“Now then,” the wizard said, “let’s try again.”
Shailiha turned to the twelve fliers on the brass rail next to her. Tell me, she thought, concentrating. Outside of this place, is it night or is it day?
And then came the familiar voice to her mind—what she now knew to be the combination of all twelve voices at once.
It is night, Mistress, she heard.
Tell the wizard, also, she silently ordered. For he cannot hear you in his mind as I can.
Immediately five of the fliers fluttered down to the black alphabet wheel, landing gently, one by one upon the letters. N-I-G-H-T.
“And what was your question?” Faegan asked her.
“Whether it was night or day outside.”
“Very good.” Faegan smiled. “Time for a different kind of test.” He crooked the index finger of his right hand, indicating that the princess lower her face to his. Whispering into her ear, he said, “Do not forget that they understand what is communicated to them verbally, at least by you and me; I doubt they would understand anyone of unendowed blood. I will whisper my question to you, so that they may not hear it. Ask them to spell their answer, rather than communicate it to your mind.”
Faegan thought for a moment, then whispered, “Ask them where they came from, before being brought to the Redoubt. It should prove interesting, and their answer might tell us much.” Shailiha turned her intelligent, hazel eyes once more to the fliers and concentrated.
Tell me the name of the place where you lived, before coming here, to the Redoubt, she thought.
For a moment the butterflies upon the wheel hesitated. Their great wings stopped opening and closing, a sight seldom seen. Uncharacteristically, it was as if they were having trouble deciding on the correct answer. Finally they leapt into the air; several others joined them, and they landed again on some of the letters. S-H-A-D-O-W-O-O-D.
Shailiha turned to the wizard and was about to speak when Faegan placed his index finger across his lips, indicating silence. Smiling and bouncing his eyebrows up and down in delight, he pointed back down to the butterflies. They had taken to the air, and they now alit on another group of letters. A-N-D E-U-T-R-A-C-I-A.
“Ah-ha!” Faegan chuckled, obviously pleased. “Well done!”
“They did it!” Shailiha exclaimed. But the look in Faegan’s amazing, prankish eyes told her that she had not yet grasped the entirety of what had just happened.
“There were two reasons for my particular question,” he said slyly. “Can you tell me what they were?”
Shailiha thought for a moment. “You wanted to know whether they could hear you if you whispered,” she said triumphantly. “They apparently could not, for they did not respond until I asked them with my mind.”
“Yes,” Faegan agreed. “What was my other reason?”
Shailiha thought hard. Finally, and without the wizard’s permission, she looked down to the fliers still perched upon the letters and silently commanded one to come to her. The large yellow-and-violet flier, the one that had become her favorite, launched itself from the alphabet wheel and landed on her outstretched arm. The princess stood there, lost within the moment, and then smiled. “They remember,” she said.
She has truly become their master, Faegan realized. Even more so than I.
“Please explain,” he said calmly.
“Not only did they tell us where they lived until being brought here, but they also named Eutracia, their original home of three centuries ago. This means that they not only relate to the present, but also to the past as well.” She turned back to the butterfly, obviously communicating with it. Then she looked at Faegan. “They can recall as far back as the day that they ingested the waters of the Caves, when they first became endowed.” She turned her hazel eyes to him, confident in her newfound knowledge. “This is significant,” she said with understated authority.
Indeed, Faegan thought. “And the Chosen One shall come, but will be preceded by another,” he remembered. The ages-old quote from the Tome rang out just as clearly in his mind now as it had the first time he had read it. The female—the twin to the male. Had the Coven succeeded in keeping her as their fifth sorceress, she would have been unstoppable.
“Faegan,” the princess asked, “I know these creatures belong to you, but would you mind it terribly if I named this one?” The yellow-and-violet flier continued to perch quietly upon her arm, its wings opening and closing gracefully as it kept its balance.
“The fliers belong to no one,” Faegan answered compassionately. “I am only their guardian.”
“Do you know which of them are the males and which are the females?” she asked, pursing her lips coyly. The wizard got the distinct impression that she was toying with him, as if she knew something that he did not.
“I never really thought about it,” he admitted. “For all of these years I have not had a need to know.”
Shailiha turned back to the flier on her arm. “This one is female,” she said. “She just told me.”
The wizard shook his head. “Of course,” he answered. “And your name for her?”
“Caprice,” Shailiha answered softly.
Faegan smiled. “Very well. Caprice it is.” Then he grew serious.
“There is a matter of which we must now speak,” he said. “Would you please release Caprice, so that I may discuss it with you?”
The princess shook her arm slightly, and the giant butterfly took flight. After twice circling the princess’ head, it flew down to the lower area of the atrium, rejoining the others.
Shailiha turned back to Faegan.
“I am very worried about Tristan and Wigg,” he said as compassionately as he knew how. “They should have been back by now.” He paused for a moment, the sudden worry on Shailiha’s face stabbing him in the heart. “I fear they may be in danger.”
She bit her lower lip, and then a stronger, more determined look surfaced on her delicate features. Drawing a deep, resolute breath, she asked, “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble this may be?”
“No,” Faegan responded. “I only know that in my heart I believe they should have been back before now. And I also believe we need to take whatever action on their behalf we can.”
The princess did not speak as she weighed her very limited options. Finally she turned back to the wizard. “You want me to send the fliers out looking for them, don’t you?” she asked. “And you also want me to use my newfound gift to stay in touch with them as they go.”
“Yes,” Faegan answered. “Just a few of them. It is now night, and they should be safe, provided they fly high enough and return before dawn. I do not want them out and about in the Eutracian countryside during the light of day. The simple, unendowed citizens would love nothing better than to capture one of these amazing creatures of myth.” Another thought came to him. “It will also give us valuable information regarding your bond with the fliers,” he said.
“How so?”
“Since this will be the first time they have traveled any appreciable distance outside the Redoubt, we will be able to discern the range of your abilities. It should prove interesting.”
“Yes,” Shailiha said softly. “Unless they are captured, or die in the attempt . . .”
Knowing she was quite right, he let the statement stand. He could tell how much it hurt her to release the precious butterflies from the safety of the Redoubt, but he also knew that her love for her brother and Wigg surpassed that fear.
“Very well,” she said. “Tell me what to do.”
“Thank you,” Faegan said. “And don’t forget: I love them, too. Call Caprice back up.”
Shailiha raised her arm, silently calling the giant butterfly to her. Almost immediately Caprice left the ground, flying happily back to the arm of her mistress.
Faegan remained amazed at her abilities with the fliers. Though still untrained, she possessed a power that even he did not have.
“I am going to give her spoken commands,” Faegan said
. “This way we shall both know what is expected of them.” He turned to look at the delicate creature on Shailiha’s arm. “Pick five others of your kind, and exit the Redoubt,” he said gently. “Fly to the west, high in the sky, and try to get as close to the Caves as you can. But do not enter. Be careful to avoid all other forms of life, especially human. I wish you to communicate as best you can with your mistress, informing her at regular intervals if you see what it is I am sending you in search of. However, under no circumstances are you to fly so far that you are unable to return to the tunnels by dawn. This is paramount. You are searching for the prince and the wizard Wigg. If you see them you are to inform your mistress at once, and immediately return to the Redoubt. Open and close your wings twice if you understand.”
Caprice’s diaphanous wings gently folded together once, then twice.
“She understands,” the princess said. Raising her arm, Shailiha released the flier into the air. “Good-bye, Caprice,” she said softly. The giant butterfly circled Shailiha’s head, then fluttered down to the others. Five of them separated from the group and then followed Caprice toward the door of black marble, waiting for the wizard to release them into the tunnels.
As Faegan closed his eyes the great door of black marble swung open, and the fliers soared into the passageway. Just as quickly the wizard caused the door to close again, securing the room.
After a moment Shailiha turned to him, the concern plainly showing upon her face. “Will Tristan and Wigg be all right?” she asked hesitantly.
Faegan smiled, trying to raise her spirits. “Do not underestimate them. They are two particularly capable individuals, especially together. They went through much to find you and bring you back—more than you will probably ever know. If they did that, they can certainly negotiate their way home.” He reached up to give both her hands a comforting squeeze, and she finally let go a little smile. Turning back to the atrium, the wizard looked down to the remaining butterflies as they careened about the room.
Unless they are both already dead, he thought.
CHAPTER
Twenty-four
There was something cold and hard against Tristan’s right cheek. He was lying on one side, and he squirmed a bit, trying to become more comfortable. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Then his tired, blood-deprived brain slowly began to work again, bringing him around, and he gingerly opened his eyes. His vision was crazily skewed, the vertical having traded places with the horizontal. As a result, nothing in the room was where it should have been.
And then he remembered the ghoulish consuls. With that also returned the memories of the wraiths and hatchlings. Then he and Wigg had been carried out over the azure, impossible sea.
Slowly, warily, he sat up, looking around. The room he was in was very large, with three dark blue marble thrones against one wall, the center one higher than the others. Perched on the right-hand arm of the center throne was a glass vial that contained some kind of yellow fluid. Chairs, tables, patterned rugs, and artwork tastefully adorned the room. The pale green marble of the walls, floor, and ceiling was of the finest quality. A huge oil chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, giving off a soft, subdued light. Then, what he saw to the left of the thrones caused his jaw to drop in admiration. The Tome of the Paragon! his hazy mind told him. It has to be!
It lay on a white marble altar, its pages open. A white light shone down upon it from above.
The Tome was huge—far greater in size than Tristan had ever imagined it to be. At least a meter long and an equal distance in width, it was also at least half a meter thick. From his vantage point the prince could not see the tops of the pages, or the writing upon them. But he somehow knew that the words contained there would be tightly packed, with no wasted space. It was absolutely magnificent.
But how did Wigg expect them to remove it from the Caves and carry it all the way back to the Redoubt? he wondered. It looked as if it would take at least two strong men just to lift it.
Testing the weight across his right shoulder, he could tell that he still had all of his weapons. He tried to stand, but clumsily fell back to the marble floor, ending up half kneeling, half sitting. The cut was still there in his left boot, he noticed, and his foot still itched from the incantation of accelerated healing the wraith had placed upon him. He felt a cold sweat break out along the length of his brow.
It wasn’t a dream.
He looked around for Wigg. The wizard lay curled up on the floor a little way from him. He appeared to be unconscious. Tristan crawled to the old one and tried to shake him awake. It did no good. Finally the prince began slapping the wizard across the face. Eventually Wigg slowly opened his eyes, and his breathing quickened. Tristan helped him to sit up.
“Where are we?” Wigg asked weakly. His aquamarine eyes were dim, his speech slurred.
“I don’t know,” Tristan answered. “Do you remember being bled by the wraiths?”
“Yes,” Wigg said thickly.
“Are you in possession of your powers?” the prince asked anxiously.
Wigg closed his eyes for a moment, his face becoming dark. “They are minimal, at best,” he answered sadly. “The loss of blood has been too great.”
With some difficulty Tristan reached behind his right shoulder, taking one of his dirks into his hand. Knowing full well that he would never be able to handle the heavy dreggan, it was the only thing he could think of. He slid the throwing knife into the pocket of his trousers.
“They bled me also,” he said. “They kept a portion of my blood, handing it to three hatchlings for safekeeping. I don’t know why. Nothing makes sense here. And the hatchlings were not the same as the ones we saw before. They had arms and hands, and wore weapons. At least one of them could even speak. They picked us up and flew us across the sea.”
“Can you stand?” Wigg asked.
“Not on my own. But perhaps we can help each other,” Tristan answered.
The two of them struggled to their knees, each using the other for support. They finally stood upright on trembling legs in the center of the strange room.
“Welcome, Wigg and Chosen One,” a deep, male voice suddenly said. “I have been waiting for you a very long time. Three hundred years, in fact.”
Tristan and Wigg looked up to see someone standing on the other side of the room who had not been there before. His back was turned to them, and he wore a shiny, black, hooded robe. It was gathered at the waist by a golden belt, from which hung some kind of weapon. Looking closer, the prince could see that the back of the man’s head was misshapen and bald; the grotesque, dangling earlobes were exceptionally long. The shiny skin of his head glistened eerily beneath the light of the chandelier.
From this angle he almost looks like a blood stalker, Tristan thought. But blood stalkers cannot speak. Reaching slowly into the pocket of his trousers, he ran his thumb along the blade of the dirk.
For the first time Tristan noticed the doorway in the right-hand wall near the thrones. And from that there came a glow—the most magnificent evidence of the craft he had ever seen. A chill ran up his spine.
Like a dense fog, the azure glow crept out of the hallway and across the floor of the chamber. Its power and density were such that he felt certain he could hold it in his hands.
“Wigg, lead wizard of the former Directorate,” the strange-looking man suddenly said. “King maker, and protector of the Paragon. Onetime husband of Failee, the dear, departed first mistress of the Coven of sorceresses. And Prince Tristan, the male of the Chosen Ones. For whom the Directorate waited so long. Brash, impulsive, and said to possess the highest quality of endowed blood the world has ever known. Or ever will. However, despite his magnificent blood he is yet to be trained in the ways of the craft. How frustrating that must be. Nonetheless, welcome to you both. It is indeed an honor to be in the presence of such important guests.” The man had still not turned around.
“Who are you?” Wigg shouted. “I demand to know why we are h
ere!” He took a weak step forward.
Slowly, the man in the black robe turned around. Seeing the thing’s face, Tristan thought he might be ill. He heard the breath leave Wigg’s lungs in a rush, and he whirled to see the blood draining from his friend’s face.
“Ragnar,” Wigg finally breathed. “You’re alive! This cannot be . . .”
The wizard clearly had no more words and just stood there, speechless before the monster in the black robe.
Tristan looked more closely at Ragnar. The shiny, bald head was elongated; the eyes were gray and bloodshot. Two long fangs ran down from the top row of teeth, overlapping the lower lip. An angry, oozing, unhealed wound could be seen in the right temple of his head, and his eyes glistened back at them with a madness that was clearly, sickeningly evident. A beautiful golden dagger hung from the belt at his left hip, contrasting sharply with the shiny black robe. He was an odd combination of both human and blood stalker, and the effect was chilling.
Walking away from them, the one called Ragnar turned and sat in the center throne.
“So many questions, aren’t there, Wigg?” he asked sarcastically, settling himself into the great marble chair. “But before we begin, there are two others here I should like you to meet. First of all, my servant. Someone I believe the prince will be especially eager to see.”
Tristan felt his blood rise as Scrounge sauntered into the room, the silver spurs on his boots ringing out loudly upon the marble floor. Once seated on the throne at Ragnar’s left, he smirked nastily at Tristan. Remembering what Geldon had told them, the prince looked carefully at the tips of the arrows in the crossbow strapped to the man’s right forearm. They were stained in yellow.
Tristan remembered the dead consul he had found outside the palace, and the parchment scroll so violently placed into the empty eye socket, containing the taunting, sick note the assassin had written in the victim’s own blood. Tristan continued to stroke the blade of his hidden knife with his thumb.
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