The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Wigg’s face darkened. “I do not know,” he said slowly, the wheels turning in his mind. “Unless you take him at his word and believe that he has read the entire treatise, and requires it no longer. But for him to voluntarily relinquish his grasp of the Tome would also mean that he has somehow acquired the gift of Consummate Recollection, and to my knowledge Faegan is the only living wizard who is so gifted. Why Ragnar gave us the Tome remains a puzzle as truly confounding as why he let us live and put us back here, on the trail to safety. But then again, do not forget that he is at least somewhat mad. His words and deeds may have no meaning whatsoever, sending us uselessly chasing our tails. His apparent study of the Vagaries may also have harmed his mind, just as it drove Failee to the edge.” At the mention of his wife of so long ago, Wigg’s face fell slightly.

  Tristan thought for a moment, finding something about all of this that was confusing him. “But it was my understanding that I was the only one who was to read the Prophecies, the final volume of the Tome. How then is it that Ragnar may have also read it? And how did he decipher it without the stone?”

  The Prophecies indeed, Wigg thought. Perhaps the most complex of all the secrets.

  “It is true that the Ones Who Came Before decreed in the Tome that only you should read the Prophecies,” Wigg said, “and we all respected that. Even Faegan has not read them. But there is, in fact, nothing keeping someone else of endowed blood who is wearing the stone from doing so. That is one of the prime reasons we placed the Tome back into the Caves. So that the book and the stone would be separated, keeping someone from doing that very thing. At this point in our history, we have translated and now even teach Old Eutracian—the language of the Tome—to select wizards. Ragnar was transformed too early to have learned it, though. How he could read the Tome without the Paragon is a mystery to me.” He paused. “Also, the Prophecies are not inviolate.” He took another sip of wine.

  “But aren’t the Prophecies the true story of what is to happen—of what must happen?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes and no. The Prophecies can only come true if you and your sister live to fulfill them. You and Shailiha are the keys to the Prophecies, not the other way around as the Directorate first believed in the early days. Should you or your sister die, they will be altered. That is why Ragnar ordered Scrounge to cut you. They want you dead so that they can reshape the future. He even said so himself. It is this possible reshaping of the future by others that makes your survival and the survival of Shailiha so important. We also believe that this is the reason the two of you came to us as twins. A double safeguard, if you will, in case one of you should die. One day, not so long ago, your father told you that the lives of you and Shailiha were the very future of Eutracia. Now, after all you have been through, you finally know what he meant.”

  Tristan was about to ask yet another question when Wigg stiffened. The wizard’s brow drew down, and he tilted his head, as if testing the air.

  “What is it?” Tristan whispered. He silently drew his dreggan from its scabbard.

  Wigg raised one palm. Finally, he turned to the prince.

  “There is someone near,” he whispered urgently. “Someone of very highly endowed blood. I can sense that there is only one, but his blood is of amazing quality. Other than you and your sister, I have never sensed such excellence. Find this person and bring him to us, if you can. I hate to send you alone, but under the circumstances this is how it must be. It is imperative that we know what this is about! But be careful.”

  “Which direction?” Tristan whispered back anxiously.

  Wigg pointed a long finger toward the area directly behind them. “There,” he answered softly. “Only about ten meters back. But make some excuse about leaving me before you go.”

  After loudly telling the wizard he was going to search for more firewood, Tristan entered the brush and began a slow circle in an attempt to come up behind whoever it was. The damp evening grass beneath his feet, he crept forward, his dreggan before him.

  The intruder was hunched down behind some brush and facing away from Tristan, watching the wizard’s every movement. But there was little else Tristan could tell about him, since the brush between them was thick, and the stranger’s dark, hooded cloak covered most of him.

  For a moment Tristan paused, wondering what to do. The intruder continued to crouch there, watching the wizard before the fire. Wigg went calmly about eating and drinking more of the wine, carefully sustaining his pretext of ignorance.

  Finally deciding, Tristan slowly, silently, replaced the dreggan into its scabbard and drew instead one of his dirks. The brush here was too thick to use the sword properly, and a shorter weapon was called for. He crept forward again.

  Only two more steps should do it, he guessed. May the Afterlife grant me silence. He put his boot down, taking the first step and closing the distance. One, two, now!

  He reached down with his left arm and took the intruder under the neck, wrenching him upward to a standing position as he whipped his dirk to the man’s throat.

  “Do not attempt to move or speak!” Tristan snarled, his lips at the man’s ear. He was in no mood for argument. “If you do otherwise I will kill you instantly. Now walk!”

  When they reached the campfire, Tristan used all of his strength to throw the intruder down into the dirt next to Wigg. The man finally lifted his face to them, the light of the campfire dancing upon his features.

  No! Tristan’s mind called out to him. This cannot be! How . . . ? Why . . . ? He continued to stand there, unable to grasp the meaning of what he saw. For the man on the ground before him was not a man at all.

  It was Celeste, Ragnar’s woman.

  Even though her features were still partially covered by the cloak, there could be no mistake. The beautiful wave of red hair curved down across her forehead, and the amazing sapphire eyes looked up at him with the wariness of a cornered animal.

  She looked around, then back up to the prince as he continued to glower over her, holding his knife. Despite Tristan’s aggressive stance, she seemed to remain defiant.

  “Tristan?” Wigg called out urgently.

  “It’s all right,” the prince said, keeping his eyes on Celeste. “But first things first. Do you still detect any endowed blood other than what is here by the fire?”

  Wigg again tilted his head for a moment. “No,” he said with finality. “But who is here with us?”

  “It is Celeste, Ragnar’s companion,” Tristan answered. He addressed the woman. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “Spying for your lover, I suppose? Well, you did a particularly poor job of it. After what was done to us back there in the Caves, I should kill you on the spot! And take off that cloak! Now!” Tristan had no particular interest in the woman’s body, only in discovering whether she was armed.

  She removed the cloak to reveal the same emerald dress she had been wearing in the chamber. She appeared to be carrying no weapons.

  Tristan replaced the dirk into its quiver. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said angrily. “Why are you here?”

  “I need help,” she said without hesitation. “That night I first met you on the cliffs, you helped me. You were kind. So I took a chance, hoping that you might be kind enough to do the same for me now. That is why I indicated for you not to speak to me, when we first saw each other in Ragnar’s chambers. Had he known, there is no telling what might have happened. I had no part in what was done to you and the wizard—you must believe that. My only desire is to escape the stalker and Scrounge. I don’t know where you are going, and to me it doesn’t matter. I only ask that you take me with you.” She lowered her head slightly, her red hair falling a bit farther down over her forehead. “Please take me away with you,” she repeated. “I will do anything . . .”

  “Tristan,” Wigg said, his curiosity showing in his voice. “What in the name of the Afterlife is she talking about? Do you mean to say that you know this woman?”

  “ ‘Know’ is too strong a wor
d,” Tristan answered, his eyes still locked on Celeste. “We are, however, acquaintances. But that story is best left for later. Right now I want some answers.” His heart had allowed other beautiful women to trick him before—such as Lillith, the member of the Coven who had almost killed him. Trying not to be swayed by her beauty and supposed vulnerability, he glared down at her.

  “Who are you?” he asked sternly. “Other than a woman who always seems to need my help.”

  “I don’t know who I am,” she answered rather defiantly.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You know your name, don’t you?”

  “I was raised by Ragnar—but he is not my father,” she answered. “Ragnar told me little about myself, other than the fact that a long time ago, I was brought to him for safekeeping. By the end of the Sorceresses’ War, as he calls it, I was fully grown. At that point he began to abuse me.” Slowly, her sapphire eyes became harder. “It has been that way ever since. I hate him. All I want is my freedom.”

  Tristan’s thoughts careened through his mind. If what she said is true, then she is over three hundred years old! And if she is, then she must be the subject of time enchantment!

  Tristan looked over to Wigg and saw that the old one’s eyebrow was arched over his lifeless right eye.

  “Tell me something,” Wigg asked skeptically. “Assuming for the moment that you are telling us the truth, is there anything else about you that Ragnar might have told you?”

  “Only that my entire existence had been originally intended for some great purpose,” she answered uncertainly. “One that apparently never came to pass. But he never told me what that was.”

  “Anything else?” Tristan asked, almost casually.

  “Only the name of my mother,” Celeste said. “She was someone called Failee.”

  Tristan froze and looked immediately to Wigg. The wizard’s eyes had gone wide, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Wigg’s lips began to move, but he said nothing. It was as if he was in shock, and Tristan knew why.

  Wigg never knew the reason Failee left him, he remembered, except for her apparent madness. But if Celeste is truly Failee’s daughter, then it is possible that . . .

  Tristan looked back at the woman sitting across from him. And then he saw it: the thing that had been plaguing him ever since he had first discovered her on the edge of the cliffs. It was her eyes.

  For all of his life Tristan had never seen a pair of eyes as beautiful as Wigg’s had once been—until he had come upon Celeste. The lead wizard’s spellbinding eyes had always been his most imposing feature. And it was this way with Celeste’s eyes, also. He also remembered what Wigg had said of this one’s blood just before sending Tristan out to find her.

  “Other than you and your sister, I have never sensed such excellence.”

  A union of Wigg and the first mistress of the Coven presumably could have produced such blood. Tristan looked again to the beauty before him, feeling the harshness of his attitude starting to slip away. Still, he wasn’t even close to trusting her.

  Could it really be true? he wondered. Could the woman seated across from me, the one I saved from suicide that night, be the centuries-old daughter Wigg never knew he had?

  Concerned, Tristan looked at Wigg. It seemed that the wizard had partially regained his composure.

  “There is something I do not understand,” Wigg asked Celeste. “If you are clearly able to leave the Caves on your own and join us, as you profess to have just done, then how is it that you were never able to escape?”

  “I tried many times,” Celeste replied angrily, balling her hands into fists. “There are numerous ways in and out of the Caves, and I used many of them. But Ragnar always found me and brought me back. Then I would be punished in ways you couldn’t imagine. Eventually he laughed about my departures, seeming not to care whether I tried or not. He told me that because my blood was so special he could easily find me wherever I fled to, and it was always true. I don’t know how he did it. I don’t understand the workings of magic, and I never want to. Magic has never given me anything but pain. That night on the cliffs I had finally decided to take the most drastic measure of all.”

  Something else tugged at the prince’s memory—something Celeste had said just after he captured her. She was intended for some great purpose that never came to pass . . .

  Could it be true? he wondered. Am I looking at the woman who was originally meant by her mother to become the fifth sorceress? But if that is so, then why did they take Shailiha instead of Celeste? His mind a whirling maze of questions, he looked at the wizard.

  It was clear that Wigg had come to the same crossroads, his face a mask of concentration as he struggled with his decision. “Celeste, you may be coming with us after all,” he said softly.

  “Wigg, are you sure?” Tristan asked quietly. “Where we are going and what you carry are both of the utmost importance. I’m concerned that we don’t know enough about her to trust what she says.”

  “In theory I quite agree,” Wigg announced, carefully standing up. “But there are several things we need to determine regarding her, and they cannot all be confirmed or disproved here in these woods. However, one of them can.” He turned his face toward Celeste. “Tell me,” he asked, “have you been trained in the craft?”

  “No,” she answered forthrightly. “Ragnar would never allow it. I’ve had little education of any kind.”

  “Tristan, take her hand and hold it,” Wigg ordered.

  Realizing what Wigg intended to do, Tristan carefully grasped Celeste’s right hand. She quickly started to pull it away.

  “Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed.

  “This will not hurt, I promise you,” Wigg said compassionately.

  Reaching out, the blind wizard felt along her arm until his fingers were touching the ends of hers. A very small incision appeared in Celeste’s index finger.

  “Tristan,” Wigg ordered, “catch a single drop of her blood in the palm of your hand, and tell me what you see. If she is truly untrained, she can do us little harm.”

  Tristan collected a warm drop of blood as it fell from her finger. It sat completely still in his hand.

  “It is dormant,” he said. “She has not been trained.”

  “Very well.” Wigg let out a sigh of relief. “Celeste, you are indeed coming with us. I believe there is a great deal that each of us is about to learn from the other.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, wrapping herself in the cloak.

  “To another place of magic.” Wigg smiled. “But this time it shall be a place you will like. You will be safe there, and we have much to discuss. But it is imperative that we leave now, for if Ragnar has learned of your disappearance he may well already be after you. The farther away we are from the Caves, the better.”

  Celeste tentatively took one of the wizard’s gnarled hands into her own. At her touch, Wigg’s eyes became shiny.

  Tristan went to the horses and untied them. Walking them back, he helped the wizard mount, then took the Tome and tied it to the back of Pilgrim’s saddle, checking twice to see that it was secure. Satisfied that it would not fall, he helped Celeste onto Pilgrim and took the reins of both horses in his hands, preparing to lead them down the trail.

  But before they took their first step, something came out of the sky, swooping dangerously close to Tristan’s head. He ducked as it went by; he could feel the air from its wings on his face.

  It was a yellow-and-violet flier of the fields. Five others were just behind it.

  “What is it?” Wigg asked nervously, sensing Tristan’s sudden movement.

  Tristan smiled into Celeste’s surprised eyes. “We have a reception committee,” he announced. “Faegan’s butterflies.”

  With that, Tristan began to guide them down the trail, the multicolored butterflies leading the way as they careened in and out of the rose-colored moonlight.

  PART III

  The Children

  CHAPTER

 
Twenty-six

  It is this pollution of the blood of the Chosen One that shall plunge him into one of his greatest personal trials, should no answer be found as to the conundrum of his disease. For without the solution there shall occur a great shift in all things—the future and the very Prophecies themselves will be forced to change, just as shall the azure blood flowing through his veins.

  —PAGE 2,337 OF THE PROPHECIES OF THE TOME

  Martha, a rotund, compassionate matron, smiled proudly in the glow of the golden, afternoon sun. The normally harsh Season of Harvest had surrendered an unusually warm day, and she had therefore allowed the children to take their midday recess outdoors, rather than inside. Smiling proudly, she watched them play in the orange and red leaves scattered upon the ground. Their incessant laughter combined happily with the crunching of the dry foliage beneath their feet, the crimson and magenta bits and pieces flying colorfully away in the Harvest wind. The air had a cool, crisp scent, the fallen, tattered leaves adding an aroma of spice to the mix of noise, color, and playfulness.

  Martha had been here since she was a young woman, her hair now gray for more days than she could remember, her girlish figure long since gone. She had seen so many of the girls come and go, their faces still locked within her memories as if it had been only yesterday for each of them. Some of those she had raised here had returned to her as women, bringing their daughters to her.

  But the recent troubles in Eutracia had created a great many hardships for her, and her tenuous hold upon both this place and the special children who lived here was becoming more fragile by the day. It was now the sixty-seventh day of the Season of Harvest. May the Afterlife help us, she thought.

  Duncan, the blue-robed consul who had for so long been in charge here, walked up beside her. He gently placed one arm around her generous waist. He had been sent here by Wigg and the Directorate, as had she. But without having been granted time enchantments he had aged naturally with Martha, and for this she was ever thankful. They had become lovers many years past, and the bond between them in their subsequent marriage was as strong today as it had been when she had first taken him to her bed. The fact that there had never been any offspring from their time together only made them care all the more for the happy brood before them.