“There truly is something important you must know,” Faegan began seriously, “and I’m afraid it—”
Just as the wizard managed to garner the prince’s complete attention, a soft knock came upon the door. Tristan reached over his back to draw one of his dirks, then stood and went to the door. He opened it sharply, his knife at the ready.
A very surprised Geldon stood there. With an apologetic smile, Tristan replaced the knife into its quiver, as Wigg beckoned Geldon into one of the vacant chairs.
“Thank you for not killing me, Your Highness,” Geldon said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Begging your pardon, but you need to hear what it is I have to tell you, and you need to hear it now.”
Tristan’s dark eyes took in the expression on the hunchback’s face, and saw clearly that whatever he was about to hear would not please him.
Without speaking, Geldon removed from his shirt the wanted poster for the prince, then unceremoniously flattened it out on the table. As the others read it, Geldon studied the bizarre poem written in the blood of the consul. The color drained from his face. He then saw the dead consul lying on the couch and noticed the neat hole in the man’s forehead and the gaping, empty eye socket. But it was the forehead wound that most interested him.
Standing from his chair and walking closer, he saw the dried, yellow fluid that lay crazily around the edges of the small, perfect wound. He thought of the mysterious letter “S” at the end of the poem. Scrounge! It has to be! He very quietly walked back to his chair and sat down.
Tristan was speechless. Faegan had warned him of this day back in Shadowood. And Kluge, the winged monster he had killed with his own hands, had boasted the same thing as he died in the dirt at Tristan’s feet. The prince closed his eyes, remembering the words Kluge had uttered with his last breath.
“Our struggle is not over, Chosen One,” Kluge had said. “Even in death it shall go on for me. There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete. Our battle goes on, even from my grave.”
Tristan looked over to his sister. Kluge had been only partially correct. Shailiha was cured, no longer the damaged person Kluge had said she would forever be. But apparently the other side of his prediction had come true: Tristan was now a wanted man in his own nation, being hunted by the same subjects he had risked his life so many times to protect. And someone was willing to pay one hundred thousand kisa to bring him in.
“How is it that you came by this poster?” Wigg asked Geldon softly, obviously taken aback by the news.
“It was being distributed in the Hog’s Hoof Tavern,” Geldon answered, “and it caused quite a stir.” He looked over at the prince with sad eyes. “I’m afraid they all quite believe it.”
“Believe what?” Tristan whispered back, finally finding his voice.
Geldon looked down at his hands. “The fact that you killed your father . . . They believe it was intentional, and that you were in league with the Coven and the Minions.”
Lowering his head with the pain, Tristan closed his eyes. This simply cannot be happening.
“Who was distributing these posters?” Faegan asked, calmly stroking the cat in his lap. “Did you see him?”
“Oh, yes,” Geldon replied, looking again at the dead man on the other side of the room. “I believe him to be the same one who killed this consul.”
Tristan’s head quickly came up. “Why?” he asked sharply.
“He walked into the tavern with a roll of posters under one arm and jumped up on the bar, shouting his invective at the crowd,” Geldon explained. “He condemned you as a traitor, saying that the reward would be paid in gold.” He turned his attention back to the table as a whole.
“He also viciously attacked an ex-member of the Royal Guard,” the dwarf continued. “The man tried to stand up for you, and the assassin hurt him badly. He used a miniature crossbow, strapped over his right forearm. It is very ingenious, and the only other weapon I have ever seen to be as fast as your dirks. I believe it caused the wound on the consul’s forehead. The points of the arrows were coated with some kind of strange yellow stain.”
At the mention of the yellow stains on the assassin’s weapons, the two older wizards looked quickly to one another. Narrowing his eyes, Wigg placed either hand into the opposite sleeves of his robe while Faegan continued to stroke his cat, his gaze turning far away.
“What is his name?” Tristan asked, his knuckles white around the chalice he held.
“Scrounge,” Geldon answered. “This killing of the consul, combined with the fact that the poem is signed ‘S,’ leads me to believe that he is the murderer. The bartender also told me that Scrounge is a professional killer, and one of the most accomplished assassins in all of Eutracia. Yet he is rumored to have only one employer—the same sponsor who is putting up the money for Tristan’s capture.”
“And the name of his employer?” Tristan countered.
“Unknown,” Geldon answered softly. Again the room went uncomfortably, deafeningly quiet.
“After he wounded a soldier with his crossbow, the soldier swore that he would one day kill Scrounge. And then the assassin said something strange.”
“And that was?” Wigg asked calmly from the other side of the table.
“Scrounge told the officer that he doubted it, since the soldier was already dead. But clearly he was not. What did he mean?”
Wigg glanced over to Faegan, and said, “Would you like to tell them, or should I?”
“Be my guest,” the elder wizard answered rather blankly, still off somewhere in his own private world.
“The reason this Scrounge person said the officer was already dead was because he wounded the man with a weapon that was dipped in a very special fluid. A poison, actually.” Wigg paused, wondering how to say the next words. “The yellow stain you saw was the dried fluid from the brain of a blood stalker.”
“But you told me once that the fluid from a stalker’s brain was instantaneously fatal,” Shailiha said from across the table. “If that is the case, then why did Scrounge’s arrow not kill the officer immediately?”
The princess could still remember the day not so long ago when she and Wigg had been in the Hartwick Woods, searching for Tristan. Wigg had killed a stalker that had been secretly tracking them. It was the first and only time she had ever seen one, and the wizard had gone on to explain the stalkers to her. Each stalker, he said, had once been a wizard, but had been captured by the sorceresses and mutated by incantation.
“Well done, Princess,” Wigg said, smiling for the first time.
“So what is the answer?” Tristan asked.
“The fluid kills instantaneously only in its liquid form. Once it dries out, the resultant powder must somehow get into the victim’s bloodstream in order to be deadly. And that effect is not immediate.”
“So that is what Scrounge meant when he said the officer was already dead,” Shailiha whispered, almost to herself. She looked up at Wigg in horror. “How long will it take him to die?”
“That depends upon the type and strength of the person’s blood,” Wigg answered. “If the officer is unendowed, which is most likely the case, then he will die in a matter of only days. But if the victim is one of endowed blood, the torment can last much longer.”
And all because someone stood up for me against Scrounge, Tristan thought. Yet another reason to kill him.
“Why would someone bother to dip the ends of their weapons in this fluid and only wound them, when they could just as easily kill them outright and be done with it?” Shailiha asked.
“Because a person like that doesn’t kill just for the money, Shai,” Tristan said. His expression had turned dark again. “I have seen this before, in Parthalon. Such a person also kills because he enjoys it. He takes pleasure in knowing his v
ictims continue to suffer, even after he has finished with them.”
“That much is true,” Geldon interjected. “And he is very good.”
So am I, Tristan thought viciously.
“In truth, the yellow liquid dried around the forehead wound on the consul had not escaped Faegan and me,” Wigg said thoughtfully. “But I first thought that he had been killed by a stalker. Now that we believe it was Scrounge, this puts an entirely different light on things.”
“Indeed,” Faegan responded simply.
“How so?” Geldon asked.
“Well, for one thing,” Faegan began, “how did Scrounge get the fluid to dip his weapons into, and who taught him about all of this? Such things are not common knowledge. An obvious conclusion is that a blood stalker is actually in league with this man. But such a relationship would be highly unlikely, since stalkers have relatively little ability to communicate, and are almost always completely mad as a result of their transformation. No, this issue is far from resolved.” He paused for a moment, his gray eyes shining with thought. Anger chased sadness across his face, and he looked down at Nicodemus in his lap. If only he had not stayed in Shadowood all those years! He shook his head. There was no time for regrets. There were puzzles to solve and action to plan. He had to concentrate on what he could do now. He looked up again.
“There is an even greater problem we must still discuss,” he continued. “And I now believe that the two are related.”
“And that is. . . ?” the prince asked, unable to fathom what else might possibly be wrong.
Faegan did not immediately answer. Instead, he looked across the table at Wigg, who nodded. Wigg stood to walk to the spot at the left of the fireplace, touching the wall gently with his fingertips. Immediately the fireplace began to pivot, causing Geldon’s and Shailiha’s jaws to drop. “Shall we?” Wigg asked, motioning everyone through.
The Well of the Redoubt was exactly as the prince remembered it from that day when the lead wizard had first brought him here, just after the murder of his family. The black trough of marble was as breathtaking as ever, the dark red waters from the Caves still happily, noisily splashing down and out from the spigot in the wall. He couldn’t imagine what the problem might be.
They stood before the trough. “Do you see anything different about this place?” Wigg asked darkly.
Tristan was perplexed. Absolutely nothing, as far as he could tell, was unusual about the Well of the Redoubt. “No,” he answered. “I do not.” He was also feeling the effects of the waters on his untrained blood. His heart beat faster, and he felt flushed. He knew neither he nor his sister would be able to withstand the proximity of the waters for long.
“And those of you here with endowed blood, have you felt anything unusual in the last several days?”
“What do you mean?” Shailiha asked, now clearly dizzy and holding onto her brother for support.
“I mean, other than just now, have you sensed any unusual weakness in your physicality, or mental abilities?” Wigg answered.
“No,” Tristan said, and Shailiha shook her head in agreement. Joshua, however, nodded.
“Just as we expected,” Wigg said. He carefully removed the Paragon from beneath his robes and held it before them. “Look closely at the stone, and tell me what you see.”
Tristan looked hard at the Paragon, the jewel that controlled the power of the craft. At first it seemed absolutely normal to him. And then he saw the anomaly. His breath caught in his lungs. It can’t be! his mind cried out.
There was clearly something wrong with the stone. Instead of being deep red, the upper right-hand corner of the gem was pink. The Paragon was losing its color—and therefore its power, as well.
Tristan regarded the stone in horror. “Why?” the prince whispered to Wigg. “How can this be?” Now dizzy, he was finding it difficult to get the words out. He knew that Shailiha was faring no better, and Morganna had begun to cry. He hoped the wizards would let them leave the room soon, despite the drastic nature of the circumstances.
“Now that you all understand, we shall leave,” Faegan said simply. He turned his chair toward the door and started to wheel his way out. The prince and Shailiha also made for the door, Geldon, Wigg, and Joshua following them. Wigg closed the secret door, and almost immediately the prince began to feel somewhat better. He could tell that Shailiha did too.
Nonetheless, Tristan felt as if he had just been struck down by some kind of terrible blow. The combination of the effects of the waters and the awful knowledge regarding the stone left him stunned and questioning. For a moment he simply sat there, trying to collect himself, watching his sister do the same. Finally, he spoke.
“But why?” he whispered to the wizards. “What would cause the Pargon to lose its color?”
“We do not know,” Wigg replied. “Faegan and I both felt the decay in the stone before we actually saw it. It happened to each of us at the same time, just after our last session with the princess. Although at this point the loss is minute, we did sense a slip in our powers. At the current rate of decay the stone will soon become clear, and lose its power in no more than several months.”
“It is truly distressing,” Joshua said, concern plainly showing in his face. “I have also felt a decrease in my gift, but I thought it was malnutrition,” he said simply. “Now I know differently.”
“Has this ever occurred before?” Tristan asked, still overwhelmed by the implications of it all.
“The only time the stone ever loses its color is when it has been removed from a human host, or prematurely from the waters of the Caves. Otherwise, there is no reason for this phenomenon,” Faegan interjected, still stroking his cat.
“I don’t understand,” Shailiha said, now almost fully recovered. “If the stone loses its power when removed from a human host, then how is it that it can be moved from one person of endowed blood to another?”
“An excellent question.” Wigg smiled at her. “And one that took us a great deal of time in the early days of the monarchy to unravel. It was Egloff, our resident expert on the Tome, who first came up with the reason. Simply put, the stone needs a host for its continued survival, and there are only two types it will accept. A person of endowed blood, or the waters of the Caves. Nothing else will do.” He paused for a moment, thinking of how best to explain.
“In order to change human hosts, such as at the coronation of a new king, the stone is first removed from around the person’s neck. The Paragon, because it now has no host, will immediately begin to lose its color. If this process were allowed to continue, the stone would eventually die without either the waters or another human host of endowed blood to sustain it. But because the relationship between the wearer and the stone is so strong, it must first be prepared for another wearer, or returned to a ‘virgin’ state, if you will. For this reason it is immersed in a small quantity of the water. The procedure must be performed exactly right, or the stone is in great peril of being extinguished forever. As the Paragon returns to its normal color, the waters become clear. This signals that the waters have performed their task—that is, to reenergize the stone and make it ready to accept another host of endowed blood. The Paragon is then ready to be placed around the neck of its new human host.”
“Then why is the stone losing its color now?” the princess asked.
“Wigg and I think that the stone is actually being drained in some way, by some other power,” Faegan answered. “Perhaps even from a long distance. If that is true, then our chances of stopping its decay are much less.”
“But why would someone wish to do such a thing?” Geldon asked. His understanding of the stone was no doubt less than that of anyone else in the room, but his question was important, nonetheless. “If this decay is being accomplished by someone of endowed blood and the stone loses its power, then will the person causing this to happen not also lose his mastery of the gift? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Indeed,” Faegan replied. “Frustrating, isn’
t it?” His mouth quirked up at one side in a half smile, as it always did when he was presented with a seemingly contradictory problem of the craft.
The prince was suddenly concerned with the long-term effects of all of this. “Assuming all that you say is correct,” he began, “and the stone loses all of its color several months from now, what is the ultimate effect on our lives?” He felt sure he already had the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the ones who were the true experts on the Paragon.
Wigg and Faegan looked at each other as if they were about to discuss the end of the world. Perhaps they are, Tristan thought glumly.
“The first and most obvious effect will, of course, be that Wigg, Joshua, and I will begin to lose our powers,” Faegan said quietly. “This will happen slowly, over time. The end result will be that when the stone is completely clear, we will be totally stripped of our use of the craft. It will also of course mean that we are no longer protected by the time enchantments. Therefore, if we don’t find the cause for all of this and correct it quickly, as time goes inevitably forward our abilities to perform the craft and also to remain healthy and alert will be greatly diminished. This will vastly reduce our chances of success. But there remains another, even more dangerous result of all this—one that we have feared for over three centuries.”
“And that is?” Tristan asked quietly.
“A world without magic,” Wigg whispered. “Or, I should say, a world such as the one Faegan and I inhabited three centuries ago, before the Paragon was discovered and we accepted its powers over what were at that time our far less powerful practices of the craft. But given the fact that this calamity has no precedence, we simply can’t be sure. It is possible that with the Paragon drained, there may finally exist no magic at all.”
For a moment the prince was stunned, unable to imagine such a thing. But then he realized that what the wizards were saying was of course quite true. The Paragon empowered the craft. Without the stone, the craft would die. And a great many dreams and hopes carried over from the last three centuries would die with it, never to return.
The Gates of Dawn Page 10