Tristan shook his head. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “If Faegan’s bolts couldn’t harm him, then how could a dreggan do so? Besides, if he is attacked he might vanish, and we could lose the Paragon forever. No, my friend-he would only kill more of us in the process. There has already been too much death.”
Tristan looked back at Wigg. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.
Wigg sadly closed his eyes, then opened them again. When he did they were shiny with tears.
“Yes,” he answered. “No matter how many of us attack, I fear we cannot defeat this creature. If his gifts truly are of the Heretics, we would be foolish to try. Even combining my gifts with Jessamay’s and Adrian’s would likely do little good. Despite how much I fear for you, I can see no other course but to let you go.”
“Then I shall,” Tristan said. “I know that I might never return. Either way, these are my orders: First, Shailiha is now the Conclave leader and reigning sovereign. She is also lord of the Minions. Her word is law. Respect her orders as you would my own. Second, speed your plans to attack the Citadel. If it is at all possible, take Serena alive, and capture the Scroll of the Vagaries. It is my belief that Wulfgar’s widow has much to do with this.”
“Your time is up, Jin’Sai!” Xanthus suddenly cried out. “Must more people die because of your indecisiveness?”
Tristan turned to gaze into the monster’s glowing eyes. “Harm no one else!” he shouted. “I will go with you!”
Xanthus grinned, his teeth showing grotesquely in the hood’s recesses.
Reaching out, Shailiha took her twin brother into her arms. She held him close, like she was never going to let go. She placed her mouth to his ear.
“I will find you,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “just as you once had to find me. I swear it.”
“No!” he whispered back. “Promise me that you will attack the Citadel!” Nodding sadly, she finally released him.
Knowing there was little left to say, Tristan nodded at Wigg. Wigg swallowed hard, then nodded back.
Just as Tristan turned to go, Tyranny stepped nearer. She pulled him to her, then kissed him hard on the mouth. She slowly let him go. For the first time since meeting her, he could see that she was shaking.
Rather than seeming surprised, Tristan smiled gently. “I know,” he said quietly. “I always have.”
Stepping off the dais, he walked to where Xanthus sat astride his mount. He looked again into the dark hood.
“I demand to keep my weapons,” he said.
“Granted,” Xanthus answered. “As you have no doubt surmised, you cannot harm me with them.”
Tristan watched in dread as Xanthus raised a bony, glowing hand. Wondering whether the being was about to cause yet more mayhem and death, he held his breath. The answer surprised him. Another shimmering shape started to appear. It slowly coalesced to take a familiar form.
Shadow, Tristan’s black stallion, soon stood where the shimmering had once been. A recent gift from the Minion warriors of Parthalon, the horse danced about a bit as he took in his new surroundings. Shadow was wearing the shiny black tack the warriors had also given the prince. Tristan walked over, grasped the bridle, and rubbed the stallion’s face. Shadow slowly calmed.
After gazing around the disheveled room, Tristan threw himself up into the saddle. As he wheeled Shadow around, the stallion’s iron shoes clip-clopped on the marble floor. Tristan took a last look at the Conclave members, then walked Shadow up alongside Xanthus’ horse.
“It is time, Jin’Sai, ” Xanthus said. In a voice that was almost kind, he added, “We travel to a place beyond description. Obey my every word, and many of your long-held questions will be answered.”
Side by side, Tristan and Xanthus walked their horses toward the rear of the Great Hall. With every step they took, what living foliage still adorned the room withered, then died.
As they neared the far wall, both riders disappeared.
CHAPTER IX
It is for my lost Fledglings that I fear the most. With Duncan’s death and the abandonment of Fledgling House, my precious girls might be anywhere. I am not the young girl I once was, and my remaining days grow short. My greatest hope is that I can somehow see my Fledglings again, before I go to the Afterlife.
- FROM THE PRIVATE DIARIES OF MARTHA, ONETIME MATRON OF FLEDGLING
HOUSE
STANDING ATOP ONE OF THE CITADEL’S BARBICANS, Serena looked toward the heavens. It was almost midnight, and the sky was angry. Dark clouds gathered ominously, blotting out Eutracia’s three magenta moons. The wind harassed her hair and gown, and the Sea of Whispers crashed mightily in its endless assault against the rocky shore. His hands clasped before him, Einar waited quietly by her side.
I will soon need to summon the craft to remain standing against this wind, Serena thought. The storm is gathering, just as the Heretics said it would.
The Heretics had again communed with her yesterday. As she remembered their words, the heavenly voices seemed as clear tonight as they had then.
“Although theJin’Saitravels with the Darkling, the Conclave plans to move against you,” the Heretics had told her.“You must summon your allies, so that the Citadel is unassailable while Einar and the Valrenkian visit Parthalon. Work the craft tomorrow at midnight, for there will be a great storm. If you fail, all that we wish to do might be rent asunder by the Conclave. We will grant you the proper Forestallment calculations needed to ensure your success.”
She had gone to her knees and lowered her head. There had been much more to their message; she had listened intently. When the Heretics had finished relaying their instructions, she’d told them she would obey.
At first, the combination of azure letters, numbers, and symbols had seemed incomprehensible. But as they had continued to enter her mind she’d started to recognize the elegant thread of genius winding through them. She’d quickly realized that she would need Einar’s help to impart them into her blood signature. It would have to happen soon.
After sending a handmaiden to summon Einar to the Scriptorium, Serena had walked there alone. The Scriptorium was a place of research, where many documents left behind by the Heretics lay in safekeeping. It was there too that she kept the consummately precious Scroll of the Vagaries. As she entered, several consuls in their blue robes nodded reverently, then returned to their work.
Ensconced high in one of the fortress’s corner turrets, the Scriptorium was built of tan stone. Bookcases lining the walls held hundreds of texts and scrolls, some still laden with centuries’ worth of dust. Several dozen desks sat in neat rows, their tops laden with more scrolls, texts, and tools of the craft. Golden candelabras, their candles enchanted to burn forever and without producing smoke, graced the desks’ working surfaces.
Because the hour was late, consuls occupied only a few of the desks. She knew that they would be compiling the results of today’s experiments. Other consuls were busy clearing away the physical remains of Einar and Reznik’s research. Blood could still be seen here and there on the floor. She clearly understood that Reznik had been right about his warning to her. What they needed could no longer be found on the island. The Heretics had been right in telling her to send Einar and Reznik to Parthalon.
She walked to a consul’s desk and looked down. The man quickly abandoned his work to stand before her. He bowed.
“Fetch me a fresh parchment,” she ordered.
The consul scurried to do his queen’s bidding. He opened one of the many desk drawers, selected a clean sheet, then hurried back. Lowering his head, he offered it up.
Serna took the parchment and walked across the room. By now every consul was watching her. Calling the craft, she caused the parchment to rise into the air.
She stepped closer, then shut her eyes as she recalled the magnificent formula. As the azure calculations started swirling in her mind, she concentrated harder, bringing them to the fore. When she was satisfied that she had summoned the entire formula, she pointed to
the parchment. A thin azure bolt leaped from her fingertip to the paper. She opened her eyes.
The blank paper started to smoke as she burned the formula into it. Line after line seared its way into the sheet. When she finished, her small azure bolt disappeared. Smoke drifted lazily toward the open windows. Knowing that the consuls would be eager to view her creation, she looked over at them.
“You may approach,” she said. “Come witness some of the Heretics’ wisdom.”
The consuls quickly left their desks to crowd around her. Some gasped at what they saw. They had never imagined such a complex solution. It was like looking into the minds of the Heretics themselves.
“It is a beautiful thing indeed, Your Grace,” Einar said.
Looking up, Serena saw her lead consul approaching. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“It is, isn’t it?” she replied. She looked at the lesser consuls. “Leave us,” she said. “Our discussion is not for your ears.”
After bowing, the consuls left the room. Einar read the hovering parchment, his dark eyes eagerly absorbing every nuance.
“Amazing,” he breathed. As he scanned the formula, Serena informed him of her recent communion with the Heretics.
He turned to look into Serena’s eyes. Despite his admiration for the calculations and the reasons for their use, concern showed on his face. Taking a deep breath, he clasped his hands before him.
“Your Grace understands the risks involved when placing this formula into your blood?” he asked. “The Forestallment it will produce will be especially powerful. This could easily bring about your death, to say nothing of the exquisite pain.”
Serena did not answer. Instead, she turned away, and returned to the window, then looked out over the restless sea. She stood there for some time, watching and remembering. When she turned back, her expression had softened. She looked around the Scriptorium, then back at Einar.
“It was not so long ago-in this same room, in fact-that you infused a similar spell into someone’s blood. It was a spell that had also been gifted to us by the Heretics-one that also promised huge gains in our struggle against the Vigors. I’m sure I needn’t remind you further.”
A contrite look came over Einar’s face. “I remember, Your Grace,” he answered. “My only concern was for your welfare.” Yielding to her authority, he bowed.
Einar would never forget the night she had mentioned. At long last, the formula for the index of the Scroll of the Vagaries had been acquired. Once imbued into Wulfgar’s blood, it would grant him the ability to immediately search out and identify any of the thousands of formulas written on the scroll. It had been a huge leap forward in their understanding of the Vagaries.
The Forestallments Wulfgar’s blood carried were a direct result of theEnseterat allowing Einar to imbue the index formula into his blood. He could then choose whatever spells he wished, granting them to his queen. He had done so with great care.
Einar had seen Serena’s blood signature only once-the day that she had miscarried her child. Literally hundreds of Forestallment branches were evident. Coupled with her inordinately high blood quality, she was truly a living force of the craft. He believed that her gifts even surpassed those of Failee, the late First Mistress of the Coven of Sorceresses. Looking into her eyes, he saw the same unsatisfied hunger burning there that had once consumed Wulfgar.
Even so, Einar was hesitant. His similar use of the craft on Wulfgar had taken nearly all night; the intense pain had nearly killed Wulfgar. Worrying Einar even more was the fact that Serena’s blood quality-although inordinately high-was not her late husband’s equal.
Wulfgar’s death had been a horrible shock to them all. Serena’s majestic gifts, and her dead baby girl still lying among those rose petals in the crypt, were all that remained of him. In the end, perhaps the only way to honor Wulfgar’s memory would be to honor his grieving widow’s desires.
Serena had searched Einar’s face with her piercing eyes. “TheEnseterat was your lord and my husband,” she had said quietly. “He was willing to risk all to honor the Heretics’ wishes. Shall I do less?”
“I understand,” Einar had answered. “When would you like to start?”
“Immediately,” she had answered. “Our enemies across the sea do not tarry. Neither shall we.” Her mood suddenly darkening, she looked sternly into his eyes. “But before we begin, I want you to take a solemn vow,” she said.
“Anything, Your Grace. You know that.”
“Should I die this night, promise me that you will continue with our work. To the death, if need be. TheJin’Sai must pay for his crimes.”
Einar had bowed slightly. “I promise,” he had answered, “even unto death.”
The cold sea wind brought her back to the present, and Serena looked around. From her place atop the wall she saw that the sea was even higher now and the clouds thicker, the wind stronger. Even the saucy gulls had scattered, their keen senses telling them that something ominous was brewing. It was time.
She had never felt more alive. Although she had nearly died the night before, the suffering she had endured to accept the formula into her blood had been worth the price. Aside from the mysteries of the craft, she was about to partly rule over the world’s most potent force. She would command nature herself. Even more, she would twist it to suit her needs, creating something never before seen in the world.
The queen of the Vagaries raised her arms. Calling on her new Forestallment, she began employing the craft.
The wind rose mightily, surpassing its earlier ferocity by far. Seawater violently splashed its way up from the shoreline to touch her mourning dress and her skin. Einar also found himself forced to call the craft, simply to avoid being blown off the wall’s guard path. White tentacles of lightning snaked wildly across the sky, their accompanying thunder booming in his ears.
Looking skyward, Serena raised and joined her hands. The dark clouds frantically converged. Raising her hands higher, she caused a single cloud to become even darker. As the wind howled and the lightning flashed, the giant cloud started to spin, whirling itself into a vortex that encompassed the entire nighttime sky.
Einar’s jaw dropped. The huge, spinning cloud was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was so dark and thick that it seemed to have real substance. Serena spread her fingers. A lightning bolt suddenly shot its way directly through the cloud’s center. The massive cloud started spewing rain with tremendous force. It fell heavily, like dripping candle wax might. When the droplets neared the earth they started changing shape, growing in size until they blotted out the night sky. As the first of the things formed, he looked on in wonder.
Each of the drops widened to become a slim, flat oblong. They reminded Einar of another of nature’s creatures, but he couldn’t place them. Then they widened farther at their sides. Slender, graceful tails grew from their rears.
When the first of them came to hover before its new mistress, Einar suddenly remembered. It looked like a deadly ocean ray he had once seen. Its life finally expired, it had washed up on the Citadel’s shoreline. This new being was similar in every respect, save for its larger size.
More of its fully realized brothers came to join it. One of them rose in the dark sky to reveal its underbelly. Although its topside was light gray like the fortress, its underside was of the darkest black, with small, scattered pinpricks of white.
Near its body’s top edge, a pair of glowing, dark eyes stared back confidently. There were no nostrils or mouth. It hovered before them gracefully, kept aloft by the outer edges of its smooth, undulating body. It was a beautiful, yet terrifying thing. As the rain continued to fall, more of them formed. Einar estimated that there must be tens of thousands of them.
Serena slowly lowered her hands. The dark cloud stopped spinning and vanished. The lightning and thunder slowly faded away to show a clear night sky, and the Sea of Whispers calmed. Their dark eyes glistening, the vast horde of beings Serena had created hovered quietly. Einar stepped clos
er to Serena. He placed his mouth near her ear.
“Permission to speak?” he whispered.
Serena nodded. “These beings are our servants. They will not harm us.”
Reaching out, she beckoned one closer. The edges of its body rippling gracefully, the amazing creature complied. Serena stretched forth one hand to stroke its velvety skin. The creature let go a sort of soft, cooing sound. Almost like a mother and child, Einar thought.
“What are they called?” he asked.
“The Heretics call them envelopers.”
“Envelopers,” Einar mused. “Why is that?”
Serna turned to him. “Did you bring the two Valrenkians I asked for?”
Einar nodded. “They wait in the corner guardhouse.”
“They are each expendable?”
“Yes. One is an old woman near death, and the other is a boy of feeble mind. Reznik has confirmed their uselessness.”
“Good,” she replied. “Bring them.”
Einar walked down the path toward the stone guard post. One such post sat wherever two or more fortress walls intersected. Employing the craft, he unlocked the squeaky door.
Inside, an old woman dressed in brown rags sat hunched over a table. A young boy with vacant eyes and uncontrolled drool running down his chin wandered aimlessly about the stark confines. His clothing was mostly red. Two consuls stood nearby, watching them. Einar gestured to the consuls.
“Bring them,” he ordered.
The consuls grabbed the woman and the boy, and started manhandling them toward the door. The old woman screamed, alarming the boy. As they struggled, Einar scowled at the consuls.
“Use the craft if you must!” he shouted. “Just get them outside!”
Soon the two captives became more compliant and started shuffling along. As the group neared, Serena held up one hand.
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