“You take life far too seriously!” Faegan exclaimed, grinning at the imperious lead wizard from the other side of the rail. He pursed his lips, thinking. Then he smiled.
“I can make you participate, you know,” he added cryptically. “I’m more powerful than you are.”
Wigg narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare!”
That was all Faegan needed to hear. Narrowing his eyes, he caused Wigg to levitate. Wigg struggled to fight it, but it was no use. Faegan’s gift was too strong. He took Wigg higher, over the rail, to join him and the fliers in the aviary.
Faegan promptly turned Wigg upside down, so that his robes fell over his face, blinding him, and revealing bare legs that kicked futilely at the air. Faegan snickered like a schoolboy who had just dipped an unsuspecting girl’s braid into the inkwell. Or worse.
“Put me down, you fool!” Wigg shouted from within the folds of his robes, arms waving wildly.
Faegan smiled. “Say please,” he shouted back.
“Never!”
“Suit yourself,” Faegan answered happily. Leaving Wigg alone in his distress, he resumed soaring about the massive room in his chair.
“She awaits us!” Wigg finally shouted, his voice oddly muffled by his robes. “Or have you forgotten, most powerful one?” he added sarcastically.
“Yes, very well,” Faegan answered, turning his chair away from the butterflies. Waving his arm, he righted Wigg, whose face was more red from anger than from his time spent upside down. They both floated back to the balcony.
“Do you have some water from the Well of the Redoubt?” Faegan asked, his mood having turned serious again.
Still angry, Wigg gave him a nod. Saying nothing more, Faegan retrieved his violin and wheeled his chair out of the chamber and into the adjoining hall, acting for all the world as if he thought Wigg had nothing better to do than follow him wherever he went.
Wigg let out an exasperated sigh. With a thought, he commanded the doors to the aviary to close silently behind him as he followed his eccentric but benevolent tormentor.
Shailiha smiled bravely as the two wizards entered her room. As always, she managed somehow to summon up the necessary courage to endure what the wizards said they needed to do to make her whole again. She drew strength from their concern for her, from Tristan’s love and support, and from the fact that she had a daughter to care for. Even now, Morganna could be heard cooing happily in her crib, just a few feet away.
“Your Highness,” Wigg said gently. “How are you feeling today?”
“Much better, Wigg, thank you.” Shailiha stood and walked across the room to the wizards, the silk of her pink, floor-length gown rustling with her steps. “I want to thank you both for your constant care,” she said then, her words almost a whisper. “Without you and Tristan, Morganna and I would surely have been lost forever.”
Wigg cleared his throat. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said simply. She walked back to her chair and sat down, waiting for the wizards to begin.
Wigg drew up another chair, while Faegan wheeled his into place in front of the princess. She closed her eyes, just as she had done so many times before.
She has been through so much, Wigg thought. But it is almost over.
It had taken a great deal of insight, coupled with Faegan’s knowledge of the Vagaries, to finally unravel the secret to the incantation the Coven had used upon her. Shailiha’s torment at the hands of the sorceresses had proven more of a riddle than they had first thought. The spell had been treacherously seductive. Not only had it infused itself into her mind, but it had also taken command of her endowed, but still untrained blood.
The wizards had found an answer in the water of the Caves.
Untrained, endowed blood could be empowered—temporarily—by proximity to water from the Caves of the Paragon. The effect could either be painful or pleasurable. When Tristan had accidentally discovered the Caves, he had found the water irresistible. In Shailiha’s case, the closeness of the thick, red liquid had proven to be difficult to bear. However, the process was proving successful. The princess’ trials had been painful both in body and mind, but the wizards believed that she was near the end of her torment.
Wigg reached beneath his robe to retrieve a small pewter vial full of water from the Well of the Redoubt, where water from the caves was always kept. He watched as Faegan closed his eyes and began to call forth the spell that they hoped would banish yet more of the chaos from the princess’ mind. Shailiha sat completely still in her chair. The room was wrapped in total silence. Nothing stirred, not even the baby in her crib.
Slowly Faegan nodded his head. At this signal, Wigg removed the stopper from the top of the vial. Again Faegan nodded, and Wigg automatically responded by pouring a single drop of the fluid upon the open palm of the princess. The effect upon her was immediate, and far more startling than it had ever been before.
Shailiha screamed. Sweat began to soak through her gown in dark, ominous splotches. At the sound of her mother’s voice the baby immediately began crying. Shailiha’s entire body began to shake uncontrollably, her hazel eyes rolling grotesquely up into her head, leaving only the whites exposed. She tried to stand, but Wigg forced her back down, holding her in place. This time her strength was such that he was forced to use the craft to augment his own brawn, just to keep her in place. She tossed her head violently, sending long blond hair flying back and forth, and foam began bubbling from the corners of her mouth. It snaked wetly down her chin and onto her already soaked gown.
“Hold her!” Faegan shouted, his eyes still closed. “This is what we have been waiting for!”
With a last, earsplitting scream, the princess slumped forward in her chair, unconscious. Wigg barely caught her before she fell to the marble floor. Faegan opened his eyes, ending his spell. He examined Shailiha intently, looking for the sign he and Wigg hoped would prove the final banishment of the first mistress’s awful work.
From all about Shailiha now came the beginnings of a soft blue glow. It built in intensity until it had become one of the brightest ever seen by the two wizards. Then it began to coalesce, spinning into a maelstrom of swirling light that flew from her body and spun crazily around the chamber. Oil lamps crashed to the floor; the silk sheets from Shailiha’s great four-poster bed flew violently into the air. Furniture crashed and tumbled, noisily splintering against marble walls. Wigg quickly handed the inert princess to Faegan and ran to the baby’s crib, covering its open top protectively with his body.
And then, with a last, insane howl, the azure maelstrom rose to the top of the room, flattening out against the ceiling, where it dissipated into nothingness. The objects it had picked up in its whirling madness immediately fell, crashing and smashing down upon the marble floor. Bits of glass, cloth, and furniture were scattered everywhere. The shrieking of the wind ceased, and all that remained was the ordinary sound of a baby crying.
Shailiha, lying in Faegan’s arms, groaned softly and sleepily opened her eyes.
After calming the infant, Wigg returned to Faegan’s side. He gazed intently at the princess, and then a smile broke out across his long, creased face. “You’re finally well,” he said softly, a tear beginning to gather in the corner of one eye. “Free.”
She stood slowly, shakily. Reaching out, she hugged Wigg close, then bent over to embrace Faegan. But even this low level of exertion proved too much for her, and she started to fall. Wigg swept her up in his arms.
“The best thing for you now is sleep,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “The next time you wake up, you will be a new woman.” He turned her to face the crib, where Morganna lay. “A new woman with a new baby,” he added happily.
Then he laid her down upon the bed and covered her with blankets that had been caught up in the maelstrom. Faegan wheeled his chair over to look at her. Already, Shailiha was asleep, and for the first time the wizards could see in her face the true, rejuvenating sleep of the peaceful and the just.
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Faegan reached one of his hands out and placed it upon the sleeping princess’ head, closing his eyes. He remained like that for several moments, then opened his eyes and smiled. “She is truly well,” he murmured gratefully. “We have done it, Wigg. I am proud to have been of service to her. I only wish I could have been here to help guide her and her brother all these years—and to witness their remarkable birth.”
Wigg was about to open his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt something inside of him slip, and his body jolted a bit.
He turned to Faegan, wide-eyed, and saw that the elder wizard had obviously felt it, too. His face white, Faegan gripped the arms of his chair in an autonomic response to his panic. Neither one spoke, as if putting words to their suspicions would somehow, unbelievably, make them true.
Lifting the Paragon from his robe, Wigg held it to the light—to see what for three centuries had always been their greatest fear.
CHAPTER
Six
As he always did when being summoned by the child, Ragnar walked through the many labyrinthine halls quickly. Scrounge followed dutifully behind him. The blood stalker had indeed expected to see the youth this day, but earlier, rather than at such a late hour. His mind, busy with the possible reasons for his delayed but still required attendance, contemplated many answers—none of which readily fit.
He always liked going to the lower places, the farthest down and darkest of the many rooms here. He had been honored to watch the child use his already-immense powers to carve the great chambers out of living rock, creating the magnificent areas through which he now walked. But even the blood stalker Ragnar did not understand the full impact of what he was about to witness upon entering these, the deepest of all the chambers.
Finally standing with Scrounge before a door of black marble, Ragnar narrowed his eyes, calling upon the craft. Immediately the door turned itself silently upon its hinges, exposing the immense room that lay below. The many winding, marble steps went down several stories and took some time to navigate.
Ragnar had been here before, but this time something was different, and standing at the entrance to the room at last, the stalker stopped short, amazed at what he saw before him. From all around the room came the glow of the craft. A vein of glowing azure rippled through the living rock walls as if it were part of the very chamber itself. Many feet wide in most places, it completely encircled the chamber like a glowing, undulating snake. It was like looking at the purest vein of Eutracian gold as it lay there, waiting to be mined. But this vein glowed, and he knew instinctively that it was infinitely more valuable than gold.
This vein is endowed, Ragnar thought as he stood speechless before its beauty. He shook his head, fully understanding that this was undoubtedly the work of the young master, and astounded at the breadth of the power the child now apparently possessed.
“Beautiful, is it not?” came the young, controlled voice from somewhere behind him.
Ragnar and Scrounge turned around to see the boy hovering before them, the amazing glow about him as always. Immediately they went to their knees.
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar said. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“And once it is gone, you will never see its equal again,” the youth responded quietly as he watched the undulating vein throb within the living rock. He stretched out his arm to pass one hand lovingly over the glowing ribbon.
“Please, my lord, will you tell us how it has so suddenly come?” Ragnar asked, then wondered if he had overstepped his bounds. “And, if it also pleases you, for what purpose is it intended?” He raised his face to look up at the boy, taking in the dark, upturned eyes; the long, black, silky hair; the bright white robe.
“You have many questions,” the boy said quietly, sending a shiver up the spines of both the stalker and the assassin. “The vein is a subject best left for another time. Besides, you are here for different reasons.”
The young adept began to glide toward the door at the far side of the chamber. “Follow me,” he said simply. Then, only a short distance away, he stopped. Suddenly turning, he smiled briefly, showing perfect, white teeth. “For your purposes, you may call me Nicholas,” he said calmly, turning around as he made for the door.
Nicholas, Ragnar thought, looking knowingly at Scrounge. How appropriate.
Nicholas led them into another room, so large that it literally dwarfed the one from which they had just come.
Hewn out of living rock, it was over twenty stories and measured several hundred meters across in both directions. The flickering, orange flames of dozens of wall torches, enchanted by Nicholas to continue burning forever, cast sinuous shadows across the walls and floor, creating an imposing sense of dread. A door led out of the room at the far side. And carved into all four walls were row upon row of open, azure-glowing crypts. There were several thousand of them, and over half were occupied by male bodies, lying head outward, into the room.
Nicholas looked up, carefully examining the crypts.
Very soon now, my father, the child thought. Very soon you, your twin sister, and the pestilence that is the two wizards who practice the Vigors shall all know of my coming.
He glanced down to Ragnar. Softly, he said, “Come with me.” With that he began to ascend toward the highest of the rows of occupied crypts, his white robe billowing gently as he went.
Leaving Scrounge standing on the floor, Ragnar levitated himself to Nicholas’ side. From here the blood stalker could see the true size of this massive place. He estimated that with a little more than half of the crypts filled, there were at least two thousand bodies already here.
But the child would not be content with those numbers, Ragnar realized. Nicholas would not rest until he had them all . . .
Ragnar hovered closer to one of the crypts for a better look. The glow seemed brighter to him from this proximity. And although the face of the man inside was unknown to him, he recognized what the man was: a consul of the Redoubt.
Lying as if asleep, the consul was still wearing his dark blue robe. The blood stalker did not have to examine him further to know that the tattoo, the representation of the Paragon, had already been removed from the man’s right shoulder. This particular consul had a great, gray beard, and was rather mature. He had probably been a consul for some time, Ragnar reflected, perhaps even holding a station of some prominence within the secret organization of the endowed. He may even have known Wigg personally.
Ragnar reached up to feel the never-healing wound in the side of his head. He was to be awarded the honor of punishing the lead wizard—the child had promised him that. He smiled, relishing his eagerness for revenge. And it would be his assassin who would destroy the Chosen One. But he had no idea what Nicholas was doing with all these consuls.
The youth glided closer to the stalker, his head tilted back, his long, dark hair hanging toward the ground below, his upturned eyes mere slits. He seemed to be lost in the rapture of some private thought. Finally he looked into Ragnar’s gray, bloodshot eyes with a newfound intensity.
“I bring you here to show you how many consuls we now have,” he added. “It is my understanding that there are now fewer consuls left in the countryside than there are interred here. I wish them all to be delivered to the catacombs quickly, before any of them can return to the Redoubt. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered obediently.
“And the lone consul?” Nicholas asked. “Has he been delivered to the Redoubt as I ordered?”
“Yes, with a message from Scrounge. I approved it myself. It is sure to acquire the attention of the prince.”
“Good,” Nicholas said. “My father, he of the azure blood, is soon to know the sting of your particular alchemy—that which was inadvertently created by Wigg himself. It has a certain poetic quality, don’t you agree?”
For the first time ever, Ragnar smiled in the presence of the amazing child. “Yes, my lord,” he responded.
“Just so,” Nicholas
said. With a gesture beckoning the blood stalker to return to the ground to collect Scrounge, he led his servants toward the large, ornate portal at the far side of the room.
Each chamber seemed to be more immense than the last. This one was not carved of rock, but constructed of light green marble, shot through with streaks and swirls of black. It shone beneath the light of hundreds of enchanted sconces and chandeliers lining the seemingly never-ending walls. But despite the great size of the room, the air was stifling and oppressive. The temperature was warm, bordering on hot, and smelled somehow of both old and new life.
The glowing vein Ragnar had seen in the first room ran completely around the walls, undulating and coursing mightily, as if it were trying to break free of the stone in which it was imprisoned. But even more impressive were the contents of the room: The floor was covered with thousands of azure, glowing, slime-ridden eggs.
Nicholas’ hatchlings, Ragnar realized, awed. But why does he need so many?
“The answer is simple,” Nicholas said, as if reading the stalker’s thoughts. “Despite the fact that he is now hunted by his own countrymen, the allies of the Chosen One will be many in the coming struggle. We shall therefore have need of all you see before you. In addition, there are others maturing outside of the Caves, in the trees of the countryside—something that will make the capturing of the consuls go just that much quicker.”
The glowing, translucent eggs were arranged in rows upon the floor, their lines stretching out of sight to the farthest corners of the chamber. Each of the eggs dripped a thin, runny, azure fluid down the outside of its shell. The stinking fluid from the many eggs eventually joined, pooling upon the floor, adding to the earthy, fetid odor in the room. Inside each of the translucent eggs could be seen a hatchling—grotesque, curled up, growing.
Nicholas must have far more in mind than the mere taking of the consuls, Ragnar mused.
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