“That the Ones also have potential powers over our world,” Faegan replied. “Provided whatever it is they left behind is eventually discovered. And we have absolutely no idea what that might be, or where to go looking for it.”
“What about Nicholas’ hatchlings and scarabs?” Shailiha asked. “Have you determined where they came from?”
“The horrific creatures of the Vagaries always owe their existence to four aspects of the craft,” Wigg answered. “The first and by far most difficult of these methods is called ‘conjuring,’ or invoking their entire presence. Those are beings created from scratch, if you will, via extremely convoluted calculations of the craft. The second method is to mutate an already normal, existing being into another, such as when the Coven mutated wizards into blood stalkers. The third way is to combine a human with an animal, giving it inordinate powers. This is illustrated by the screaming harpy—a giant bird with the head and face of a woman. And the fourth way is to combine any of the aforementioned practices, in as many ways as one chooses. The combinations are virtually limitless. But to answer your questions, Princess, Faegan and I believe the hatchlings and the scarabs to be purely products of Nicholas’ conjuring. The spells and calculations required for their development were most likely placed into his blood by the Heretics, via Forestallment.”
“But surely there is something we can do on our own to stop Nicholas,” Shailiha said adamantly. She had become quite tired of hearing all that they couldn’t do, and she desperately wanted to take some kind of action. “I thought you and Wigg postulated that if the stone still had at least some color, we might have a chance. And I can tell the Paragon is not yet completely drained, because both of you still possess at least some of your powers.”
“That’s true,” Tristan insisted. “There must be something we can still do!”
“Neither of you completely understand,” Wigg said seriously. “What we told you was before we knew the true identity of Nicholas. His being born of Tristan’s blood changes everything—for the worse. Had Nicholas proven to be someone else, anyone else, we might have had a chance. But not now. You see, only one power is strong enough to defeat his blood: the male or female blood of the Chosen Ones. Only your blood is superior. But to defeat him, your blood would first have to be trained. And we cannot accomplish that in time.”
“Why not?” Tristan asked rather angrily.
Wigg sighed. “First is the fact that in order to train either of you, it is ordained that Tristan must first read the Prophecies. Only after he has done so may Shailiha then read them. Tristan cannot do that without the Paragon around his neck. And if we do that, the poison in his blood could kill him. Second, even if we were somehow able to surmount the first obstacle, it would literally take decades, perhaps even a lifetime, to bring Tristan to Nicholas’ level of understanding. Sending Tristan to confront his son without the proper training would be like sending a lamb to slaughter.” Wigg sat back in his chair, running an ancient hand down the length of his face. “So there it is,” he said wearily. “Faegan and I don’t like it any better than you, but facts are facts. It is only now that we fully come to understand the true ramifications of the Heretics’ vision for the future. Their plan is brilliant.”
Tristan was beside himself with frustration. He had never seen the wizards so downhearted, even during the worst of those times when they had faced the Coven. But then again, he reminded himself, they knew far more about the craft than he apparently ever would. But there is still something I am capable of doing that no one else at this table can, he thought.
He looked into Faegan’s eyes. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” he asked bluntly. His question did not come from concern for himself as much as the fact that he needed an answer to be able to finalize his plan.
“Yes,” the ancient wizard replied softly, looking down at his legs. “In truth, unless your son can be stopped, we all are. But you will most probably be the first, due to your condition. What Nicholas told you is true: The brain fluid of a stalker is required to make the antidote. And acquiring any seems quite impossible.”
“Then it is imperative that I go to Parthalon and order the Minions to come back to Eutracia,” Tristan said flatly. “They are our only hope of buying time. Their numbers may be able to slow down the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs. Perhaps even tie up some of Nicholas’ attention, as well, thereby slowing down the construction of the Gates. It is the least we can now do. And as their lord, I am the only one who can lead them to war. You said so yourself. I must go immediately.” He paused for a moment, weighing his next words. “Because it must be done before I die,” he added softly.
Shailiha turned around in her chair, facing the wall so that the others could not see her tears. Celeste placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. The princess of Eutracia gripped it without turning back around.
“I’m sorry, Shai,” Tristan said to his sister. “But we must face facts, and time is of the essence.” He looked at Faegan. “For how long each day can you hold your portal open?” he asked seriously.
Faegan narrowed his eyes, rubbing his chin. “I have never been able to do so for more than one hour per day,” he answered glumly. “But I could try to attempt it every twelve hours, after I have rested. That would make two hours per day. Order the warriors to assemble near the portal’s entrance, ready to run through it as fast as they can when they see it appear. That will also speed up the process. But there will eventually come another problem,” he added, frowning.
“And what is that?” Wigg asked.
“You all must keep in mind the Paragon is constantly diminishing in power,” Faegan answered. “My abilities to form and sustain the portal will therefore be affected proportionately. If any of the warriors are in the process of coming through while my powers are weakening, forcing me to end the spell before the hour is up, those caught in between will die horribly. Even by Minion standards. And there will be nothing I will be able to do to save them. Tristan, you must tell them that if they see the color or intensity of the portal begin to waver, they are immediately to stop going through until they see its strength return, no matter how long that takes. Even as it is, I am sure we will see many of them die. It will not be a pretty thing to watch.”
“There will truly be nothing you can do?” Celeste asked. She placed her other hand on top of her father’s.
“No,” Faegan said flatly, the frustration clearly showing on his face. “Nothing at all.”
I have never ordered men to die before, Tristan thought with a heavy heart. Apparently that is about to change. He cast his dark blue eyes at Wigg and Faegan in turn. “And what will the two of you be doing while I am gone?”
“What we have been doing all along,” Wigg answered. “The only things that make sense. Namely, trying to discover the answers to our defeat of Nicholas, and to unravel the cures for both you and myself. But there is something else you, Shailiha, and Celeste must know. In all fairness, it needs to be said.”
Tristan looked calmly into Wigg’s unseeing eyes, knowing that whatever he was about to hear would not be good. Shailiha turned back to face the table, her eyes wet and red.
“Nicholas told you that Faegan and I were keeping information from you, did he not?” Wigg asked.
“Yes,” Tristan answered. “What did he mean?”
“The information we have kept from you is that we truly fear this shall be the end of us,” Wigg said, rubbing his brow as if to ease an aching head. “We have no real answers to these many dilemmas. In fact, we are really no more ahead of where we started. The powers arrayed against us are just far too strong. But before you travel to Parthalon, we need you to know what is in our hearts, and not suffer from delusions or unjustified hopes as to our relatively meager abilities to solve this crisis.” He sat back in his chair. It was plain to see that the old man’s heart was breaking.
Tristan felt even more of his energy slip away. Looking at Shailiha and Celeste, he could see that they too had been equally affected
. In truth, he had hoped that the two ancient, wily wizards had something—any glimmer of optimism whatsoever—that they had not shared with him. He had never before known them not to have at least one playing card up the sleeves of their robes. But he could tell by the look on Wigg’s face that the wizard was telling the truth. And the continuing decay of the stone would only make things worse. He tried to smile.
“We all know you two are trying your best,” Tristan said gently. “You and I have been through a great deal together, old one. But what you have just told me only reinforced the fact that I must leave immediately, does it not?” he asked. Wigg nodded, his white eyes shiny.
“You will take Ox with you?” the wizard asked.
Tristan thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Good,” Wigg answered. “You will need someone, in case you . . .”
The wizard never finished the sentence, immediately regretting having started it.
Tristan resolutely stood from the table. There was a little more to be said, and he and Ox needed to be going. “Faegan,” he said, “if you would be so good as to meet me and Ox in one half hour?” Faegan nodded. Celeste and Shailiha also stood.
The two wizards ruminated sadly, as the younger people walked from the room.
Wigg and Faegan continued to sit in silence for a time after the three others had departed, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Faegan spoke.
“I am glad you informed them of our true lack of success,” he said softly. He paused for a moment, as tears welled in his gray eyes. “There is something else I feel I need to say,” he went on at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. In a rare gesture, he reached out and took Wigg’s hand. After a moment of surprise, Wigg returned his grip.
“What is it?” Wigg asked.
“I’m sorry,” Faegan said. Wigg could barely hear him. A tear finally freed itself from one of the crippled wizard’s lower eyelids and began its journey down his cheek. “Despite how much I tease you, I love you like a brother. Had I been here, where I belonged, all those long years, we might not be in such dire straits today. There is so much I regret. Please forgive me.”
Wigg sighed. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” he answered. “You did what you thought was right—just as we of the Directorate did. But you are here with us now, and that is what truly matters.” One corner of his mouth came up. “And in case you haven’t noticed, the Directorate didn’t do such a wonderful job of controlling things, either.”
Silence reigned.
“I told Tristan and Shailiha the things I did because I did not want them to have any hopes that were unjustified,” Wigg finally said. “That would be cruel, since Tristan and Shailiha have always relied on me for so much. Especially since the death of their parents. And now I find I have a beautiful daughter who is endowed with the gift. She is all any father could ever ask for. Yet it appears I have found her only to lose her again. Just as you did, my friend.” An uncomfortable silence descended between them.
“The Chosen One will most probably die in his war with Nicholas’ creatures,” Faegan said after a time. “You know that, do you not?”
“Yes,” Wigg said sadly. “But I agree with him that it has to be done. Going to war is one of our few options left. And he is the only one the Minions will obey. But I doubt he can win. There simply will not be enough time to bring sufficient numbers of Minion troops across the sea. By the time the battle is joined, I estimate Nicholas’ hatchlings will still enjoy a great superiority of numbers. And even if we did somehow win the war, there would still remain the larger, far more dangerous problem.” He paused for a moment. “Fighting the war may do little, if anything, to keep Nicholas from activating the Gates of Dawn.”
“I also reluctantly agree that Tristan must do this,” Faegan answered. “But we still must make the necessary contingency plans in the event of his death.”
Faegan closed his eyes, again calling on his powers of Consummate Recollection. “ ‘And should the male of the Chosen Ones perish, those of the craft who remain shall leave no stone unturned in their care, protection, and training of the female. For it shall then be her blood, and hers alone, that shall persevere in the survival of the compassionate side of the craft,’ ” he quoted. He opened his eyes.
“I am aware of the passage,” Wigg said quietly.
“If Tristan dies, whatever the cause, we must immediately take Shailiha away from this place,” Faegan said sternly. “For it shall then be only her blood that can effectively continue the struggle for the preservation of the Vigors. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Wigg said reluctantly. “I do.”
“Very well. And now, if you will excuse me, Wigg, I have two people to send to Parthalon.”
“Before you do, Faegan, would you be so kind as to hand me the parchment containing Nicholas’ signature?” Wigg asked as he heard the wheels on Faegan’s chair begin to roll.
“Certainly, old friend.” Faegan retrieved the parchment and placed it in front of Wigg. “Good luck in your studies.” With that, he wheeled himself from the room, the massive door closing behind him.
Sitting there in the quiet of the Hall of Blood Records, alone with his thoughts, a tear came to Wigg’s eye. How in the name of the Afterlife did everything come to this? he asked himself. But then again, the Afterlife is exactly the problem, isn’t it?
Wigg reached out to the sheet of parchment in front of him and invoked the craft to sensitize his fingers even further to the design upon it. He wished to commit its shape to memory, just as he had done with so many others of this place over the centuries. Slowly, his endowed fingers traced over the complicated design of the blood signature. And then, suddenly, he stopped.
Again he felt it, thinking it had been not quite real.
Wigg sat back in his chair, his heart and mind racing. He would wait for Faegan, and they would talk until dawn.
PART IV
The Warriors
CHAPTER
Thirty-eight
The male of the Chosen Ones shall therefore be forced to return to the foreign land of his travails. And upon this journey he shall order the onetime destroyers of his nation to return with him, and to join in his struggle.
—PAGE 1016, CHAPTER I OF THE VIGORS OF THE TOME
When Tristan came to his senses, he was lying on his back on the cold, frozen ground. A beautiful blue sky lay above him, cumulus clouds patterned throughout. Birds sang loudly, announcing the advent of morning. His mind was cloudy, but he knew the sleepiness and dizziness would soon depart. He sat up, his head slightly spinning, and turned to look at Ox.
The huge Minion had not fared so well. His slumber was so deep and his breathing so shallow that anyone passing by might have thought him dead. Then, without moving, the warrior began to snore. Loudly. Tristan smiled, thinking of the day before, when he and Ox had captured the hatchling and dragged it back to the Redoubt. What he lacks in wit he more than makes up for in courage, he thought. One could have worse friends.
Tristan pulled closer the gray jacket of Eutracian fox that Shailiha had insisted he wear to ward off the cold. He decided to let the Minion sleep for a few more moments.
He looked around, reacquainting himself with the area. Light, fluffy snow blanketed the ground. Faegan’s portal had deposited them in the immediate area of the shattered Recluse, and he could see the foundation of the partially reconstructed building rising nearby, on a mound of land surrounded by water.
He felt a sudden jab of pain in his right shoulder and reached under the fur with his opposite hand to rub it. Just as Nicholas had predicted, he was beginning to have pain and weakness in his arm: the arm he relied on the most. He knew without looking that the dark, ominous-looking spider veins had extended farther down the length of it. They knew exactly what they were doing that day in the Caves, he thought, his hand instinctively tightening the grip upon the joint.
He stood slowly, anxious to be on his way, then walked to the snoring war
rior and gave the bottom of the Minion’s right boot a gentle kick. “Ox,” he said strongly. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”
Ox slowly stirred, finally sitting up. “Portal make Ox sleepy,” he said thickly. He stood and stretched his arms and then his dark, leathery wings to either side. “We go Recluse now, Chosen One?” he asked.
“Yes,” Tristan said, tugging first at the hilt of his sword and then the handles of a few of his throwing knives, making sure the cold weather would not cause them to stick. “But first I wish to go to another place. It is important to me.”
“I live to serve,” Ox said. Together they walked around to the left of the island that held the smashed Recluse.
After about half an hour of walking, Tristan finally saw what he had been searching for. As his eyes fell upon it, his expression darkened. The little mound of earth and its wooden marker seemed to have remained undisturbed. With every step he took, the sight of it stirred within him stronger and stronger emotions. Love mixed with hate, knowledge permeated by confusion, anger swirling with compassion—they all welled up inside of him, swelling almost to the bursting point.
But he had to know, and there was only one way to be sure.
He stood before his son’s grave with the Minion, his knees shaking slightly, and read the wooden marker that he had so lovingly carved that fateful day:
NICHOLAS II OF THE HOUSE OF GALLAND
You will not be forgotten
Ox’s eyes widened as Tristan shoved away the stones piled atop the grave, then ripped the marker from the ground, and used one end of it to shovel away the dirt. After many moments the prince stood up, his chest heaving, to see the awful truth. The grave was empty.
He went to his knees before it, the horrific realization tearing through his mind. The monster you sired lives, and is about to destroy everything you hold dear.
Suddenly all the mixed emotions melted away, leaving a single, unrelenting sentiment coursing through his endowed veins. Hate. Gripping the marker, he threw it as far as he could into the neighboring woods, as if by doing so he could also cast off not only the terrible memories of this place but also the monstrous nightmare plaguing his nation.
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