The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Ragnar was stunned. “You let her go, my lord?” he asked incredulously. Had Nicholas been anyone else, Ragnar would have killed him on the spot. “But why?” he asked breathlessly. “Why would you let her go?”

  “She meant nothing to me.” Nicholas smiled. “She was your toy, never mine. And should I ever require her, she is easily found. In fact, she is in far safer hands with the wizards then she ever was with you,” he said, enjoying the insulting reference to the stalker’s perverse inclinations. “And the fact that she is no longer here to distract you only means you shall be more attentive to your duties, does it not?”

  “Be that as it may,” he continued, “Wigg and Faegan will not immediately try to remedy the fact that she is untrained. For we have seen to it that they have far too many other pressing concerns to deal with.” Nicholas was no longer smiling. Seeing this, Ragnar forced down an anxious swallow.

  “I’m sure it was a very tearful reunion,” the young man went on. Glancing down at some scampering children, he smiled briefly. “Celeste has finally reunited with her long-lost father. The synergy of it is fascinating. And Wigg is of course shielding her blood. But even he cannot cloak it from me.”

  “That traitorous bitch,” Ragnar fumed. “With your permission, I would like to issue a discontinuance of her time enchantments. Let Wigg watch his beautiful daughter, the child he never knew he had, turn to a pile of dust before he even comes to know her.” He relished the thought, even if it meant Celeste’s death. If Nicholas would no longer let him possess her, then he would keep Wigg from having her also.

  Nicholas shook his head as if he were addressing an uneducated child. “At this point it would assuredly accomplish nothing,” he replied.

  “Again, my lord, I do not understand,” Ragnar said shortly.

  “Wigg and Faegan’s first reaction to Celeste’s presence will be to suspect that she is in league with us, even though she is not,” Nicholas replied. “They will also examine her blood to see whether it is dormant or trained. In fact, I have no doubt that this has already occurred. Then they will examine her blood signature, revealing that she is truly the product of Wigg and Failee. Once so assured, they will cast an overlapping time enchantment upon her—and have almost certainly already done so. Your discontinuance would be for naught.”

  As he looked at the young man, Ragnar took in the fact that Nicholas’ appearance had again changed. He now appeared to be approximately twenty Seasons of New Life. His face and body had reached full maturity, coming to more closely resemble his father. Never again would the blood stalker be able to think of Nicholas as the “child.” He wondered how long it would be before Nicholas commanded all of the power of the Paragon. But his thoughts were interrupted by the young adept’s voice rising above the happy din of the children.

  “You are fortunate that Failee does not still live,” Nicholas said almost coyly. “Not only would she be merciless because of your abuse of her daughter, but you also failed to fulfill the one responsibility she charged you with,” Nicholas went on. “Namely, keeping Celeste from her father. As it now stands, you have only the wrath of a blind wizard and a crippled one to concern you.” Nicholas smiled, as if the combined powers of Wigg and Faegan were a fly that he could simply brush away with one hand. “But do not bother yourself unnecessarily. When all is said and done, Celeste will again be yours.”

  Ragnar looked to the hundreds of laughing children. “If I may be so bold, my lord, how is it that all of these children are here?” he asked. “And am I correct in assuming that they are all of endowed blood?”

  “Oh, yes,” Nicholas answered. “They are indeed of endowed blood. They have been brought here only recently by my hatchlings. Some are the children captured with the consuls, and others of them are the girls from Fledgling House.”

  Ragnar narrowed his gray, bloodshot eyes in curiosity. “Fledgling House?” he asked quizzically. “I have never heard of such a place.”

  “It remains one of the greatest secrets of the dearly departed Directorate of Wizards,” Nicholas replied. “I doubt Wigg has told even Faegan of its existence. That means only you, myself, Scrounge, Wigg, and a particularly frightened woman named Martha know of its existence.” He paused to look at the youngsters. “Aside from the girls who were taken from there, and their parents, of course,” he added casually. “All of these children before you are the especially gifted sons and daughters of the consuls. Those very same men of trained, endowed blood now ensconced in the catacombs. But at this time it does not serve my purposes to speak further of Fledgling House,” he added.

  “And may I also ask, why are the children here?”

  “The answer to that is simple.” Nicholas smiled. For a moment he paused as if deciding whether to answer the question, his deafening silence settling over the blood stalker’s mind like a shroud. Finally, the young adept spoke. “I will have need of their blood,” he whispered.

  Ragnar went suddenly cold inside. Even to his mad, seasoned mind, the prospect of such a thing was hideous. First he collected the blood of the Chosen One, the stalker thought. And now he has need of the blood of these relatively untrained children, as well. Whatever for?

  “My reasons will be revealed soon enough,” Nicholas said, answering the stalker’s silent, unasked question.

  Ragnar felt the unmistakable need to return to his chambers. He desperately wanted to ingest more of the odorous yellow fluid waiting for him there. But his mind was a swirl of curiosity, sparked by Nicholas’ statements. “And how is it that the children are so happy?” he asked. “Have they not all been suddenly ripped from their homes?”

  “Oh, indeed,” Nicholas answered. “But they now believe this place is where they belong.” Again he paused, clearly relishing his next words. “They now all believe me to be their father. It has to do with something called Forestallments.”

  Despite what he already knew Nicholas to be capable of, Ragnar was stunned. He had seen many ministrations of the craft over the last three centuries, but none so powerful as this. To enter the consciousness of another was truly an immense power. But to enter the minds of so many, at the same time controlling their thoughts while also erasing memories of the past, would require an ascendancy that was truly inconceivable. The stalker sat unmoving, in complete awe of the young man floating before him.

  Ragnar was burning with the one inquiry he had for so long wished to put to Nicholas, but had been afraid to broach. Now he found his lips forming the words. “My lord,” he whispered, lowering his grotesque head in supplication, “forgive me, but I have never seen such power. From where is it you have come?”

  Enjoying the children as they began to congregate at his feet, Nicholas smiled. Some turned their faces up to look at the one they believed to be their father, each of them now also certain in the false knowledge that they were all brother and sister to one another.

  “I come from a place of light and darkness,” Nicholas answered softy. “A place of pure, unadulterated power and knowledge. It is a concept your feeble mind could only begin to dream of. I come from the same place that my mother, the departed second mistress of the Coven, now exists. The same place I intend to send any of those not worthy of the new order.”

  Nicholas reached down to the face of a particularly pretty young girl, raising her bright, shining eyes up to his own.

  “I come from death itself,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-nine

  As the very drunken Shannon stood in the doorway, it was immediately clear that something had affected him deeply. His knees were trembling, making it even more difficult for him to remain upright.

  Wigg turned his sightless eyes in the direction of Shannon’s voice. Tristan leapt from his chair, drew his dreggan, and came to stand before Shailiha and Celeste. He realized he had never seen Shannon so upset.

  Wigg and Faegan, however, remained calm. “What’s wrong?” the lead wizard demanded of the terrified gnome. “Who is it that has asked to
see me?”

  A heavyset woman of some years burst past Shannon to fall at Wigg’s feet. Wrapping her arms around his legs and burying her head in his lap, she sobbed, her entire body trembling with fear. Tristan looked to Faegan for an answer, but a quick shake of the elder wizard’s head told the prince that even he did not know.

  “Who are you?” Wigg demanded. Her tears were beginning to create dark blotches on his robe.

  She finally lifted her face, and her gaze went wide at the sight of his eyes. She searched his ancient face for the meaning behind his obvious impairment. “It is I, Martha,” she said tremulously. “But tell me, old friend, what has happened to you?”

  At the mention of her name Wigg immediately placed his hands upon her face. “Martha,” he finally whispered, “is it really you?” Then his face darkened. “Why have you come here? You know it is forbidden, so I’m sure your reason must be grave.”

  She lowered her head in pain, the tears coming anew. “They are all gone, Wigg,” she whispered. “All of the girls—every one. Taken by a man in brown leather, who rode through the sky on a hideous bird such as I have never seen. Hundreds of the awful things came, and there was nothing we could do . . .”

  Scrounge! Tristan snarled silently. And he now apparently rides the hatchlings!

  Fearing the worst, Tristan turned to Shannon. “Is this woman the only being to have breached the entrance to the Redoubt?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Tristan,” Shannon answered thickly. “She apparently came alone. The various safeguards protecting the tunnels are all still in place. After telling me her story I brought her here.”

  “You may put your sword away,” Wigg said to the prince. “This woman is known to me, and we have nothing to fear from her. Shannon, please come in, and shut the door behind you.” As Tristan replaced the dreggan in its scabbard and took his chair, Shannon joined the others at the great table.

  Wigg asked Martha to sit and turned his face to hers. It was clear to everyone that he had been greatly struck by what Martha had said, for tears were gathering in his eyes. As best he could, he quickly made Martha aware of the identities of the others in the room.

  “As for my sight,” Wigg said to her, “I have been afflicted by the same ones who came to you. Now then, tell me everything,” he prodded gently. “Leave nothing out. But first, what of Duncan?”

  A look of intense grief passed over her face as she closed her eyes. “Duncan is dead,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “My husband of fifty years, gone in a matter of moments. One of the great birds beheaded him when he tried to resist them. As we speak, his endowed blood lies spilled on the grassy fields of Fledgling House.”

  At the mention of Fledgling House, Tristan turned to Faegan. It was clear the elder wizard was fascinated by this sudden turn of events. His eyes twinkling, he leaned forward eagerly. His jaw stuck out like the prow of a ship. But it was also clear that he had absolutely no knowledge of what was being discussed.

  Lowering his head, Wigg winced at the pain of hearing Martha’s words. “I am so sorry,” he whispered to her. “Duncan was one of my dearest friends and closest allies.” The lead wizard paused for a moment, taking the measure of his next words. “He was one of the best of them. That was why I picked him for the very special task that the two of you performed so well. I shall miss him with all my heart.”

  “As shall I, Lead Wizard,” Martha whispered back. “As shall I.”

  Tristan could contain his curiosity no longer. “Forgive me, Wigg, but what are you talking about?” he asked. “Who is this woman? And what is Fledgling House?”

  Despite Wigg’s blank eyes, his expression made it clear that there was yet another secret hidden within him—and that the telling of it would be difficult. With a great sigh, he began his explanation.

  “Fledgling House was one of the greatest secrets of the Directorate,” he began. “The late king and queen also knew of it.”

  Tristan cast a surprised look to his sister. “Our mother and father knew of this place?” Shailiha asked softly.

  “Indeed,” Wigg answered. “It was, in fact, Queen Morganna’s idea. She felt it necessary that we dispense with some of the old ways, putting the two genders of the endowed back on equal terms. In the end the Directorate finally agreed.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes in thought. “I still do not understand,” he said to the wizard. “What ‘old ways’ are you referring to?”

  Wigg took a deep breath, gathering himself up. Finally he said, “The ‘old ways’ to which I refer is the ban on the teaching of the craft to females.”

  The prince sat back in his chair, stunned. Looking to Faegan and Shailiha, he could see that they were equally surprised. Faegan leaned forward, his gray-green eyes flashing with curiosity.

  “Wigg,” the elder wizard began in a whisper, “do you mean to say that—”

  “Yes,” Wigg said, cutting him off. “It was the desire of the king, queen, and Directorate to resume allowing females to practice the craft.” For several long moments the room was silent.

  “And it was Mother’s idea to do this thing?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes,” Wigg answered. “She labored long and hard, endlessly petitioning both the king and the Directorate for the right of endowed women to be trained in the craft. She wished for them to one day take their place alongside the men who commanded such power. She even foresaw the day when women would serve in the Directorate. Morganna was a wonderful woman, and far ahead of her time. In many ways she was much stronger than the king. But there eventually came another reason for her feelings on this matter. One that finally tipped the Directorate in her favor. It was a very compelling reason that no one could ignore.”

  “And that was?” Tristan asked.

  “The twin births of you and Shailiha, and the azure light that accompanied the event as prophesized in the Tome,” Wigg answered. “The event for which we had waited for over three centuries. As the male of the Chosen Ones and the somewhat stronger of the two, Tristan was to rule Eutracia first. And then Shailiha, if need be.”

  Intensely interested, Tristan leaned forward in his chair and looked directly into Wigg’s lifeless eyes. “That’s why we were born as twins, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “So that if I should fail or die in the attempt to eventually join the two opposite sides of the craft, Shailiha would be trained and then succeed me in my efforts. That’s what you mean by ‘if need be.’ ”

  “Yes,” Wigg answered. “But there is far more to it than that.” Indeed, he thought. There are so many things that you still do not know. Nor will you ever know, if we cannot cure you of the wound given to you by Scrounge. “But more of this topic another day,” the wizard ordered. He turned back to Martha. “Please tell me what happened.”

  “Hundreds of the awful things flew to the ground, just as the children were at their noon recess,” Martha began, the pain of her words showing clearly on her face. “Duncan tried to fight them, but he was killed immediately.” Remembering what had happened next, with a trembling hand she removed the scroll Scrounge had given her, placing it before Wigg.

  “The one in brown leather wrote this in Duncan’s blood, telling me to deliver it to the prince,” she continued. “The other birds took the children in their claws, and flew away. Then they forced me atop one of the birds, and it carried me here. But there is something else of importance, Lead Wizard. They obviously know where you are hiding. And worse, they know how to breach the tunnels of the Redoubt. It was the one in the brown leather who told me how to cause the boulder to roll away. After I entered, the gnome found me. I told him my story, and he led me here.”

  Tristan looked to Shannon. The gnome had regained some of his composure, but not much. “Is this what unnerved you so?” the prince asked. “Martha’s story?”

  “Yes,” Shannon admitted. “In my three hundred some years I have been witness to some of the most horrible things imaginable. But to take children . . .” As if unable to continue, his voice fa
ded away.

  Tristan nodded gently in Shannon’s direction, then he picked up the scroll, unrolled it, and read it aloud. The muscles in his hands tightened even harder with each new word.

  We took your cherished children today,

  It was such an easy task.

  The feeble consul Duncan has surely breathed his last.

  And when the moment comes, my friend,

  When we again shall meet,

  You will grovel like an obedient dog

  In the dirt before my feet.

  S.

  His endowed, poisoned blood rising hotly in his veins, Tristan slammed the scroll down on the top of the table and shot to his feet. He violently pushed his heavy chair back a good meter and began pacing back and forth in an attempt to release his surging, pent-up anger. The heels of his black knee boots rang out loudly on the marble floor as his lips curled into a sneer of hatred for the ones called Scrounge and Ragnar, and for the vile acts they were committing.

  Holding Morganna closer, Shailiha looked aghast at her brother. This was not the mature, controlled warrior she had been so impressed with just after she had been cured. This was a different Tristan. He was clearly in the grip of something, uncontrollably raging against all of the injustices being inflicted on his beloved Eutracia. Hoping for reassurance, she turned to Faegan. Giving the princess a quick shake of the head, the chair-bound wizard indicated that Tristan should be left alone.