Tristan stood, checked his weapons, then went and knelt beside Celeste in the wet grass. She wore a tan leather jerkin, black breeches, and soft brown knee boots. A sword lay at her left hip, its scabbard wet with dew. A sheathed dagger was tied down to her right thigh. He smiled as she sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Her hair was tousled and she looked sleepy, but she smiled back at him.
“Faegan’s portal is quite an experience, isn’t it?” she commented groggily.
She pushed her hair from her eyes, then swept a handful over one shoulder. When she tried to stand, she half-fell, half-stumbled against Tristan, and he steadied her.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to traveling in this way,” she said.
He smiled again. “I know,” he answered. “Still, it’s preferable to a thirty-day voyage across the Sea of Whispers.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but we are assembled and ready to move,” a gravelly Minion voice said.
Tristan turned and saw Alrik, the officer Traax had chosen to lead the accompanying warriors. Tristan had liked him the moment they had met. At fifty-two Seasons of New Life, Alrik was a good bit older than the lord he served. His long hair was streaked with gray, but he was as sturdy as a granite boulder. A decades-old battle scar ran from his right cheekbone down to the cleft in his jaw. The eleven other warriors stood at attention just behind him.
Trying to get his bearings, Tristan looked around. He had asked Faegan to deliver them as close to the Recluse as possible, but given the great distance involved and the complex calculations required to operate the portal, such requests might mean little. Now Tristan and Wigg concluded that they did not know where they were.
Tristan addressed Alrik. “Send one of the warriors into the sky to determine our location,” he ordered. “I want to be at the Recluse as soon as possible.” With a click of his heels, Alrik did as he was asked.
After a short time the warrior returned. “The Recluse is due north,” he said. “It is about one hour’s walk from our current position. Do you wish litters constructed, Jin’Sai?” he asked.
Tristan shook his head. “By the time you finished them, we’d already be there.” He gave a sly look over at the First Wizard. “The walk will do us all good.”
With Alrik leading them, they set out for the Recluse. Tristan and Celeste talked to each other as they went. Lost in thought, Wigg walked behind them. The rest of the Minion warriors brought up the rear. After nearly an hour they came up over a short rise, and Tristan recognized where they were.
He saw the small, lonely grave in the middle of the field. He stopped.
For several long moments Tristan didn’t speak. His face a mask, he stood there, staring at the grave that had once held his only son. Suddenly understanding, Celeste remained still. Wigg placed one of his hands on Tristan’s shoulder. Only the sounds of the waking songbirds and the gentle swish of the wind as it brushed through the grass interrupted the silence.
“Are you all right?” Wigg asked. There was an unusual gentleness in his voice.
“It had been my hope that we would not pass by here,” Tristan answered softly, almost to himself.
“I know it’s difficult,” Wigg said. “But we must steel our hearts for what is yet to come.”
Tristan knew that Wigg was right, but all he could do was to nod in agreement. Finally he signaled to the Minions, and the procession began moving again.
The last time Tristan had come here had been to order the Minion troops to Eutracia to fight Nicholas’ hatchlings. He had also ordered the reconstruction of the Recluse, hoping one day to use the fortress as his headquarters in Parthalon. One corner of his mouth turned up at that thought. He had to admit that the reconstruction hadn’t been a priority for him of late. If nothing else, this trip would serve to ascertain the progress of the Minion men and women who presumably were still at work on the fortress.
Tristan reached the top of the next hill first and looked down. The rays of the rising sun shone down on the lake below and on the island that lay in its center. Mouth agape, Tristan raised a hand to bring his group to a halt. The structure on the island was more than merely reconstructed. It was a revelation.
A long, stone arch provided the only way in or out of the castle, spanning the water from the shore of the lake to where it met the wooden drawbridge, which was flanked by high barbicans and lowered from the castle’s outer wall. Minion warriors manned the portcullis, castle walls, and surrounding areas. Beyond the first two gate towers lay the single entry to the innermost sanctuary of the Recluse.
Unlike the dark and forbidding towers and outer ward, the buildings at the heart of the Recluse looked light and ethereal. Just as Tristan remembered, they were a pale, light blue marble. The turrets at the corners of the main structure were very high. As Tristan had ordered, the flags of the Coven of the Sorceresses had been replaced by new banners depicting his Eutracian heraldry—the lion and the broadsword.
Tristan continued to admire the wondrous structure. The first time he had been here, he had been its prisoner. Now he was its lord.
“It’s beautiful,” Celeste said. “It’s hard to believe that something so lovely could have housed people so evil.” She looked toward her father. He took her hand.
“Is it really true that my mother lived here for more than three hundred years?” she asked. “While I had been abandoned in the Caves of the Paragon with Ragnar?”
Wigg’s face grew hard, but he answered softly. “Yes, my dear.”
Tristan looked at Alrik. “I want you to fly to the Recluse. Tell them that their lord is about to arrive.”
Alrik clicked his heels together. “I live to serve,” he answered, and, spreading his wings, launched himself into the air.
With a nod from Tristan, the rest of the group began walking down the hill. As they approached the bridge, a contingent of warriors came striding out to meet them. Their leader was tall and a bit thin for a Minion. But the steely gaze in his eyes spoke volumes about his ability to lead. Alrik walked on one side of him; on the other was a female Gallipolai, one of the offshoots of the Minion race who were born with white wings and blond hair. Once Minion slaves, they had been freed by Tristan.
As Tristan, Wigg, and Celeste approached, the warriors all went down on one knee.
“I live to serve!” came the uniform oath.
“You may rise,” the prince said.
Alrik returned to Tristan’s side.
“Are you in charge here?” Tristan asked the warrior who had led the others down the drawbridge.
The Minion bowed. “Yes, my lord.” His voice was strong, his manner direct. “I am Lorcan. Commander Traax placed me in charge of finishing the reconstruction of the Recluse, just after you recalled so many of us to fight in Eutracia.” A menacing smile flashed across his face. “I wish I could have been there with you. We were told that a great many of your enemies died that day.”
Then Lorcan looked at Wigg and bowed again. “And the lead wizard is with us as well,” he said. “We are honored.”
Wigg cleared his throat. “Actually, the title is now First Wizard,” he said. “I would like to present my daughter, Celeste.” Looking at her, Lorcan bowed once more.
Tristan regarded the Gallipolai standing by Lorcan’s side. She was lovely, her long blond hair and white feathered wings luminous in the early morning light. Her cornflower-blue eyes reminded him of Narissa, the Gallipolai who had died in his arms just after he had killed Kluge, the Minions’ previous commander. It had been some time since Tristan had seen a Gallipolai. He had almost forgotten how strikingly beautiful both the men and the women of their race could be.
“And who is this?” he asked.
“This is Persephone, my wife,” Lorcan answered proudly. “And my assistant here.”
Suddenly the warrior’s face was overcome with concern. “You did g
ive the order granting us the right to intermarry, did you not?” he asked.
Tristan smiled. “Indeed,” he answered. “My congratulations to you both.”
Relieved, Lorcan and Persephone beamed back at him.
“May I ask why you have come?” Lorcan inquired. “Is it to inspect the Recluse?”
“In a way,” Wigg answered. “We will certainly wish to examine all of your wonderful work before we leave. But that is not the primary reason we are here. Tell me, have the chambers below the Recluse been disturbed in any way?”
“No,” Lorcan answered. “Those areas are said to be of the craft. I had them sealed until further orders.”
“Good.” Wigg answered. “Can you please direct us to the passageway that leads down?”
“Of course,” Lorcan answered. He turned and led them across the drawbridge.
There was little going on in the outer ward, but the grand foyer of the Recluse was a beehive of activity. The outside of the fortress had been completed, and the workers now directed all of their energy toward decorating the inner chambers. Artisans had turned the massive foyer into a wondrous workshop. Some of them were busy weaving carpet. Others were creating artwork or building furniture. Tristan saw that at the rate they were producing, the interior of the Recluse would reclaim its previous splendor within a matter of weeks.
Lorcan led them across the black-and-white checkerboard floor and down a long hallway, finally stopping before a pair of huge double doors guarded by two Minion warriors. The warriors snapped to attention. Lorcan turned to look at his lord.
“This is but one of many ways down,” he said. “But of all the stairways leading to the lower regions, this one remains the most intact. Most of the others were damaged beyond use.”
With a gesture from Tristan, the guards opened the doors. The massive hinges creaked ominously, as if to warn away anyone foolish enough to enter. A winding staircase led down into the unrelenting blackness.
“Does my lord wish the services of additional warriors?” Lorcan asked.
Tristan thought for a moment. “No. But if we have not returned after two hours, I want you to personally lead a search party for us. Do you understand?”
Loran nodded, and clicked his heels.
Walking to stand in front of the prince, Wigg looked down the curved stairway. Even his wizard’s eyes could see nothing in the gloom. He turned back to Tristan.
“Some potential source of light must remain,” he mused. “Even Failee couldn’t see in the dark.”
Tristan pursed his lips. “Are you quite sure about that?” he asked. Wigg only scowled back.
Looking down the stairway again, Wigg narrowed his eyes and called upon the craft. Almost immediately a series of wall sconces lit up, their golden glow flooding out into the hallway.
“It is wide enough to descend two abreast,” Wigg said. “I suggest that I go first, followed by you and Celeste. Then the rest of the warriors follow behind you, two by two, with Alrik bringing up the rear. Agreed?”
Tristan nodded. He looked over at Celeste, who smiled at him and drew her sword.
Tristan reached behind his right shoulder and drew his dreggan from its scabbard. The warriors in his party did the same.
“Are you ready?” Wigg asked.
“Is there any other choice?” Tristan answered.
Turning back toward the stairway, Wigg took a deep breath. With careful, measured steps, he began to lead them down.
CHAPTER XXV
_____
WHEN SHE HEARD THE SHOUT, SATINE BOLTED UPRIGHT FROM her bed.
She threw on a silk robe, quickly tied its sash around her waist, and grabbed the razor-sharp sword lying on the nightstand.
She ran to the other side of the room and tore open the door. Without hesitation she ran in the direction of the wailing that resounded through the night. The screaming voice sounded like Aeolus. As she ran, armed students of the Serpent and the Sword joined her.
Rounding the corner, she realized that the cries were coming from an already open doorway.
She skidded to a stop and took a deep breath. Then she raised the sword over her head and launched herself in.
A single candle lit the room with a soft, even glow. Aeolus sat on the bed, cradling the head of the man that lay there. Fresh, sticky blood was everywhere.
When the stricken man saw Satine enter the room, he smiled. For the briefest of moments, the light returned to his eyes. But it seemed to take all the life he had remaining. It was as if after seeing her this last time, he could finally allow himself to die.
A decisive rattle escaped his lungs, and his head slumped to the side. Satine saw that his throat had been slit from ear to ear. She looked at Aeolus, but all her master could do was shake his head.
Satine lowered her sword. She started to kneel down. Then she heard the sound of rapid footfalls on the rooftop above.
Turning quickly, she pushed her way past the others and tore down the hall. A trail of blood led her to another room. Raising her sword, she rushed in.
There was no one there. Looking up, she saw that the skylight in the ceiling was open. Its handle dripped fresh blood.
Then she heard the footfalls again—faster, louder, closer. She ran across the room and leaped atop the same table the assassin had used in his escape. She jumped up and hoisted herself through the open skylight. As she stood on the roof, the magenta-colored moonlight glinted off her blade. The night wind snaked coldly between her skin and the folds of her robe. Looking around warily, she could detect no movement or sound in the inky night.
Suddenly, there he was.
A figure swathed in dark cloth ran furtively ahead of her. Carrying a sword, he leaped from the roof she stood on and landed nimbly upon the next. Knowing she hadn’t a second to lose, Satine ran to the edge of the roof and launched herself into the night.
As she flew through the air, the distance between the two rooftops somehow grew longer. It was as if the buildings were moving away from each other. Terror gripped her as she realized that she wasn’t going to make it.
Tumbling helplessly toward the ground, she looked up and saw the assassin looking down over the edge of the far building. He smiled wickedly at her, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.
With a scream Satine tore off her covers and launched her naked body from the bed. She was shaking and bathed in sweat. Looking to the window, she saw that it was nearly dawn.
She got to her knees, then sat back on her heels and wrapped her arms around herself. She fought back the urge to vomit. She looked to the other side of the room. The small set of carriage bells she had tied to the door handle had not rung. It was a crude device, but effective: No one had tried to violate the sanctity of her chamber. For that much, at least, she could be thankful.
The recurring nightmare of her father’s death always rattled her to the very core. Tonight had been no exception. When they had first begun, she had wondered how long they would persist, and what it would finally take to make them go away. Only as the years went on did she come to understand.
The only way she would ever be free of them would be to find her father’s killer, and to see him die slowly, painfully. Only that would erase her shame at failing to catch him that horrible night on the roof of the Serpent and the Sword.
She rose and stood on shaky legs and lit a pair of candles. She carried one of them to the washstand on the other side of the room. In the mirror, the face that stared back at her was stark white, her hair matted to her sweaty skin.
She splashed some water on her face, dried herself with a cloth, then ran a hairbrush through her hair.
In the candlelight her reflection showed the tattoos on each of her upper arms. They were the twin marks of mastery from Aeolus’ school: the image of a coiled serpent on her right arm, a sword on the left.
She touch
ed the sword tattoo gently. She was proud of these markings, for few had ever attained them both. They would be with her until the day she died.
Uncoiling a little, she walked over to the window of her room in the Rooster and Finch and looked out. She had returned from Valrenkium yesterday after a hard two-day ride. Tammerland would be waking up soon, and she needed to be on her way again.
She now had everything she required to begin her sanctions, and it was time to get to work. She went to the weather-beaten wardrobe, opened its doors, and removed her clothes and weapons.
As the light of the morning sun crept over the lone windowsill, she began to dress.
“THIS IS ALL THE INFORMATION WE HAVE FOR YOU REGARDING the whereabouts of your first target,” Bratach said. He handed Satine the parchment. “It should be enough for someone of your talents.”
Satine took the parchment and read it, quickly committing it to memory. She handed it back to him, then watched as he placed one of its corners into the flame of the candle on the table between them.
Bratach, Ivan, and Satine sat in the subterranean sanctuary of the archery shop. After leaving the Rooster and Finch, she had walked her horse past the shop to see whether a message might be waiting for her. When she saw the “open” sign hanging by the parted doors, she pulled her gelding up short. The words were red.
Once she had gone in, Ivan had closed the shop and led the way down the back stairs, where Bratach had been waiting.
Flicking the last cinders from his fingertips, Bratach leaned back in his chair. “So you choose to be known as the Gray Fox,” he mused. “Appropriate, I must say.”
He picked up a half-full wine bottle and poured himself a glass. After pouring one for Ivan, he held the bottle out to Satine and raised one eyebrow.
Satine shook her head. “I never drink once a sanction has begun.”
Bratach nodded. “So much the better.” He looked at Ivan and then back at Satine.
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