Wigg looked as if he had seen a ghost. Darkness passed across his face like a thunderstorm across the sky, and tears welled up in each of his useless eyes. But Faegan seemed less daunted by what he had just heard. Quickly wheeling his chair closer, he faced the consul directly.
“You said ‘the Confluence.’ What do you mean by that?” he demanded urgently.
“It makes no difference whether you are told, for you cannot possibly stop it now, anyway,” Joshua gloated. “The Confluence is the combination of four separate, but equally necessary elements. First comes the azure blood of the Chosen One, which my master already possesses. Second: a sufficient quantity of the blood of endowed children—blood that is gifted, but still malleable. He now has that, too. Third, waters from the Caves of the Paragon. And finally the power of the Paragon, transferred into the willing, azure blood of just one individual—an individual who is completely devoted to the teachings of the Heretics. The individual the Chosen One himself so conveniently took from the womb of the sorceress Succiu and left behind in Parthalon. As I said, it is the Confluence. Through the unique combination of these elements, the Guild of the Heretics will be allowed to return to the earth, to rule once more.”
Suddenly he smiled again. It was a more knowing and somehow more decisive smile—as if his mind was suddenly made up about something.
“But I digress,” he said, almost casually. “I shall not address your first questions—those of the death enchantments and the power of the stone. Those, I’m afraid, you must decipher for yourself. But there is still one thing of the highest importance that I have yet to mention. It would be quite impolite of me not to do so.”
“And that is?” Faegan asked, leaning forward.
“That death itself is not the end, nor is it even the problem,” Joshua answered cryptically. “That it is, truly, only the beginning. Something the master, in his infinite wisdom, will soon demonstrate to you.”
With that, the consul smiled calmly. Then his eyes began to roll up into his head. Reaching into his robes, he produced a long stiletto with a strange-looking, very tiny hook just visible at the end of the blade. Faegan’s eyes widened in realization and he raised his right arm, but even for the master wizard there was not enough time.
Joshua inserted the strange blade deep into his right ear. As blood gushed out, he slammed it in even farther, then gave the blade a sudden, forceful pull. Tristan heard a moist, muffled crack.
The consul was dead before his face hit the bars of his cage.
After everyone’s shock subsided and they verified that Joshua was truly dead, Tristan dragged the body outside the room to be disposed of later, then came back to the somber gathering.
“Why would the consuls revolt?” he asked. “I thought they were bound, heart and soul, to the Brotherhood and the exclusive practice of the Vigors. And how is it that they have somehow been able to circumvent the death enchantments?”
Wigg had been deeply affected by the news of the consul’s betrayal, and tears ran blatantly down his cheeks. Celeste placed an affectionate hand over his, and the lead wizard closed his ancient fingers around it. He seemed unable to speak.
Faegan, however, having had no such long-term relationship with the Brotherhood, remained more pragmatic. “For the same reasons Joshua mentioned, although I believe I can name a few more,” he said quietly. “First, the nation was destroyed by the Minions. The royal family, with the exception of the Chosen Ones, is dead. As is the entire Directorate, save for Wigg. So to whom do the consuls now owe their allegiance, eh? From their perspective, it is apparently up for grabs. For the first time in over three centuries, there is clearly a power vacuum in Eutracia. Second, Nicholas supposedly offers them far greater power than the Directorate would have ever dreamed of doing. This would be a very tempting proposition, especially in light of the fact that there is now no Directorate to punish them for their actions. They may even consider Wigg to be a traitor to the nation, just as the populace at large considers you, Tristan, to be the willing murderer of your father, the king. And then there is the most compelling reason of all.” Faegan sat back in his chair, his face grave.
“And that is?” Celeste asked, her sapphire eyes alive with curiosity.
“The promise of the time enchantments, granting them eternal protection from both disease and old age, and the concurrent circumvention of the death enchantments, finally freeing them to do literally anything they choose,” Faegan said glumly. “A very tempting package for those already partially trained, and still possessing an overriding curiosity about the craft. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Again the wizard paused, measuring his words. “We must therefore assume, at least for the time being, that the Brotherhood of Consuls is now in revolt.” Like the peals of a death knell, his words hung heavy and deep over the table.
“But Joshua has been exposed, and is dead,” Tristan countered, trying to find a gleam of hope. “Surely that is a good thing.”
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But we are not much better off than before. All we have gained is the fact that the Paragon will not decay so rapidly.”
Shailiha leaned forward, placing her arms on the table. “Joshua talked about the ‘Confluence.’ What is that?”
“The Confluence is mentioned in the Preface to the Tome,” Faegan explained, “and refers to the spell allowing the ‘rebirth,’ if you will, of those who have departed to the Afterlife. It is the concurrent gathering of usually disparate powers that will allow Nicholas to perform his version of the craft, thereby empowering the Gates and the blood of the Heretics locked within them.”
“And what happens then?” Tristan asked.
“It is written in the Tome that the Gates shall literally split open the heavens, releasing the Guild of the Heretics from their bondage in the firmament. The spirits of the Heretics shall then appear, descending from the heavens to come flying through the Gates, passing by their reactivated blood. They will then bond with it, taking on their original, human forms.”
“But if the Heretics can be released, then why are the Ones not released, as well?” Tristan asked.
“Because their blood is not in the marble of the Gates,” Wigg answered. “And is therefore not a part of the Confluence.”
Tristan looked around the table at the dark, defeated faces. Sighing sadly, he turned again to Faegan. “Tell me,” he asked, “why are they called ‘The Gates of Dawn’?”
“The Preface of the Tome states that the activation of the Gates is to take place precisely at dawn,” Faegan answered. “That is the only answer that we have.”
And with that, the room went silent.
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.
PART V
The Vanquished
CHAPTER
Forty-six
And the male seed of the Chosen One, upon empowering the Gates of Dawn, shall release a terrible burden upon the world. And those of the blue robes, once thought to be loyal, shall turn against their masters, and attempt to employ the craft for their own service. For it is also written that the powers of the craft, once tasted by the endowed but then forbidden to be savored to their utmost, shall themselves go on to cause the greatest of unsatisfied hungers ever known. And with it, one of the most frightful of all tests the Chosen Ones shall ever undergo.
—PAGE 3007, CHAPTER II OF THE VAGARIES OF THE TOME
It is not only for our personal safety that we ask this thing, Princess,” Wigg said solemnly. His face was a mask of concern. “It is also for the safety of the Paragon and the Tome, and those who live her
e in the Redoubt. But most importantly, it is imperative that you, the female of the Chosen Ones, continue to survive. Should Tristan perish, your existence becomes more important than the survival and welfare of anyone else—including Faegan and myself. I realize you don’t want to hear this, but it now seems virtually certain we shall lose the prince, either to the impending battle, or to the poison running through his veins.”
Wigg knew his words were hurting Shailiha terribly, but if the strong-willed young woman would accept them from anyone, it would be from him.
Shailiha, rocking a fussy Morganna in her sling, had spent the last two hours in the Archives of the Redoubt, listening to what Wigg and Faegan had to say. Their words had stunned her at first, making her angry.
Above all, they went on to tell her, it was paramount that the prince not be privy to this meeting. Even Celeste, Wigg’s daughter, was not to be a party to what was discussed here on this so very important of days. For the immediate future, only the three of them in this room were to know what the wizards were trying to convince the princess to do.
Abandon her brother. The brother she loved more than her life, the same man who had risked his life time and time again to return her from the grasp of the Coven.
She simply could not believe her ears.
Wigg and Faegan had reiterated to her how truly desperate their situation was, hoping that she would eventually come to her senses and agree with them. Their powers of the craft were almost gone. Even worse, the Gates of Dawn would by now probably be completed. There seemed to be no way to keep Nicholas from bringing forth the Heretics from the Afterlife.
They had to act now. While Tristan led the Minions to battle, a battle in which he would most probably die, the rest of those living in the Redoubt should leave this place. The wizards insisted on putting as much distance between them and Nicholas’ hatchlings and carrion scarabs as they could. The sooner the better, they said. In fact they wished to leave tomorrow.
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