CHAPTER
Forty-five
Tristan stood in the middle of a snowy field some distance north of the royal palace, watching the many individual fires as they roared high into the evening sky. From their hot orange-and-red flames came a sickening odor that brought forth his memories of the destruction of Tammerland. It was the distinctive, unmistakable foulness of burning flesh.
The funeral pyres rose high into the sky, their many levels littered with the mangled and torn corpses of Minion warriors. Tristan had given permission for the pyres to be used, and as their lord he knew he needed to be present at the burnings, to pay his respects to the dead.
There had been many such nights already, and he knew there would be more. For although Faegan had been able to widen the portal, it had not functioned entirely as planned.
It had taken the ancient wizard many hours of study in the Archives to come up with a workable calculation for the enlargement of the vortex, but doing so had drained his mind terribly. Added to this was the fact that his powers were by now very much in decline.
Despite Joshua’s death two weeks earlier, the Paragon was still being drained, albeit at a constant rate. The stone was now almost colorless, and Tristan could easily see that what they had so feared was surely near—a world without magic. Or rather, he reminded himself, a world in which all of the magic had been taken into only one person, intent upon using it to commit an unspeakable act.
Tristan had never seen the usually impish and powerful Faegan so drawn and exhausted, and the prince worried for him. But still the ancient one sat defiantly in his chair each day in the cold, snowy field, holding the portal open for as long as his powers would allow.
The portal had let thousands of Minion warriors through, but with Faegan’s successes had also come problems.
Just as his powers now waxed and waned, so did the effectiveness of the vortex. This meant that many of the Minions trying to come through from the other side died horribly in the attempt.
Each time the vortex collapsed, some dead bodies, or what was left of them, made it through, while others did not, forever lost in the netherworld of the craft.
Blood lay everywhere upon the snowy field. The screaming and wailing that could be heard coming from inside the whirling maelstrom was terrifying—despite the fact that these warriors were Minions, and the bravest fighters Tristan had ever seen. Sadly, the prince estimated they were losing about one of every six. Their already bad odds against Nicholas’ hatchlings were growing worse by the moment.
What’s more, Tristan was worried about the wizards. It wasn’t just the continual loss of their powers that bothered him. They had become unusually secretive and quiet. Whenever Faegan was not operating his portal, he and Wigg shut themselves off behind closed doors. Even Shailiha seemed to be more withdrawn.
Tristan gazed along either side of the banks lining the Sippora River. From his position on higher ground, he could easily see the thousands of red Minion war tents that had sprung up. Torches twinkled gracefully within the gigantic encampment, the campfires before most of the temporary dwellings causing the surrounding, melting snow to gently give up the colors of the rainbow. In the firelight Tristan could make out hundreds of pairs of wings as the warriors landed and took off, the patrols ordered by Traax continually checking for any signs to the north that the enemy was on the move. The entire scene somehow seemed peaceful and idyllic, convincingly belying the true reasons for its existence.
The warriors were eager for the battle to be joined, and yet they waited, as more of the winged fighters poured through the vortex every day. At Traax’s suggestion the prince had billeted the officers in the empty palace. It had at first unnerved Tristan to see them walking briskly through the halls, setting up their quarters in the various rooms as if they owned them. These were some of the same warriors who had killed both his family and the Directorate of Wizards. And now, impossibly, they were here once more, this time occupying the palace to protect it, rather than destroy it.
Traax, Wigg, Faegan, and Ox waited with Tristan, watching the corpses burn. Traax had come to Eutracia, luckily without harm, on the fifth day, just as Tristan had ordered him. The Minion turned to his lord.
“Why do these hatchlings and scarabs not attack us now?” he asked Tristan. “Their hesitation makes no sense. Every day we grow stronger. Surely they must know that. Even more effective would have been a powerful, continuous attack upon us just as we started to exit the portal, only ten Minions at a time. Given enough opposing forces, even we could have been picked off in this way. So why do they wait?”
“There are several answers to your question,” Wigg replied, raising the usual eyebrow. “First and foremost, the Gates of Dawn are clearly Nicholas’ first priority, and he wishes them to remain protected by his servants until just before he activates them. Then, and only then, will he send his creatures against us. Second, he knows we shall be heavily outnumbered, and feels victory is already in his grasp. Sadly, in this he is probably also right.”
Wigg paused for a moment, uncomfortable with telling the Minion second in command so much. But Tristan had told Traax everything the previous night. Considering the fact they would probably die in battle together, the prince had decided there should be no secrets between them.
“And lastly,” he continued, “is the fact that as each day goes by Tristan becomes more ill. In Nicholas’ twisted world, that means the longer he waits, the better the odds are of Tristan joining him in this madness. In his own way, he is still protecting the Chosen One. But that will end when the Gates are finished and he finally realizes that his father has refused him. Then he will launch his attack, for at that point he will have little to lose.”
“There will probably be only one battle,” Faegan interjected, the look on his face both exhausted and grave. “Given the way we are outnumbered, they will do their best to finish us off in a single, powerful stroke, and be done with it.” He turned to Tristan and Traax to see that each of their faces had become hard in the flickering light of the pyres.
“You must do your best to keep them at bay,” he continued. “Even though, in the end, it probably won’t matter. But you must give us all the time you can. Even with Joshua’s death the Paragon continues to decay, and our powers will soon be gone. You must remember that this means the time enchantments protecting Wigg, myself, and Celeste will most certainly vanish, and we will quite literally fall into piles of dust, to be blown away on the winds of the Season of Crystal. If and when that happens, your fighting force will become the only remaining chance of stopping the Guild of the Heretics from returning to the world of the living and employing the Vagaries to rule forever.”
Tristan looked down to his right hip, to the new, bizarre-looking weapon he now carried there—the device with which Joshua had killed himself. Curious of all things martial, Tristan had carefully removed it from the dead consul’s ear, examined it closely, and then wiped it clean, asking the wizards if he might keep it. They had quietly agreed.
The weapon was appropriately called a brain hook, and although the prince had never heard of one before, it apparently had quite a long history with the wizards, having been standard issue for them during the Sorceresses’ War, when the Coven was becoming increasingly fond of taking wizards captive to turn them into blood stalkers. This small and easily hidden weapon could be deadly at close quarters, but it had originally been intended as an instrument of swift suicide.
Tristan had decided long ago that he would not suffer through the entirety of his fourth, final convulsion. He had no way of conjuring a trance to numb the pain and slow the onset of shock as Faegan had explained Joshua had done—as indicated by the rolling back of the consul’s eyes into their sockets—but when the time came, he was determined to use the brain hook as best he could, ending his life cleanly. He looked down at the simple weapon tucked beneath his belt. May the Afterlife give me the strength to do it right, he thought. He took his eyes away from the brain hook and
again regarded the flames of the funeral pyres.
Traax took a step forward, anger and frustration clearly showing upon his face. “For a Minion warrior to die in battle is expected, even welcomed,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes locked upon the pyres. “It is the very reason for which we are born. But to die like this, defenseless . . . Such a thing simply should not be.”
Many such things should not exist right now, my friend, Tristan thought.
But they do.
CHAPTER
Thirty-nine
Faegan sat comfortably in his chair on wheels, his violin beneath his chin, in the spacious but stark chamber he had specially selected. He had chosen this particular room because there was only one massive, very secure marble door, and no chimney. The music he was creating was both thoughtful and soft, exactly befitting the master wizard’s current mood. His eyes were closed, and he let his hands perform their art without the use of the craft, preferring this day to produce the enchanting melody from his heart, rather than from his gifts. He had been playing for hours, as was his custom when there was an unusually difficult decision to make. And the problem he now wrestled with was one of the most trying of his very long life in the service of the craft.
Finally placing the violin in his lap, he turned his attention for the hundredth time to the glowing bars, within which resided the captured hatchling. Now conscious, the dangerous-looking bird had so far said nothing, simply glaring with hatred at him. Initially it had attempted to free itself by smashing its body against the bars of Faegan’s wizard’s cage, of course to no avail. This much, the wizard knew, was to be expected.
Even after his painstaking examination of the bird while it had remained unconscious, he still had serious doubts as to his plan. So had Wigg. After hearing of Faegan’s idea, he had instantly blustered and argued, finally saying he could not give his blessing to such a thing. He had instead gone off to meditate, trying to envision how he could somehow come to a compromise with Faegan. But in his heart Wigg knew it would probably have to be all or nothing. Half measures certainly would not work, and might prove to be even more dangerous.
Faegan could easily understand Wigg’s concern, for such a thing had never been attempted. Their knowledge of this particular branch of the craft was still very much in its infancy. But these were extraordinary times, he had told Wigg, and they needed to make use of any advantage they could think of. Even one this tenuous. And they needed to do it quickly.
Faegan again put the violin beneath his chin and started to play, going over in his mind the few facts that he had become relatively sure of regarding the bird. The hatchling had not spoken, but the wizard believed it was able to. When Faegan had first produced the instrument and begun playing it, the bird’s red eyes had widened, and it shuffled back and forth as if in surprise. It had started to form a word but had then closed its beak. It was no doubt under orders to remain silent if captured, Faegan realized.
He was quite sure that the hatchlings were a product of the Vagaries, since they were not only used for destruction but also seemed to relish their work. He knew that the spell needed to conjure such beasts was very intricate indeed, and had most assuredly been given to Nicholas by the Heretics via Forestallment. This last point, he reasoned, was the worst of the problems.
As he played, the unfazed hatchling continued to stare hatefully at him from between the glowing bars of its cage.
Faegan heard the massive door open and knew without turning that it must be Wigg. He put aside his violin to lead his old friend to a chair.
After a very long sigh of resignation, Wigg spoke. “Are you sure there is no other way to accomplish your idea?” he asked. “This is so risky I don’t even know how to begin to broach my many concerns! Such a thing has never been tried before, and we still know so little about Forestallments! And it is her very life we are talking about, not just her mind. Are you sure there is no other way?”
“We have been over and over this,” Faegan answered gently. “If you have a better plan, I am ready to listen. But as we sit and do nothing, every moment that passes Nicholas grows stronger, and we weaker. I checked the Paragon again today, and more than half of its color is now gone. I’m sure that you, like me, have sensed the acute reduction in your powers. Not a very pleasant experience, is it? It is time, Wigg. Like it or not I feel we have to proceed, before we both become powerless. And as the stone weakens, so does my warp that holds the hatchling at bay, and it’s far too valuable to kill.” He smiled coyly, though he knew Wigg couldn’t see the expression. “Do you really want it running loose through the palace, Lead Wizard?”
Scowling, Wigg ignored Faegan’s sarcasm. “But do you really believe the strength of her blood will prevail?” he asked. Uncharacteristically, he wrung his hands. “I know the theory proves itself on paper, but there is still so much about Nicholas and his spells that we do not know, not to mention the Heretics . . .”
“I too have grave doubts,” Faegan said. “It is true that again exposing her mind to the Vagaries, especially after her vicious treatment by the Coven, may be the end of her. But I believe her Forestallment, coupled with the nearly unparalleled quality of her blood, will overcome. Provided she agrees I feel we must push forward. Did she accompany you here?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “She waits in the hall. Given the nature of the situation, I requested that she leave the baby with Martha. I have explained nothing of this to her. But if we are to do this, there is something I must insist upon. She must know everything involved—especially the reasons for this and the accompanying risks. Only then can I consent. May the Afterlife grant us success.”
“The Afterlife is precisely the problem, is it not, old friend?” Faegan asked, unknowingly echoing Wigg’s thoughts of the previous day. “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I love her too.”
Wigg nodded resignedly, tacitly giving his consent.
Faegan rolled himself to the door and opened it, then ushered Shailiha in.
This was her first time to see the hatchling, and on noticing it she took a step back, looking nervously from one wizard to the other.
“It cannot harm you,” Faegan said gently, motioning her to a chair.
“Is this the creature that Tristan brought to the Redoubt?” she asked, coiling up a little as she sat in a nearby chair.
“Yes,” Wigg said.
Shailiha stared at it a moment longer, then turned to the wizards. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What is it that you desire of me?”
In careful, measured tones, Faegan and Wigg began to explain their plan to her. At first she did not respond. But as they finally described the most important part of it, she shrank back farther into the chair. They told her that what she was about to do must be of her own free will, but that it was not just for the sake of her brother that she would be making the attempt, but also for the survival of her entire nation. And then they told her why it must be done. Upon hearing this, her eyes went wide. They went on to say what she must do should the process be successful.
“There is another fact you need to know,” Wigg said softly. “It is entirely possible that you could die in this attempt. We believe the spell used to conjure the hatchling will be very powerful indeed, having come directly from the Heretics themselves. Given your relative weakness from the Chimeran Agonies, we cannot be sure your blood will be able to stand the strain. But we feel its virtually unsurpassed quality will win out.”
Shailiha nodded her understanding.
“And one last thing,” Faegan added. “Perhaps the most difficult of all, in fact, given how much you love the prince. Should you be successful, no one outside of this room is to know what happened here. No one. No matter the circumstances. Especially Tristan. And for the good of us all, we will eventually be forced to tell him a lie. A lie that he must believe totally, and without hesitation. It will become imperative that you join with us in this. Do you understand?”
“I u
nderstand,” she said quietly, staring at the awful thing in the cage.
“Come to me, Princess,” Wigg said.
Shailiha walked to him. He felt for her hands and took them in his own. “What say you?” he asked. “Will you do this thing?”
She turned to look at the beast in the cage. The hatchling stared hatefully back at her with its grotesque, red eyes.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I owe you, Faegan, and Tristan my very existence. And I love you all more than my life. I also know that you mean only well in all of this. Therefore, I will try.”
“Very well,” Wigg replied, his voice cracking with emotion. He turned toward the other wizard. “Faegan, if you please,” he said.
“Of course.” Narrowing his eyes, Faegan encapsulated the bird’s body in an additional manifestation of the craft. At first the beast tried to struggle, but in the end it settled down, unable to move in any way.
Shailiha walked slowly toward the glowing cage. Stopping before it, she looked back to Faegan for a sign of support. Smiling slightly, he nodded to her.
Shailiha took a deep breath and tentatively slid one of her hands into the cage.
The hatchling was held immobile by Faegan’s warp, but as Shailiha’s trembling hand continued its dangerous journey toward the great bird, the hatchling’s eyes began to glow an even deeper, fiercer red.
Carefully, very carefully, the princess wrapped her fingers around the leathery, pointed top of the bird’s head. Almost immediately a change overtook her.
She began to perspire, and her entire body started to shake. She lowered her head like an animal, moving it back and forth as if in some kind of trance. When she finally lifted her face again, her eyes had rolled up high beneath her lids. Her teeth were bared in a kind of silent, almost vicious snarl, and her breathing was heavily labored, her chest heaving mightily. Faegan feared she might die. He watched in helpless frustration, desperately wondering whether they had done the right thing.
The Gates of Dawn Page 47