“Very well,” Faegan replied.
“I am the power behind the glow, and I am the one you seek. I am also he who has caused the wailing and torment of your nation. Have you not felt yourself drawn to me? Have you not already seen my face? There is much for us to discuss, Chosen One. I am in the Caves. Come to me tonight. Come and much shall be revealed. Leave your wizards behind in their useless pursuit of the answers. For their inferior, unenlightened gifts are useless to beings such as we. Come alone.”
After a period of intense silence, Wigg finally spoke. “This is obviously not the work of Scrounge,” he said quietly. “I am not even sure whether Ragnar, in his madness, could have written this.”
“I agree,” Faegan replied. “But now we must decide whether Tristan is to do this thing, especially without protection.”
“I have seen him,” Tristan said suddenly. His face was a blank, his eyes staring out at nothing.
“What?” Faegan exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I have seen him,” Tristan repeated. He finally turned his eyes to the wizards. “At the beginning of my first convulsion, I saw a face that I was inexplicably drawn to. It was a dark-haired male. And he was quite young, little more than a boy. Just before I blacked out I remembered thinking that he reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who. I dismissed it, thinking it was a hallucination. But now I know better.” He paused, his breathing starting to visibly quicken. “Now that I have seen the scroll and remember the vision, I can literally feel his presence in my blood. It is almost as if his heart beats in time with mine . . . the same feeling that overcame me when I saw the glow sweeping across the floor in Ragnar’s chambers.” He paused for a moment. “But how could a mere boy be responsible for all of these wondrous, terrible acts of the craft?” he asked.
“Have you seen this face since?” Faegan asked urgently.
“No,” Tristan answered, shaking his head.
Despite the lifeless nature of his eyes, Wigg’s face said much. Faegan, too, appeared as if something monumental had just occurred.
“I think you should go,” Wigg said flatly from the other side of the table. “And you should go tonight, alone, just as the note asks.”
“I agree,” Faegan replied.
“Are you both mad?” Shailiha exclaimed. She grasped her brother’s hand, as if doing so could somehow keep him by her side forever.
Morganna seemed to sense her mother’s agitation, and her little eyes went wide. The princess was angry, and it showed.
“Have you forgotten what happened the last time?” Shailiha continued. “He is mortally ill because of that visit! How do you know something worse won’t happen this time? How could you possibly let him do such a thing?”
Wigg and Faegan remained quiet for a time, letting the princess’ emotions calm. Finally Wigg said, “If those in the Caves had wanted us dead, we would be already, Shailiha. And I believe that if Tristan can use this opportunity to discover anything about this being, anything at all, he must do so. Not only for our sake, but also for the craft and the nation.”
“I agree,” Tristan said, giving his sister’s hand an affectionate, reassuring squeeze. “I must go now, before my trip to Parthalon. Surely you can see that. If I can bring back anything that might be of help to the wizards, they can be researching it while I am meeting with the Minions.” He smiled, trying to help her mood. “And in case you haven’t noticed,” he added, “we’re losing this battle.”
“But what about Ox?” she asked, knowing she was losing the argument. “The wizards said you should have a bodyguard. Shouldn’t he go too?”
“Not this time,” Tristan answered. He looked to the wizards to see that they were both nodding in silent agreement. “The being responsible for the scroll said to come alone. And that is what I shall do.”
Shailiha lowered her head in frustration. “Why must you always be so eager?” she whispered to her brother.
Tristan placed a finger under her chin, raising her face, then smiled at her. “I take after you, Shai. You were born eight minutes before me, remember?”
She said nothing for several moments, searching his face as if trying to make sure she could keep it locked in her memories. “When will you leave?” she asked quietly.
Tristan looked to Faegan and said, “Within the hour.”
Faegan closed his eyes, nodding approval.
Shailiha had seen her brother leave for the Caves once before. But that time he had been with Wigg, and despite her misgivings she had felt relatively sure they would return. But this time was different.
This time her heart told her she would never see her brother again.
CHAPTER
Thirty-five
As Ragnar approached the marble steps to Fledgling House, the bitter, unrelenting wind swirled around him, teasing the hem of his robe. The coldness seeping into his bones told him, as had so many other things of nature lately, that the Season of Crystal was near. Looking up to the jagged Tolenka Mountains, he could see that the snow that for three seasons of the year resided only at the very top of the peaks had begun creeping its way downward. Its whiteness would soon also come from the sky, laying a frozen blanket over the land. The air smelled of musty, dead leaves, the once-magnificent colors of their foliage having slowly expired to orange, then brown, and in most cases dust. Nearby, the cold, dark blue waters of the Sippora River babbled happily onward, going about their business.
How idyllic, he mused. Pausing for a moment, he looked up at the edifice that had, until only recently, held within its walls one of the greatest secrets of the Directorate of Wizards: the training of females in the craft of magic.
The castle had been built some twenty-five years earlier, and little had been spared in its expense. Although small compared to the royal palace at Tammerland, this lesser manor was nonetheless comprised of four stories, containing more than four hundred rooms. The rose-colored marble was gracefully shot through with streaks of magenta; the columns and steps were of the faintest pink. How appropriate for little girls, he thought. Two massive oaken doors, their planks bonded together with strong-looking ironwork, stood side by side, seeming to bar entrance to anyone not associated with the craft. On either side of the doors was a hatchling, fully armed and standing at attention. Others flew high in the sky above, carefully watching over the scene. Still more were camped nearby.
The stalker paused at the top step, relishing the many victories that the master had already afforded them. Soon, he thought. Soon we shall have it all. Curious to see more, he pointed to the doors, watched them open, and stepped inside. The hatchlings obediently bowed as he passed, shutting the great doors behind him with finality.
The large foyer was also of marble, the floor a complicated pattern of dark and light inlaid mahogany. Twin staircases, their steps of marble and their railings of patterned wrought iron, curved upward from opposite sides of the floor, ascending to the higher levels. Originally the girls’ quarters, he presumed. A huge stained-glass window lay in the opposite wall from the entryway doors, a representation of the Paragon inlaid into the curving, gentle grace of its design. Oil chandeliers gave off a delicate, subdued essence, and the air smelled delicately somehow of both potpourri and the never-ending promise of youth.
From a hallway leading off to the right came the familiar, magnificent glow. The aura that existed only in the presence of the master poured forth from the doorway of the corridor, partially covering the foyer floor. Ragnar turned toward it and began walking down the hallway, his feet strangely covered in the glow of the craft.
Just before leaving the quarries, Nicholas had told him to come here later in the day. There was something he wished the stalker to see. Several hatchlings had carried the stalker in his ornate, personal litter, landing him at the doors of Fledgling House. Still intrigued by what the master wished him to witness, he finally came to the room at the end of the hall.
The huge marble room had been completely stripped of its
furnishings, its emptiness a distinct contrast to the sumptuous foyer the stalker had just left behind. Nicholas hovered several feet above the floor in the center of the room, his back to the stalker, the folds of his white silk robe falling gracefully over his muscular form. He was surrounded on all sides by open-faced, coffinlike boxes. Rows upon rows of them were stacked in tiers on the walls. In each one lay a child, his or her eyes closed peacefully in sleep.
A transparent sphere sat on the floor of the room. From it, a mass of clear, flexible tubes snaked outward, one to each child. Both the sphere resting on the floor and the tubes were pulsing with red liquid.
“Enter,” Nicholas said without turning around. Ragnar stepped tentatively into the room, as if his very footsteps might upset the delicate balance of what was unfolding. The master had told him not long ago that he would be needing the blood of the endowed children, but the stalker was still at a complete loss as to why. Ragnar was transfixed at the scene before him, his mind alive with questions. Even to him, what Nicholas was doing to the children had a ghastly, macabre quality.
Never before have I seen such a huge quantity of endowed blood in one place, the stalker thought. Why does he need so much?
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Nicholas asked, rotating at last to look at the confused stalker. “Each day I take a little more from them. As much as their young bodies will safely allow, without placing them in shock. But even with so many children here at my disposal it will be two more weeks until I have enough. So much beautiful, endowed blood! But still the potential collected in this bowl is infinitesimal compared to the sanguine fluid of myself and the Chosen One, my father of this world.
“You are wondering why I need it, are you not?” he asked as the hundreds of tubes continued their grisly task. “All in good time, my friend, all in good time. For now let it suffice to say that their blood shall become the mortar, if you will, that shall bind the pieces of marble together, to create the Gates.”
“But the blood of these children is of very low training,” Ragnar countered politely. “How is it that it could be used for such a grand purpose?”
Nicholas smiled. “It is precisely because of the relatively meager training of their blood that I require it,” he answered. “The blood of the children, because they have not received a great deal of training, is more ‘malleable,’ so to speak. Using the blood of their fathers for this purpose would have presented a far greater challenge.” He smiled again, his exotic eyes flashing. “But one I am sure I could have surmounted, nonetheless.”
“Are they in pain?” Ragnar asked, looking up at the rows of children on the walls. He asked not out of compassion, only curiosity.
“Oh, no,” Nicholas replied. “Not at all. And afterward they remember nothing of the experience. Aside from some initial weakness they are quite well, and ready to be used in the same manner again the following day.”
He changed the subject. “The mining continues to go as ordered?”
“The consuls work endlessly in shifts, day and night,” the stalker answered. “I am amazed as to how fast they are able to gather the marble. It is being cut and polished exactly to your specifications.”
“When not working they are billeted in the city of Ilendium, as I asked?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes, Master,” Ragnar answered. “As are the hatchlings you have ordered to remain there. In addition, the carrion scarabs’ eggs that were laid in the corpses of the dead at Ilendium have begun to hatch.”
“Excellent,” Nicholas said. “All is going according to plan. And now I must stop the blood collection for today, for I have other matters to attend to.”
The stalker watched as Nicholas narrowed his eyes. Almost immediately the hundreds of needles in the children’s feet came out, and the bleeding stopped, the small pinpricks vanishing in mere seconds. Then the tubes connected to the sphere hauntingly retracted, melding into the sides of the vessel itself.
Nicholas lowered the children gently to the floor, and they began to awaken. Within a matter of only moments, the unsuspecting youths started to laugh and play happily among themselves.
“You see?” Nicholas said, placing an affectionate hand on the head of one of the young girls. “No harm done. Now I must leave. After I am gone, order a squadron of hatchlings here to watch over the children and feed them. Walk with me.”
Ragnar walked silently alongside his master as Nicholas glided above the floor. Entering the foyer, they went to the door and opened it. The hatchlings on either side bowed obediently.
“If I may ask, where is it that you now go, Master?” Ragnar asked.
“The Caves,” Nicholas answered. “I am about to receive a very important guest.” With that the adept spread his arms and flew away, higher and higher, until he was a mere pinprick in the sky. Ragnar stared after him, stunned. How could anyone, even one of such highly endowed blood, fly without wings?
Ragnar’s eyes finally lost the adept as the whiteness of the young man’s robes became one with the nighttime stars.
After ordering a squadron of hatchlings into the castle to care for and protect the children, he called for his personal litter. Four of the great birds landed with it, one of them at each corner. As the stalker climbed inside and gave orders for his return to the quarries, his mind went to other, more pleasurable pursuits.
He had been several hours without his fluid, and he needed it badly. Taking the ever-present vial down from a specially built shelf on the inside wall, he luxuriously scooped some onto a finger and licked it off. Lying back on the overstuffed pillows, he let down the velvet side curtains, so as to be alone with his thoughts.
Once he had checked on the consuls’ progress with the mining, he would turn his entire attention to the beautiful woman he had brought to the quarries with him. True, she was not Celeste, but she would do for now . . . until the daughter of Wigg was again his to do with as he wished.
CHAPTER
Thirty-six
As Tristan neared the Caves of the Paragon, a flood of thoughts and memories came to his mind. Some of them were pleasant, but most were far from reassuring. Although always drawn by his blood to these remote, underground caverns, he nonetheless had a deep dread of coming here alone now.
It was cold, the clear sky above scattered with thousands of twinkling stars. Pilgrim’s breath came out of his nostrils in short, streaming puffs of vapor, the dead leaves crunching pleasantly beneath the heavy, gray-and-white dappled stallion as he carried the prince ever deeper into the woods.
The last time Tristan had come here by himself was that fateful day when he had accidentally discovered the Caves’ existence. He had fallen in while trying to learn how the fliers of the fields had seemingly disappeared, as if melting into the wall that barred the Caves’ entrance. He had nearly died that day, and his father and the Directorate of Wizards had been furious with him. Now, of course, he knew why. Sighing, he shook his head. So much had transpired since then. Closing his eyes, he tried to fight back the feeling that all would soon be lost.
Before donning a fur coat and setting out, he had looked at his shoulder. The dark, ominous-looking spider veins that covered the skin of the joint were slowly lengthening into his biceps. Strangely, he felt no pain from them. Nor did he feel ill or weak when not in the grip of a convulsion. The wizards had told him that that might change, though.
But he also knew it would only be a matter of time before another of the attacks came, and he closed his eyes briefly at the thought. The pain and disorientation had been so intense he wasn’t sure he could survive another convulsion, and he only hoped that one of his allies would be near him when it happened.
But Ox cannot be with me tonight. Neither can the wizards. This I must do alone.
He raised his eyes to the heavens, thinking of the incredible tale the wizards had told him and his sister about the Ones and the Heretics.
But perhaps the thing that concerned him the most was the continuing erosion of the wizards’ powers
. Although he had not yet seen either of them fail in attempting to use their gifts, he knew it would only be a matter of time until it happened. It was as if there was little either of them could do to stem the tide of all that was happening. Their resignation was unusual, and only added to the prince’s personal sense of defeat.
And then there was Celeste. When he had first seen her that night by the graves he had been deeply drawn not only to her beauty but to her solitary, mysterious strength. So much like her father, he thought. Incredibly, she was one of them now—the long-lost daughter of Wigg. Whenever he and Celeste were in the same room together he was still intensely aware of her presence, but there was little time for such things. Besides, she was Wigg’s only child. Becoming involved with her at this time would not only be irresponsible, but could perhaps even intrude on the delicate relationship between father and daughter that had only so recently begun to take root.
As he approached the little rise where he would tie his horse, Tristan’s mind finally turned to the strange, obviously very powerful presence in the Caves—the still-unknown being Wigg and Faegan had described as able to return the Heretics to the earth. He remembered the amazing glow that had flooded the floor with its majesty the day he had been cut by Scrounge, and Wigg had been blinded by Ragnar. He had been strangely drawn to it, almost as if it was a part of him. And then, after reading the scroll and remembering the face that had appeared before him just as his first convulsion occurred, he had known without a doubt that he had to come here, that the wizards had been right. He must face whatever this thing was, discovering all he could. And somehow get back alive.
He stopped Pilgrim and dismounted, then tied the stallion to a tree and crept slowly up to the top of the little rise. Sliding his dreggan from its scabbard, he looked down to the wall of fieldstone that marked the entrance to the Caves.
There was something different about it this time. The hold that he and Wigg had made in the wall had been enlarged. Light shone from it, flashing hauntingly, an odd combination of flickering orange-red that was intermittently combined with the glow of the craft.
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