The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  Tristan lowered his eyes. “If you are truly my son, how is it that you could do these horrible things to us?” he asked softly. “We are of the same blood. Does that not count for anything with you?”

  Nicholas’ face became commanding. “Consider my next words well, Father, whatever your eventual choice in this matter is to be. My mother of this world, the sorceress Succiu, took my life with her own. And you, my father of this world, chose to leave my body behind in that awful land, rather than return it to your own. But my fathers above took me in, trained me, and returned me here, to the world of the living. Given that, do you really believe I would ever choose you over their power and majesty? All you really did was to vomit your seed into the depths of a woman. She, in turn, chose to see me dead. After that, you ceased to care.”

  Tristan hung his head. In a bizarre, twisted way he could almost agree. Forcing his mind back to his many questions, he decided to keep Nicholas talking for as long as he could. Concentrate on the things that will help, he reminded himself. The things Wigg and Faegan will need to know. “The hatchlings and the carrion scarabs,” he asked. “Where did they come from?”

  Nicholas smiled. “They represent but two types of the servants employed by the Heretics during the War of Attrition. I brought the Forestallments for their conjuring with me from above. After that, letting them multiply on their own was simple enough. One creature for the sky, another for the earth, just as it was so long ago. They’re unusually effective, don’t you think?”

  Tristan thought for a moment, wondering how long Nicholas would allow his questions. “If the Heretics can send you back from the Afterlife, then why can’t they simply do the same thing for themselves?” he asked. “Why do they need you? And you said that both Shailiha and I have much in common with those in the heavens. To whom are you referring—the Heretics, or the Ones?”

  “Ah,” Nicholas said. “Finally the Chosen One comes to the very heart of the matter. The center of the riddle surrounding his existence, and that of his twin sister. The truth is that the Heretics could not return until they had an emissary of your blood given to them. And you yourself provided it in me. The Heretics are spirit only, as are the Ones. As we speak the two forces are still in constant struggle with each other, even in the Afterlife. They have been since the War of Attrition. But my parents above desire to live again. To feel, touch, smell, and taste again. And to again know the pleasures of being a man or a woman. I will not delve into such questions further unless you choose to join us, for the answers would prove far too revealing. Similarly, I shall not reveal the truth about the link between you and your sister and those of the heavens. I am fully aware that you are trying to enhance your knowledge for your wizards.”

  “Why did you take the consuls’ children?” Tristan asked. “And why did you raid Fledgling House? Of what possible use could the young endowed be to your far greater powers?”

  “As with so many things of this world, it has to do with blood,” Nicholas answered. “But I will say nothing more of that.” Still holding the vessel of antidote, he looked calmly into the face of his father. “You have been given sufficient information in order to make your choice. It is now time for you to do so.”

  Tristan looked into the dark, slanted eyes. Even if you are of my blood, one day I will kill you, he swore silently. No matter what it takes, I will wipe this scourge of my seed from the earth.

  “No,” he said flatly. “I will never join you.”

  “Are you quite sure, Father?” Nicholas asked coyly. He held the bottle of antidote before Tristan, swinging it back and forth temptingly. “A little sip of this and you would be made well again. Not to mention the fact that you have not only just condemned yourself to death, but your sister, niece, and wizards, as well.”

  “I have given you my answer,” the prince said softly. He was trembling with anger. “Now let me take my leave of this place.”

  “As you wish,” Nicholas said, gesturing courteously to the doorway. “It was never my intention to harm you further, or to keep you captive. But hear this, Chosen One: Pain will grow within in your body as the dark veins continue to encroach. The sword arm you so prize and the weapon over your shoulder that you used to kill my grandfather will both eventually be worthless. During the onslaught of your fourth convulsion, you will die. And nothing except what I hold in my hand can stop it. I tell you this so that you will have a frame of reference as to how much longer you shall live.

  “Should you change your mind, simply come to the Gates of Dawn, Father,” the adept continued. “By then they shall be constructed.” Again came the rather twisted smile. “As you will see, they shall be very difficult to miss.”

  Tristan turned to the door, taking his first few steps toward it. Stopping, he turned around. “I will kill you,” he said softly. “Whether you are truly my son or not. Somehow, despite your powers, I will find a way. I will make sure before I die that what I have sired will do no further harm to this world.” With that he left the room.

  As he approached the chamber of the falls he could again feel the powerful effect of the waters on his blood, but he ignored it and ran up the stone steps out into the light. His chest heaving, he paused to look at the early-morning rays that had just begun to creep up over the horizon beyond. Tears of anger and sadness welled in his eyes.

  How many more such dawns? he asked himself. How many dawns before they come back, and all that we know perishes forever? And it is all because of me, and what I did not finish in Parthalon.

  “What have I done?” he cried aloud, his voice shaking desperately.

  He covered his face with his hands and went to his knees in the cold, frosty grass.

  Tristan stayed that way for some time. He finally sat upright in the cold, damp grass, watching the sunrise. His head was a whirl of stunning new facts and seemingly endless, frightening implications. He knew he needed to return to the Redoubt quickly, and tell the wizards everything he had just learned.

  It was then that he heard it. Steel on steel—the unmistakable sound of swordplay.

  Immediately jumping to his feet he drew his dreggan, the blade ringing in the air. Turning, he searched every foot of the little clearing, but could see no threat. Nonetheless the clang of swords could be plainly heard, sounding to his experienced ears like two single combatants. The action seemed intense, their swords clashing together almost constantly. Finally realizing the sounds were coming from higher up, he raised his eyes to the sky.

  Above him, one of Nicholas’ hatchlings was locked in mortal combat with some other winged creature. At first Tristan couldn’t make it out. Then the two flew lower as they struggled, and the prince was shocked to see who it was. Ox.

  The huge Minion warrior was fighting mightily with the hatchling, and it was plain to see that the great bird was at least an equal match. As they swooped and darted through the air, frustratingly out of reach, Tristan could only stand there, mesmerized by the battle taking place above him.

  He immediately recognized that such fighting required skills he had never experienced. It was amazingly different from fighting on the ground, where a fighter relied upon his feet and legs for both quickness and balance. In the fight above him the entire sky was at the combatants’ disposal, and they each made the most of it, covering distances with the use of their wings that an earthbound swordsman’s feet and legs could not begin to address. A full three dimensions of turns and maneuvers were possible in the air.

  Where the hatchling might be quicker, Ox seemed a little stronger. Whenever the bird threatened with his broadsword, Ox seemed able to counter the blows effectively with his dreggan.

  But why is Ox here? Tristan wondered desperately, his frustration causing him to tighten his grip around his sword. But all he could do was watch and wait.

  Stretching his wings further, Ox flew up and over the hatchling, positioning his body directly above the great bird. With a sudden series of relentless, powerful slashes he began to force the hatchli
ng downward, ever nearer to the ground. The hatchling fought back mightily, but Ox now held the advantage, for Tristan could see that it was much easier for the Minion to slash downward than for the bird to thrust upward.

  The clanging of their sword blades became louder as Ox pressed his opponent ever lower. Tristan would soon be able to reach the hatchling’s legs with his dreggan. He touched the button at the hilt of the sword to launch the extra foot of blade; then he raised the dreggan high in both hands. But he came to a sudden realization.

  Tristan dropped his sword in the grass, and searched frantically through the glade. Finally he found a heavy, dried tree limb that looked sturdy enough.

  Tristan’s first swing barely missed, and the hatchling cried out in its desperation. Ox made a great, final effort, driving the bird even lower. This time the prince’s aim was true.

  The limb connected mightily with the side of the hatchling’s head, and it fell unconscious to the ground, the light going out of its hideous, red eyes. Exhausted, Ox landed next to the bird, looking at Tristan as if the prince had just lost his mind.

  “I sent to protect,” Ox breathed, sliding his dreggan into the scabbard at his hip. “Why Chosen One no kill bird?”

  Tristan did not immediately respond. He roughly kicked the hatchling’s side, testing whether the bird was indeed knocked out. It remained motionless. Tristan reached down, relieving it of its sword. Finally he picked up his dreggan, retracting its blade and placing it into its scabbard.

  Tristan looked at the exhausted Minion warrior, realizing that it was finally time to make up his mind about the huge Minion. If there is no other choice but to trust him, then I shall do so, he decided.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

  “Wizards send Ox,” the warrior said proudly. “To look after Chosen One. It Ox’s new task in life. But they say no go into Caves after you. Only follow, and wait in sky. Ox glad Chosen One still alive.” His chest was fairly puffing out with pride.

  “And when I came back out?” Tristan answered. “What happened then?”

  “I wait in sky. Then bad bird come. When I see bird, I fight. Then you hit with branch.” His face screwed up quizzically again behind the black beard. “Why you no kill bird?” he repeated.

  Tristan glanced back down at the inert hatchling. “Because I wanted it alive,” he said flatly. “If I had killed it without Wigg and Faegan having a chance to study it while it was still breathing, they would have never forgiven me. Especially if this is one of those that can speak.”

  Looking back at Ox, Tristan thought quietly for moment. “Cut down a pile of strong limbs,” he ordered. “And gather up some vines. Make sure they’re all sturdy. We’re going to make a cage, place the hatchling into it, and then fasten it to a litter. Pilgrim can drag it back to the Redoubt.”

  Although the prince knew these birds were of the craft, he seriously doubted that they were capable of using magic on their own. But the cage would either hold it, or it wouldn’t. If he succeeded in returning with the hatchling, then the wizards could decide how best to control it.

  “No need to make cage, Chosen One,” Ox answered. “I strong. I carry.”

  “Oh, no,” Tristan said gently, raising his eyebrows. “If the bird awakens, I don’t want to take the chance of losing it.”

  Ox placed an index finger upon his lower lip. Tristan could sense the wheels in the Minion’s head, while apparently not exactly spinning, at least grinding away with difficulty. Finally Ox said, “Chosen One right. Chosen one smart. I make cage and litter.”

  “Good,” Tristan answered.

  They completed the job together, then placed the still-unconscious hatchling inside the cage and bound the remaining logs together to enclose it. While Ox used vines to lash the cage to the litter, Tristan retrieved Pilgrim. They then secured the litter to the back of Tristan’s saddle.

  Tristan walked to Pilgrim’s head and grasped the bridle. Giving the stallion a short, clacking sound out of the corner of his mouth, he urged the horse forward. Ox proudly brought up the rear on foot, dreggan drawn, acting as if they were about to be attacked at any moment.

  Tristan shook his head slightly. Despite all he had been through, he snorted a quick, unbelieving laugh down his nose. From somewhere an old quotation came to his mind—one that described the situation perfectly.

  “Before the Afterlife makes one mad,” he remembered, “it first gives one the strangest of traveling companions.”

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-seven

  Tristan sat back in his upholstered chair in the Hall of Blood Records. His mind was a confusing whirl of questions and concerns. Across from him sat Wigg and Faegan, their faces dark. To his right was Shailiha with Morganna, and next to Wigg sat Celeste. Tristan stared for a moment into Celeste’s lovely, sapphire eyes. She looked back at him with concern.

  After successfully delivering the unconscious hatchling to the Redoubt, where Faegan had immediately secured it in a wizard’s warp, Tristan had glumly told them of the many things he had learned in the Caves. The one thing he did not speak of was his shame—the realization that he should have allowed Wigg to burn Nicholas’ dead body back in Parthalon. Tristan had wanted his unborn son to have a real burial, and he had seen to it that it had been done before Wigg had the chance to intervene. Now, because of his selfishness, he felt responsible for unknowingly leading them all to this most grievous of calamities. As if reading Tristan’s mind, the lead wizard spoke.

  “It’s not your fault, Tristan,” Wigg said gently from the other side of the table. “There was no way you could have known. You only did what you thought was right, and it took great courage. Even I had no inkling of what was to follow.”

  Tristan looked down at the parchment with Nicholas’ azure blood signature. He had pulled it from his boot and laid it on the table for all to see.

  Faegan cleared his throat. “We must be sure, Tristan,” the master wizard said compassionately. “We must check the signature to know whether what this person told you is the truth.”

  Tristan nodded. But in his heart of hearts he already knew the answer.

  “Prince Tristan of the House of Galland,” Faegan called out to the enchanted room. “Son of Nicholas and Morganna, onetime king and queen of Eutracia.” One of the mahogany drawers began to slide open, and a sheet of parchment rose into the air and floated across the room to come to rest in front of the prince. Tristan looked down at his blood signature. It was azure this time. This was the one that had been produced most recently, showing the many Forestallments and their respective branches.

  “Succiu, second mistress of the Coven,” Faegan said simply. Another of the drawers opened, and the parchment holding Succiu’s blood signature floated to the table.

  Using the craft, Faegan coaxed the sheet holding Tristan’s signature to separate widthwise, dividing the top from the bottom. Then the lower half of Tristan’s signature glided to Succiu’s signature, covering its original lower half, creating a new one. Finally Faegan caused the blood signature of the one calling himself Nicholas to move next to it. Everyone in the room held his or her breath.

  They were identical, except that Nicholas’ signature held even more Forestallments than did Tristan’s.

  Letting out a sigh, Faegan sat back in his chair. “It’s true,” he whispered to the table at large. “He is without doubt Nicholas, Tristan’s son.” As if not knowing what else to say, he looked down, unconsciously drawing his robe closer about his legs. Finally he turned his deep, gray-green eyes toward the prince.

  “The first child of the male of the Chosen Ones now walks the earth, and he does so with the blessings of the Heretics,” the wizard continued. “His blood, although slightly diluted by that of his mother, is the closest in the world to his father’s perfect, azure blood. And to make matters even worse his blood will soon have gathered all of the power of the Paragon. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!” Tristan had never seen the master wiza
rd so beside himself with frustration and sadness.

  “The centuries-old balance and power of the craft is about to shift,” Faegan added. “Completely and irrevocably. Such a being, who commands both azure blood and the complete power of the craft held only within himself, will be the likes of which the world has never before seen. There can simply be no stopping him now.”

  Faegan slumped forward. For the first time since Tristan had known him, he seemed completely defeated. No one spoke for what seemed a very long time.

  “But how could such a thing have happened?” Tristan asked at last. “Nicholas died! I left him in the grave in Parthalon! How could he have anything to do with the Heretics?”

  Faegan closed his eyes, preparing his mind. He then relaxed a bit, letting the appropriate quote from the Tome come to him.

  “ ‘And it shall come to pass that the Heretics, in their mastery of the Vagaries, shall attain power over those of the lower world possessing azure blood,’ ” Faegan said. “ ‘But first the mortal, azure blood of the lower world must die. It is also ordained that the Ones shall have powers in the world of the living, should what they left behind be discovered.’ ” Faegan opened his eyes.

  “Another quote from the Tome?” Wigg asked.

  “Indeed,” Faegan answered, already lost in thought. “From it we can make two relevant, although incomplete assumptions. First, it would seem that the Heretics have mastered the Vagaries to the point they can take action upon those in our world who possess azure blood—provided the blood is dead, as theirs is. This of course meant that the one possessing azure blood must first have expired, as did Nicholas. I believe they were somehow able to take his body to the heavens. They then prepared him, returning him to do their bidding.”

  The room went silent again as everyone tried to comprehend the immense ramifications of their problems.

  “You mentioned two assumptions,” Wigg finally said. “What is the other?”