Faegan nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “Right now that makes the most sense. As I said, the Tome states that they will not only require the talents of a great adept, but also an ‘energizing’ agent. Wigg and I now believe that agent is to be your blood—the finest ever known. In fact, it is most probably the only substance in the world that could accomplish such a thing. We have long known that if your blood is employed correctly, not even the waters of the Caves would be as potent.” The room went silent for a moment. Shailiha placed her hand over her brother’s.
“But then why blind Wigg and poison my blood?” Tristan asked. “Why bother, if they already had what they wanted?”
“As far as blinding me is concerned,” Wigg answered, “you must remember that Ragnar hates me with a passion that is virtually unequaled. Blinding me was a simple act of revenge. But as for why your blood was poisoned, we really have no answer. Only time will tell.”
“And time is quickly running out,” Tristan said darkly.
“The taking of the consuls,” Shailiha said. “What of that?”
“The consuls must be helping them to mine the stone, for they shall need a great deal of it,” Wigg answered. “And using the craft to get at it would be the most efficient way. It is the only answer that makes any sense. The black-and-azure marble is the hardest in the world, and is virtually impervious to ordinary, unendowed mining techniques. But of greater interest is how this being is able to control so many of the consuls at once. His or her power must be virtually without limits.”
“And where did this creature come from?” Tristan asked.
“In that, as with so many other questions, we have no answers,” Faegan said, his usually mischievous voice full of frustration.
“This is also why the Paragon is being drained,” Wigg said. “The combination of all of the power of the stone poured into a single being, coupled with Tristan’s raw, untrained blood will make for an event of unparalleled proportions.”
“We also have no rationale for their raid on Fledgling House,” Faegan added. “No doubt by now they have collected all of the children of the consuls—both the boys and the girls. But to what ends this was accomplished we do not know.”
“And they let us have the Tome,” Tristan said, looking over his shoulder to the book. “Yet another mystery.”
“You mentioned the Art of Transposition,” Shailiha suddenly said. “Is it this spell that allows the Heretics to return?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Faegan said. “But it is far more complicated than that. The Art of Transposition is the method by which one substance is converted to another, such as attempting to turn dirt into gold. After centuries of trying, even the combined efforts of the Directorate failed to unravel the calculations required.”
“But I have often seen you conjure things out of the air,” Tristan countered. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Indeed it is not,” Wigg replied. “At first glance one would suppose that creating something out of nothing would be far more difficult than the mere changing of one thing into another. But in fact, the exact opposite is true. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that it has to do with overcoming the strength of an object’s present existence, rather than overcoming the relative weakness of nothingness. Do you see? When the Art of Transposition causes the veins of the marble to revert back to the blood of the Heretics, this shall be an example of the craft that will have no previous equal in its complexity. It shall be something never before seen upon the earth.” The wizard thought to himself for a moment. “Or, should I say, at least since the discovery of the stone and the Tome, and the enlightenment of the wizards. It is yet more proof of the hugely advanced abilities of those who were here before us.”
“Why can’t the Ones do the same thing?” Shailiha asked.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Faegan.
“Why can’t they do the same thing? Why can’t the Ones also return?”
“We do not know that they can’t, but to our knowledge they never have,” he answered. “We have long theorized that the act of returning from the Afterlife would require a connection to at least one part of the departed ones’ bodies—something of them that had been left behind upon the earth, with which to once again bond. The Heretics, of course, were somehow wise enough to leave behind a portion of their blood, encasing it for safety within the marble at Ilendium. Logic dictates that they must have accomplished this before the great cataclysm of their times. But as for the Ones, they must have left nothing of their bodies behind.”
“Nothing that we know of,” Wigg countered.
Faegan raised his eyebrows. “Quite right,” he added. “Nothing that we know of. In addition, this method of return from the Afterlife is presumably an act of the Vagaries, and therefore something that the Ones would not allow themselves to do. At least not in this exact way.”
Tristan suddenly remembered something. “In your first quote you recited the words ‘among the other instruments of the craft,’ ” he said eagerly. “Is it possible that there are other things still to be found? More artifacts that may also have the power and importance of the stone and the Tome?”
“There may indeed by such things still within the earth, carrying secrets and power we could only dream of,” Wigg answered. “But no such additional treasures have ever been discovered. Still, the prospect continues to exist. Tantalizing, wouldn’t you agree? To that end, many parties of wizards and consuls have searched Eutracia over the years, looking for the remains of the One’s civilization. It was felt that if we could discover the ruins of their cities, much would be revealed. But nothing ever came of it, and the prospect was abandoned. It was as if the Ones and the Heretics vanished into thin air.”
Tristan slumped down in his chair, fatigued and stunned by all he had heard. He shook his head back and forth slowly. There seems to be no end to the secrets of the wizards. And despite all that they seem to know, they tell us that the total sum of their knowledge is only a smattering of those who were here before us.
“What we do not know is who,” Tristan whispered to himself, so softly that the others at the table could scarcely hear him.
“What did you say?” Shailiha asked. Morganna had begun to fuss again, and Shailiha adjusted her clothing to nurse the baby. Her brother smiled at the two of them, and then his face turned serious again.
“What we do not know is the identity of the being Wigg and Faegan describe,” he said. “Until that is uncovered, I fear we may never solve the rest of the riddle lying before us.” He paused for a moment, looking around the table. “It is now more clear than ever that I must go to Parthalon. If the Paragon continues to decay and the wizards lose their powers before we find a way out of all this, the warriors may be the only means we have to help control the situation.”
Faegan sighed resignedly, placing either hand into the opposite sleeve of his robe. “At first Wigg and I were skeptical about that,” he said slowly. “We would have preferred to keep you here, so that you could at least begin your training and also read the Prophecies to us. But now things have changed markedly, and we are forced to agree with you. Frankly, we see little other hope for us. Whoever is controlling these events has planned exceedingly well, and we have been bested at every turn. But if the Minions come here, quickly enough and in numbers sufficient enough to matter, we may have a chance against Scrounge, his hatchlings, and those insects that were used in Ilendium. That would be a start. But as for stopping the return of the Heretics . . . Well, that is a different problem, for it is of the craft. Wigg and I must work ceaselessly on it.” He turned his gray-green eyes to the prince, giving him a hard look. “But before you go,” he said sternly, “there is something we must ask of you. Actually, it is more of a demand.”
“I’m listening,” Tristan said, folding his arms across the worn leather of his vest. He had long ago made up his mind to go, and he didn’t like demands, especially when they came from the wizards. Even as a child, he had a
lways hated constraints of any type placed upon his movements. The look in his dark blue eyes told Faegan that whatever it was they wanted him to swallow, it would not go down easily.
“We’re assigning you a bodyguard,” Faegan said simply. “At least until such time as you may be healed from the poison that runs through your veins.”
“A bodyguard!” Tristan exclaimed. “Absolutely not! I am entirely capable of taking care of myself!”
“Under normal conditions, perhaps,” Faegan said sternly. “But current conditions are far from normal. First of all you are ill. Another convulsion is certain to befall you, and probably soon. When that occurs, you will need help. In addition, suppose when you reach Parthalon things have changed? True, Traax agreed to accept Geldon’s orders. But for all we know he could have been only giving us lip service, waiting for your unsuspecting return to take your head, laying claim to your position.”
“Even if that were true,” Tristan countered, “there would be little two of us could do against such numbers.” Fully realizing that the wily wizards had already chosen someone to be his bodyguard he paused for a moment, thinking. “And just who is it that you two brilliant mystics would send with me to defend my honor, eh?” he asked sarcastically.
“Ox,” Wigg answered calmly from across the table.
“Ox!” Tristan exclaimed. “Can’t you send Joshua with me? At least he is of the craft. Compared to a consul of the Redoubt, what possible good can a Minion warrior do me?”
“Hear us out,” Wigg said calmly. “We have our reasons. I am blind, and of little use to you. Faegan remains trapped in his chair. We considered sending Joshua, but the sad truth is we now need him here, to help with our research. He is the only other person trained in the craft, as far as we know, who is free to help us. Besides, we think that with Ox at your side the Minions will come to feel that you respect them. They will surely know that as the Chosen One you could have traveled with anyone you like, but instead chose to be with one of their own.” Wigg pursed his lips ironically. “Even though that really isn’t true,” he added drily.
Out of the corner of his eye Tristan thought he caught a quick smile on Shailiha’s lips. “And if I refuse?” he asked.
“You’re forgetting something, my young friend,” Faegan said with a wink.
“And that is?”
“You want to go to Parthalon, and I am the only one capable of opening and closing the portal.” He grinned impishly. “That is, of course, unless you would like to do it without my services, and brave the Sea of Whispers alone.”
Tristan laughed—a resigned sort of snort. They had him, and he knew it.
“If not for the wizards, then do it for me,” Shailiha said seriously. She reached out with her free hand and gently touched the gold medallion around his neck. “You and Morganna are all I have left of my family.”
She always did know how to get to me, he thought to himself.
“Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I accept.”
“When you arrive, you must be exceedingly careful in how you handle things,” Wigg said. “First and foremost, you must convince the Minions to come to Eutracia under your leadership, and go to war with the hatchlings. Second, should you feel a convulsion coming on, it is vitally important that you do not let any of the Minions see it. You are their lord, having risen to that position by virtue of a fight to the death with Kluge. They expect strength and decisiveness from you, not weakness.”
“Very well,” Tristan answered. “I will do my best.”
At that there came a knock on the door. It opened to reveal Geldon holding a shopworn straw basket that was soaked with blood.
“What is it, Geldon?” Tristan asked urgently. “What do you have there?”
The hunchbacked dwarf walked into the room, carefully holding the basket away from his short, bent-over body as if it were filled with venomous snakes. “I found this when returning to the Redoubt. It had been placed at the foot of one of the revolving boulders.” He paused for a moment, tentatively looking around the table. “I took the chance to look inside, and now I wish I hadn’t,” he said distastefully. “It isn’t pretty.”
“Please place it on the table,” Faegan ordered. Geldon did so. The stench of the blood clotted between the strands of straw caused Wigg to gasp. Shailiha looked as though she might be ill.
“What’s in there?” Tristan asked anxiously.
Geldon looked around, not wanting to upset those gathered any more than he had to. But there was no other way to say it. “It contains a human head,” he said softly. “And there is another parchment scroll. I believe it is meant for the prince.”
Tristan looked quickly to Faegan. At the wizard’s nod he carefully opened the basket, withdrawing the head by the hair and placing it on the tabletop.
The victim had been fairly elderly, with gray hair and a rather long beard. The face was smudged and very dirty, covered with a strange kind of black soot. The head had been severed cleanly. Blank, emotionless eyes stared hauntingly out at nothing. Faegan raised one hand in the direction of the head, and the eyes gently closed for the final time.
Tristan immediately recognized Scrounge’s miniature arrow embedded in the forehead, and saw the scroll. He carefully removed the scroll from the length of the shaft, untying the ribbon and unrolling the parchment. His eyes tore down the page, eager to read the message. But he couldn’t.
It was written in blood, just as the others had been, but neither the handwriting nor the language was recognizable. This was not Eutracian as Tristan knew it. It was written in a very flowing, beautiful style, the odd-looking symbols completely unintelligible to him. Then he realized he had seen this form of writing before. It had been in the Caves of the Paragon. He had also seen it in various places within the Redoubt of the Directorate, primarily over doorways that were almost always closed. Puzzled, he laid the parchment flat upon the table. Faegan pointed to the scroll and caused it to flatten out, keeping it in place.
“What is it?” Wigg asked.
“Another scroll,” Faegan answered. “But this one is different. This one is written in Old Eutracian.
“In case the two of you are bewildered,” Faegan said to the prince and princess, “Old Eutracian is the ancient language of our nation. It is the dialect spoken and written by the Ones, and therefore presumably by the Heretics as well.”
“Is it written in blood?” Wigg asked.
“Yes,” Faegan answered. “In that way it is like the others.” He rubbed his hand across the dirty face of the head and then held his fingertips high, examining the black dust he had collected upon them. He blew on his hand, and the soot flew into the air. As it drifted harmlessly to the floor it caught the light, and to Tristan’s eyes it appeared to have a bluish cast intermixed with the black. Faegan cast a knowing glance to the table at large. “This man was most probably a consul,” he added.
“How do you know that?” Shailiha asked.
Faegan held his dirty palm up to the table. “This is marble dust from the quarries of Ilendium. I would bet my life upon it. It also contains traces of azure, meaning that they are indeed mining the forbidden black marble—and almost certainly using the consuls to do it. Just as we surmised.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the language?” Wigg said in the direction of the prince. Despite both his infirmity and the darkness of their situation, the lead wizard had a short smile on his face.
“Ask what about it?” Tristan said blankly.
“How did you learn Old Eutracian?” Shailiha asked.
“Well done, Princess.” Wigg smiled. “Please continue.”
“If all of the Ones and the Heretics are dead, then who taught you to understand their language?” she asked.
“Think about it for a moment,” Wigg said. “The answer to your question is before you, in this very room.”
Tristan looked around at the vast, rather dark room, carefully observing the seemingly endless floors with their stack of books
, and the entryway to the Vault of Scrolls that lay within the far wall. Perhaps the answer is to be found within one of the books or scrolls, he thought. He also saw the white, leather-bound Tome. And then something began to pull at his mind. Rubbing his brow with his fingertips, he thought for a moment. Of course! he finally realized.
“The Tome is written in Old Eutracian,” he said softly, almost to himself. He thought again for a moment. “In the early days of its discovery it was unreadable, written in a language that was completely foreign to you. But after Faegan’s daughter, Emily, the first to wear the stone and read the Tome, led the way with her first translation, you worked to unravel the Old Eutracian symbols.”
“Very good!” Faegan pointed a long, bony finger at the prince and barked a cackle. “Emily was also able to read the language aloud in its original form—allowing us to learn how to speak it as well as read it. All the consuls and wizards have learned it, and we speak it among ourselves when the topic is particularly secret.”
Tristan looked back down at the scroll, his mind alive with questions. “Would you please read it?” he asked Faegan.
“Of course,” the crippled wizard answered. “I will first read it aloud in Old Eutracian, so you may hear what it sounds like. I shall then translate it for you.”
Faegan looked down at the scroll, measuring the import of the words he saw there. It had been almost three centuries since he had read any ancient text, but the words came back to him as surely as if it had been yesterday. As he began to read aloud, Tristan found the language mellifluous and soothing. But as Faegan continued to read the scroll, Tristan was disturbed to see that the wizard’s face darkened further with every word.
Faegan sat back in his chair, seemingly stunned. Wigg also seemed overtaken. “Please,” Tristan urged anxiously. “Translate it for me.”
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