heaving, Tristan glared at the remaining three. He tossed the dreggan back into his right hand, and his fingers tightened around the hilt.
He didn't have to wait very long.
Suddenly the huge oak chandelier came crashing down in a cacophony of noise, glass, and lamp oil. It smashed directly onto the heads of the three would-be attackers. All three collapsed, as glass shattered and oil spilled as the long rope pooled atop the mess. Blood mixed strangely with the oil and ran across the floor and into the cracks between the floorboards.
Tristan hesitated in shock for an instant, then rushed in and ran each body through. Two were already dead, and the third could not have been far from it-his neck lay at an odd angle, clearly broken, and he was unable to breathe. Tristan's blade was a blessing.
Once done, Tristan turned, and his eyes went wide.
Shailiha had untied the rope holding up the chandelier.
Letting out a great sigh of relief, Tristan uncoiled. Shailiha, arms akimbo, stared intently at the beings she had just killed.
This was the first time she had ever taken a life, Tristan realized as he went to her.
The moment he put his arms around her, she dropped her defiant stance.
"Are you all right?" he asked gently as he looked into her eyes.
"Yes." Her voice was strong and calm. She looked past Tristan's shoulder at the bodies lying beneath the chandelier. Faegan had wheeled his chair over to the tangled mess to examine the creatures.
"And just what were you prepared to do while all of this was going on?" Tristan growled at the wizard, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"After you killed the first two, even I doubted you could have handled the next three all at once," Faegan said with a smile. "I was of course prepared to use the craft to help you. But then I saw the princess had other plans."
"What in the name of the Afterlife are these things?" Tristan asked. Walking over, he reached down and wiped the blade of his dreggan clean with one of the victim's black leather skirts. Satisfied, he slid the sword back into its scabbard. Then he retrieved his throwing knife and repeated the process with it.
Shailiha walked up behind him and took his hand. "I have never seen anything like them," she said quietly.
"Do you remember your question to me about the demonslavers?" Faegan asked,
his eyes alight with curiosity. "Well, I think you have just found your answer."
"But where do they come from, and why did they want us?" asked Shailiha.
"They are without question some product of the Vagaries," Faegan answered seriously. "But as to how they were produced or who they may have originally been, I cannot say. They may be mutated wizards, as are the blood stalkers. Or perhaps they are something else entirely. Only time will tell. These beings may have been hunting under Krassus' orders. He did, after all, literally dare us to come here to see what was taking place." He paused, rubbing his chin. "I fear, though, that we may have only scratched the surface of our troubles."
"What do we do now?" Shailiha asked.
"First," Faegan answered, "Tristan needs to drag the bodies out back and hide them behind the shop. We have been fortunate, but I believe we have yet to see whatever it is Krassus taunted us about. We must still make our way to the docks-the roughest part of all Farpoint.
"We're within walking distance. Tristan, we leave as soon as you have finished."
CHAPTER
Eight
"A re you quite certain you should be doing this, Father?" Celeste asked nervously.
Wigg stepped over another fallen log as he made his way carefully through the forest. "Yes, my dear," he answered patiently. "I am quite all right."
Truth be known, he loved the way she looked after him. He smiled as he realized just how long it had been since anyone had taken care of him: more than three centuries.
He stopped for a moment to get his bearings. An equal number of years had passed since he had visited this section of the Hartwick Woods, and he wanted to be sure of his way.
Walking up beside him, Celeste took her father's hand. "Just the same, let's rest for a moment," she suggested softly.
Looking around, Wigg saw a small clearing and headed for it. They sat in the shade of a hibernium tree. As was the old wizard's custom, he picked a blade of grass and began shredding it with his long, elegant fingers.
The day was still young, the sun just rising above the tops of the trees as they swayed gently back and forth in the wind. The dark green grass was soft and fresh, as were so many of the living things now bursting forth from the Season of New Life. The songs of the birds made a comforting, familiar background refrain.
Wigg turned to look at his daughter-the daughter he had only so recently found. He loved her more than his life, and would do anything to protect her. Although she seemed outwardly normal, Celeste was just beginning to come to grips with all that she had been forced to endure. He had spent hours discussing the matter with Faegan, who had sadly agreed that no matter how intelligent or how high the quality of her endowed blood, Celeste would need a great deal of care and guidance to set things right, if indeed they ever could be.
Both Wigg and Faegan had a great deal of collective knowledge regarding such psychosexual trauma, for they had witnessed firsthand the various abuses of the Coven during the Sorceresses' War of three centuries earlier. But this was different. This time the victim had been the lead wizard's only child, and his stake in her healing was acutely personal.
Lying down in the soft grass, Celeste closed her eyes. Shawna the Short had wisely seen to it that her gown and slippers were replaced with attire more suitable for walking through the forest: a brown leather jerkin over a close-fitting blouse of black silk with sleeves that gathered at the wrists. Trunk hose rose to just above her knees, and she wore soft, brown knee boots. Her dark red hair spread out upon the ground like a luxurious fan. Looking at her, Wigg could easily pick out the fine features she had inherited from her mother, Failee.
No matter what she wore or how distressed she became, her beauty always shone through, the old one thought. In that way, she was much like Shailiha. Yet, in so many ways, she was also very different. Suddenly forced to wipe away a tear, he continued to contemplate the various psychological stages of healing the young woman would be forced to endure.
She was in denial, he knew, and this very uncertain mental stage would presumably be followed by others. Eventually would come her anger, then her eventual acceptance of what had been done to her. And finally, if she was lucky, a form of personal resolution would befall her, truly allowing her to lead a relatively normal life out in the world.
His thoughts floated back to three days earlier, when Krassus had so suddenly appeared. The rogue wizard had said many things that stunned Wigg that day, but none so much as his reference to the partial adept living here in these woods, and his mention of having visited her. Wigg had no doubt that Krassus' motives for doing so could certainly not have been harmless.
The lead wizard had spent the last three days in bed thinking, and trying to regain his strength, before finally deciding to venture into Hartwick. The Minion litter and armed guard of winged warriors that had transported him and Celeste waited patiently just to the north. Wigg sighed. He had come because he knew in his heart he needed to see this person from his past-if indeed she still lived.
Celeste stirred, coming up on one elbow. "You still haven't told me why we're here," she said, smiling at him.
"We have come to see someone," he told her.
"Who?"
He pursed his lips. "Someone I knew a long time ago-someone Krassus referred to that day when he appeared to us in the game room. A woman I was… friendly with… just after the Sorceresses' War."
For several moments he explained to her the world of the partial adepts, just as Faegan had done for Tristan and Shailiha. He also went on to discuss how their kind had, for better or worse, been banished by the Directorate, both the women and the men. When he finished, Celeste's sapphire eyes were alight with curiosity.
"But why did you bring me with you, Father?" she asked. Sitting upright, she wrapped her hands around her raised knees and placed her chin upon them. "You know how much I love to be with you, but wouldn't you have preferred to see her alone? Especially after all these years?"
"If she still lives, I want her to meet you," he answered. "And truth be known, you and I have had precious little chance to be alone. Besides, if there is anyone in the world I would wish to share this encounter with, it is you."
Deciding to change the subject, Wigg selected another blade of grass to worry. "You care for Tristan very much, don't you?" he asked.
At her father's blunt, unexpected question, Celeste blushed. Then the rose of her cheeks faded, and her expression became more somber, perhaps even bordering on mild confusion.
"I care for all of you," she answered simply. "You know that."
Gently grasping her chin, Wigg turned her face to his. "But you care for the prince in a different way than you do for the rest of us, do you not?" he asked softly.
Celeste lowered her eyes. "I would like to," she said hesitantly.
She tilted her head slightly as if in pain, not knowing how much her next words would sear her father's heart. She was trembling, and tears came to her eyes. "Yes, I would like to care for him. But, you see, I really don't know how," she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her.
Grasping her shoulders, Wigg pulled her close. "I know," he answered.
For a long time they sat that way in the grass, simply holding each other: the father who had never known he had a daughter, and the daughter who had never learned how to love.
Finally, Celeste lifted her face. She looked across the glade, alert, head cocked. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, "Tell me, Father, do you hear that?"
"Of course." He smiled. "I first heard it when we sat down. I have wizard's ears, remember?"
"What is it?"
Across the clearing, a swarm of bees anxiously tended a massive comb nested in the crook of a tree branch. Each of the bees was at least the size of a man's fist. As they swirled and danced in the air, the familiar green-and-purple striping upon their backs was highlighted by the climbing sun.
"They're Eutracian honeybees," he said, smiling again. "They're protecting their hive. They are usually
not dangerous, so long as they are left alone."
"What's honey?" she asked.
Realizing anew just how many things Celeste had not experienced that the rest of the world took for granted, he leaned in conspiratorially. "Watch," he whispered. His right hand came up.
As she watched, an azure glow began to form around the comb, trapping the bees inside. They started buzzing even more furiously. Then a nearby dried branch on the grassy floor of the glade rose to penetrate one of the openings in the comb. It withdrew then, one end covered with a sticky, amber-colored substance that dripped lazily to the ground. Then the branch slowly coasted across the clearing, coming to rest patiently in the air before them.
The glow surrounding the comb slowly began to dissipate, finally vanishing altogether. The honeybees went about the business of repairing the rent in the comb.
Wigg grasped the clean end of the branch and held the sticky end out to her. "Taste it," he said with a smile.
"Really?" she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Is it good?"
Still holding the branch, Wigg made a mocking little bow and chuckled. "On my honor as lead wizard of the Directorate."
Celeste took the branch, and tentatively touched her tongue to the honey. Her face lit up.
"I have never tasted anything so wonderful!" she exclaimed brightly. Enjoying the moment, the lead wizard smiled.
But it was that single, innocent action that would cause Celeste's world, and the world of her father, to be changed forever.
Celeste dropped the branch and gripped her throat. Shaking violently, she convulsed into Wigg's arms, her hands reaching up to his face in a pitiful, beseeching gesture of helplessness.
The lead wizard was stunned, unsure of what to do or of what could be causing such a violent reaction. He narrowed his eyes, about to use the craft in an attempt to relieve her suffering.
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