“What is it?” she asked.
At first Bratach remained silent. Then he turned toward her. He did not seem alarmed.
“We have company,” he said. “I have been expecting as much for the last several days. There are a dozen frigates of the monarchy out there, coming toward us. They fly the lion and the broadsword, the battle flag of the House of Galland. They have formed an attack line, and they will soon be upon us. They sail with their running lamps extinguished.” He turned his dark eyes back to the sea.
“You cannot see them yet, but I can,” he added. “They mean to take us.”
Satine stiffened. Twelve to one were not odds she was willing to bargain with.
“We have to run,” she insisted. “We can never defeat so many, even with you aboard.”
“I have no intention of trying to defeat them,” Bratach responded.
“Nor will we run from them. I intend to lure them in, and then go straight through their line. Besides, this is too valuable an opportunity to let pass. Much could be learned from such an experience.”
Satine’s eyes went wide. “Are you mad?” she nearly shouted at him.
“Watch and learn,” the consul said. “Do not be alarmed by what is about to happen. Whatever you do, do not cry out. If we are to succeed, silence will be paramount. All of my demonslavers have been given the same orders.”
No sooner had the consul uttered the words than Satine began to feel a tingling throughout her body. It was not unpleasant, and it provided a welcome warmth.
Then, both she and everything around her disappeared.
She looked around in terror. Staring down, all she could see were the waves as they passed by, several dozen meters below. At first she expected to fall into the water, but she did not. She stood firmly upon nothing, and she could see nothing except the three moons and the ocean they highlighted. Still, she knew she was moving with the ship by the way the deck beneath her continued to sway. It was a liberating feeling, and she wondered if this was what flying was like.
Reaching down the sides of her body, she was grateful to find that she still had substance, even though she couldn’t see herself. Then she looked aft, and noticed that even the ship’s wake had disappeared.
She turned to where she hoped Bratach still stood.
“I understand,” she whispered. “It’s marvelous.”
Satine held her breath as the line of enemy frigates approached across their port bow. Dark and spectral, the looming hulls rose up out of the sea like those of ghost ships. She felt her ship tack and head straight for the center of the enemy line. But would there be enough room to pass through?
Brave as she was, she couldn’t help but cringe as they neared the line of enemy ships. Reaching out, she took hold of the invisible gunwale. Her breath caught in her lungs.
They were so close that she could see the crewmen aboard the oncoming vessels. They seemed to be in great disarray, and there was much shouting. A woman stood upon the bow of what Satine assumed to be the flagship. She seemed angry beyond words as she shouted out her orders. Gripping the gunwale railing even harder, Satine knew that the next few seconds would surely determine their fate.
The enemy vessels slid by on either side, and their lone frigate slipped between the two closest ships. Satine gasped. They were so near that she could actually make out the faces of the enemy crewmen. One of them in particular stood out: a great hulking bear of a man, face, arms, and bare chest covered with scars.
Then they were past the enemy fleet and leaving it behind. Despite her distrust of the craft, this was the most awe-inspiring thing Satine had ever witnessed. Looking aft again, she saw that the distance between them and the fleet was growing quickly. There was little chance of the enemy finding them again. While she stood collecting her thoughts, she sensed that Bratach had returned to her side.
“Amazing,” she said. “And very well done. But why did you risk running us so close? Wouldn’t it have been safer to have outflanked them, rather than slip through their line that way?”
When Bratach finally spoke, his voice seemed to come from nothing.
“I wanted to see who was captaining the fleet, and I was not disappointed,” he answered. “Tell me, did you recognize her?”
Satine realized that she did. The woman commanding the enemy fleet was one of those pictured in the parchments Wulfgar had given her that morning at the Citadel.
“I understand,” she said. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Tyranny, and she is now the prince’s personal privateer,” Bratach answered. “My spies tell me that she is very capable. It is also rumored that she is unusually fond of the prince, a bit of information you might find useful, I should think.”
Smiling to herself, Satine looked down at the waves passing beneath her feet. Being in the employ of a wizard might have its advantages after all.
She could feel the warmth of the rising sun on the small of her back. Then she felt their ship tack again, resuming their course for the delta.
As a precaution, Bratach kept their ship invisible all of the remaining way to the coast.
CHAPTER VIII
_____
“YOU MUST EAT SOMETHING!” SHAWNA THE SHORT EXCLAIMED SOMETHING at the two worried women sitting before her.
The huge breakfast tray that Shawna had prepared sat on the meeting table before them, untouched by Shailiha and Celeste. Morganna, Shailiha’s toddler, lay sleeping in her stroller by the princess’ side, while Caprice sat perched on the top of the princess’ high-backed chair. Shawna loved these two women, and in recent days the princess had come to rely upon the gnome wife heavily—especially as a trusted nanny for Morganna.
Shawna let go another exasperated sigh. Then she busily smoothed out her stark white apron. Her slate gray hair was tied in the back in its usual unforgiving bun, and she wore square, no-nonsense shoes, their laces tied with double knots so that they wouldn’t come undone.
When Shawna’s infamous ire was up, her attitude usually stayed that way for some time. By now nearly everyone in the palace could attest to that fact.
Normally, Shailiha and Celeste found Shawna’s antics comic. But given recent events, they were unnerved to their very core, and neither of them found Shawna particularly amusing.
Ever since Tristan’s absence on his quest to destroy the Gates of Dawn, Shailiha and Celeste had become very close, especially in their shared love for him. They both missed him terribly, and hoped against hope that he would return to them, just as he had done so many times before.
For Celeste, the pain ran deep. Not only was the love of her life missing, but her father, as well. Each of these men had only recently come into her life, and she couldn’t face the thought of losing them both.
Unable to sleep, the princess and Wigg’s daughter had been up all night, trying to console each other and keep fear at bay. When dawn broke, a Minion warrior brought them a message. Faegan was calling an emergency meeting of the Conclave in two hours—whether Tristan, Wigg, and Traax had returned or not. The two women could only guess at what Faegan wished to say. They doubted the news could be good.
Shailiha grasped the gold medallion hanging around her neck and held it tightly—as if doing so might somehow bring her closer to her brother, wherever he might be.
“Are you quite sure that neither of you will eat anything?” Shawna pressed, bringing the princess back to the present. Shailiha shook her head. Celeste followed suit.
With a sorrowful look, Shawna walked over and placed one of her small, gnarled hands over Shailiha’s. The princess could feel the calluses on Shawna’s palms, garnered from centuries of hard, honest work.
“They’ll be back, just you wait and see,” the gnome wife said softly. Then she thought for a moment. “Shall I take Morganna with me?” she asked. “The child will need to eat soon. And knowing how Master Faegan like
s to go on and on, the meeting could be a long one.” A hint of a smile crossed Shawna’s face. Shailiha found herself unable to return it. But she looked over at her daughter and nodded.
“That might be for the best,” she agreed.
Turning, Shawna went to the stroller and reached up to grasp its handle. It was nearly as tall as she. When she was gone, a sad silence descended.
The chamber was spacious, constructed of a beautiful light blue marble with dark blue veins running through it. Artwork decorated the walls and patterned rugs warmed the floor. The small crackling fire in the hearth gave off a comforting aroma. But the true centerpiece of the room was the massive meeting table sitting in the middle of the floor.
Constructed superbly by Minion craftsmen on Tristan’s orders, the table was Eutracian mahogany, inlaid in the center with an image of the Paragon. Each of the ten luxurious, velvet-upholstered chairs surrounding it had the name of its owner carved into its high, curved back.
Shailiha ran one hand over the highly polished tabletop, reflections from the fireplace dancing between her fingers, but she was blind to its beauty. Then she felt Celeste’s hand on her arm, and she looked up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am not with child,” Celeste said shortly.
“I see,” the princess said. “How long have you known?”
“Only since this morning. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I knew how upset you already were, and I didn’t want to add to your burdens. I wanted Tristan to be the first to know, but I needed to talk to someone. Do you think he will forgive me for not telling him first?”
Shailiha did her best to give her a reassuring smile. “Of course he will,” she answered. “Until you tell him, it shall remain just between us.”
Celeste knew that Tristan would have mixed reaction to the news—as she herself had. Both of them knew that any child conceived now, before Tristan’s blood was changed back to red, would be grotesquely deformed. But they both also yearned to bring a child into the world, to love and to care for. Perhaps one day, she thought. They could not lose hope.
Taking a deep breath, she looked at Shailiha, only to see that the princess’ expression had darkened.
“But you must tell him as soon as you can,” Shailiha said. “Then your father, and Faegan. I think you know why.”
Celeste knew what the princess was really trying to tell her. The azure glow of the craft had appeared just after she and Tristan had first lain together. Since she wasn’t with child, the glow must have meant something else—something only the wizards would be able to unravel. Worry stabbed her heart and she shuddered.
TYRANNY WAS FUMING. AS SHE STOMPED DOWN THE SPACIOUS halls of the Redoubt following behind Ox, the heels of her knee boots echoed loudly against the marble floors.
Her encounter with the slaver frigate had so angered Tyranny that she had cowed even the stalwart Ox. That anger had lasted throughout her journey back to the Redoubt in the personal litter Tristan had given her. The muscles in her jaws clenching, the privateer continued to seethe.
The demonslaver frigate had somehow escaped all twelve of her ships. How? She’d had the enemy vessel dead to rights. Escape should have been impossible.
There could only be one answer to how the warship had eluded her grasp, yet her mind shied away from the awful conclusion. She needed to talk to Faegan, and she needed to do it now.
When she and Ox reached the double doors of the meeting room, the two Minion guards standing on either side snapped to attention. At a nod from Tyranny, Ox left her, and the guards swung open the massive portals.
Hoping for the best, Tyranny squared her shoulders and walked in. She was immediately disappointed. Tristan, Wigg, and Traax were not there.
The other six permanent members of the Conclave waited in their respective seats. Faegan was speaking. Upon seeing her come in, he politely stopped, looked at her, and nodded. When Tyranny glanced around the room, she saw sadness and concern on every face.
Tyranny went to embrace Shailiha, Celeste, and Abbey, and did her best to offer them support. Then she took her seat.
She was painfully aware of the empty chairs on either side of her. Normally, Tristan would sit to her right and Wigg to her left. Having no one on either side gave her a strange, isolated feeling, despite the presence of the other people in the room.
Tyranny trained her wide blue eyes on the wizard. Faegan looked tired and drawn. The bloodred Paragon hanging around his neck twinkled brightly in the light of the chandelier.
She saw that both the Tome of the Paragon and the Scroll of the Vigors had been brought here, presumably for safekeeping. The massive, white leather-bound Tome sat in one corner upon a black marble pedestal, its gilt-edged pages lying open. The scroll hovered beside it in the air, spelled there by Faegan.
The scroll was half a meter wide and about one meter long unrolled. A gold rod, with knobs on either end, ran through its center. A gold band engraved with Old Eutracian secured the tightly rolled document at its middle. Tyranny winced when she remembered how much of the precious document had been burned, that night on the roof of the palace. Large sections of the fine vellum were charred and flaking. Even so, it remained magnificent. Finally she looked back at Faegan.
“There is still no word of Tristan, Wigg, or Traax?” she asked.
“No,” Faegan answered. “But they are three highly resourceful individuals—especially when they are together. We must not give up hope.”
“I have urgent news,” Tyranny said. “My fleet sighted a lone demonslaver ship only hours ago, and she—”
She stopped cold when Faegan stiffened and cocked his head to one side.
Then a brief smile overcame the wizard’s face—the first in two days. And then everyone became aware of a growing hubbub in the hallway outside. Suddenly, the double doors burst open, and Tristan, Wigg, and Traax staggered through the doorway.
All three were dirty from head to toe, covered with what looked like some sort of ash. Much of the right side of Wigg’s robe had been scorched away to reveal right hand and right leg covered with red, blistered burns. Tristan looked unharmed, but his hair had been singed. Traax’s long, dark hair had been burned, too, as had part of his leather body armor. All three looked exhausted.
With joyous cries and teary eyes, Celeste, Shailiha, and Abbey stood and raced to embrace the men.
Feeling a bit like an intruder on the tender scene, Tyranny lowered her head and gazed at the inlaid tabletop. She wanted to share her joy at Tristan’s safe return, but that did not seem appropriate.
At last, Tristan helped Wigg to his seat, and then he and Traax sat down. Tristan smiled over at Tyranny, and she smiled back. The Jin’Sai nodded his greetings to the rest of the table.
Faegan placed his gnarled hands flat on the tabletop and looked at Wigg.
“You are severely burned, my old friend,” he said. “But at first glance your injuries do not appear to be life-threatening. You have treated yourself with an incantation of accelerated healing, I presume? And something to help with the pain?”
Wigg reached to his left and took Abbey’s hand, then nodded. He remained silent, knowing full well what Faegan’s next question would be. Faegan leaned forward, his eyes shining with curiosity.
“Tell me, is it as we feared?”
“Yes,” Wigg said sadly. “But I regret to tell you that there is other news, and it is equally grave.”
“What is it?” Abbey asked.
“An entire village is gone,” he whispered. “Brook Hollow. The energy dripping from the Orb of the Vigors burned the place to ash. Try as I might, there was nothing I could do to stop it.” Taking his hand back from Abbey, Wigg wiped tears from his eyes.
“We were right, Faegan,” he went on. “The Orb of the Vigors is torn—no doubt a result of Wulfgar’s attempt to destroy it by polluting it with t
he Orb of the Vagaries. It is dripping the pure energy of the Vigors. For all I know, it may continue to do so for all time.”
For several long moments there was only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
“How is it that the three of you survived?” Abbey finally asked.
“We lost nearly all the warriors that accompanied us,” Tristan answered. “It was only by the grace of the Afterlife that there were enough warriors still alive to catch us as our burning litter went down. We were outside of the main path of the Orb, and were able to build a new litter from freshly felled trees. The surviving warriors flew us home.”
“What direction was the orb traveling in when you left?” Faegan asked.
“North, across the fields of Farplain,” Traax answered. “Luckily, that area is largely uninhabited. But the orb’s path is erratic. It’s impossible to say where it might turn next.”
“Do you believe that the orb has been dripping energy ever since that night Wulfgar tried to destroy it?” Shailiha asked.
“An excellent question,” Wigg said. “No, I do not think so. If that had been the case, then it would have destroyed much of the palace that night, and a good deal of Tammerland, as it moved away. I believe that the orb was weakened that night, and that it finally ruptured later, in some other part of the country.”
“We need to know where the orb is at all times,” Tristan said. “Traax, I want you to send out several squadrons of warriors to find it. Once they have, they are to set up a chain of communication so that we will receive regular updates, just as we do with Tyranny’s fleet. If the orb moves toward an inhabited place, the warriors must do all they can to warn the populace.”
“That may be difficult, Jin’Sai,” Traax said. “They still do not trust us.”
Geldon spoke up at last. “May I make a recommendation?”
“By all means,” Tristan said.
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