“But why?” Ragnar repeated even more desperately.
“Your blood is tainted by your own brain fluid, don’t you see?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “This makes you clearly inferior, and unworthy of life in what shall soon be our fearless, uncompromising new world. The wizard Wigg has finally succeeded, however obliquely, in releasing you from your torment after all.” The young adept shook his head, contemplating the unique, centuries-old maze that lay before him.
“Ragnar,” he said softly. “Once a respected wizard—one who would have surely become a member of the Directorate. Partially turned to a stalker by the same woman who was once Wigg’s wife, you went on to become addicted to your own fluids due solely to Wigg’s actions. The onetime wife of Wigg, now controlling you, left their child with you for safekeeping. Later, believing the mother to be banished forever, you abused the sorceress’ progeny for centuries in order not only to satisfy your sick desires, but also to take silent revenge on the wizard who had been the sorceress’ husband. And then you finally die at the hands of the one left behind in Parthalon by the Chosen One himself—an act made possible due to the ministrations of Failee, that same sorceress.” Nicholas paused for a moment, his dark gaze boring its way into the back of the stalker’s brain. “It seems that Failee, by way of the Chosen One’s seed, is about to take her revenge upon you after all,” he added quietly. “How fitting, wouldn’t you agree? The circle is about to become complete.”
As the stalker’s desperate breathing ignited the cold air into puffs of vapor, a trail of urine emptied from his body, running down the inside of one of his legs to join with the odorous brain fluid already on the ground. The two vile substances of similar color snaked their way down the embankment, melting the snow before them.
“But Scrounge!” Ragnar countered. “He will surely know that you have killed me, and will perhaps even refuse to follow you!”
“How will he possibly know?” Nicholas answered, gliding closer. “I have sent him into seclusion at Fledgling House, ordering him not to depart until he leads the hatchlings against the Chosen One on the morrow’s dawn. And by the time he notices your prolonged absence, he too shall be dead. Even the hatchlings and the carrion scarabs shall be disposed of after they have rid the world of everyone but myself, my parents of above, and the consuls who have chosen to serve us.” Nicholas leveled his eyes at the stalker, sending another shiver of terror through him.
“So you see,” the adept finished quietly. “None of my servants were ever meant to live, much less serve me for eternity.”
Without further discussion Nicholas pointed a slender, white finger toward the stalker. Almost immediately Ragnar’s robes, jacket, and boots began to rip apart. Wigg’s ceremonial dagger fell to the ground with the tatters of clothing. Ragnar stood naked and exposed in the snow.
A thin, scarlet line appeared down the entire length of his torso, from his larynx to his exposed groin. It quickly became a ribbon of bright red blood.
With a wet ripping sound, the stalker’s abdomen and breastbone split wide open, exposing the still-living organs within. As his endowed blood rushed out, his organs were pulled from his body, collecting into a hideous pile of offal in the snow just before him.
Stunned, Ragnar looked for the last time into the eyes of Nicholas. He then fell forward, dead.
With a twist of his outstretched hand, Nicholas sent the steaming organs and dead body directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs. The shiny black beetles immediately clambered over them, rendering the stalker’s body virtually indistinguishable from the other corpses lying there. The females started to burrow their way into the freshly steaming body cavity to lay yet more of their eggs, while others of their kind began to feed on the bloody viscera.
Smiling, the adept took flight toward Fledgling House.
CHAPTER
Forty-nine
Throbbing wracked Tristan’s every limb and joint. He tried to raise himself up, but strong hands eased him firmly back down into the luxurious depths of a bed. He could see little, his vision blurry and off-center. Unable to fight his way out of the gloom, he allowed the blackness to overcome him again.
Pain still greeted him when he finally came around again, but his vision was better. Looking up, he saw the faces of Traax, Shailiha, and Celeste. Each of them smiled hesitantly down at him.
“You were gone a long time,” Shailiha said, her voice cracking. “Almost twelve hours. We thought that we might have lost you for good this time.” A tear crowded its way into her right eye, and she brushed it from her cheek.
He tried painfully to sit up, but his right arm wouldn’t move.
Shailiha turned her eyes away, then forced them back to him. “The veins have blackened up the length of your neck, little brother, and they cover your arm and hand.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said quietly. “There was no need for you to see this.”
Traax took a step closer to the bed, his dark green eyes looking intently down at his stricken master. “Forgive me, my lord,” he asked. “But now that you are conscious, there is a question I must ask you. The wizards claim you promised them litters, and a host of warriors to do their bidding. I wished to confirm these facts with you before granting their requests.”
Tristan smiled weakly. “Give them whatever they desire,” he said softly. “And any other aid they may need. I shall join you later.” He paused. “But first tell me, given the fact that you have now seen the effects of my illness, do you still accept me as your lord?” He held his breath for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. Above all, he must continue to command the loyalty and respect of the warrior standing before him.
Traax’s answer was both immediate and unequivocal. “I continue to serve you, and only you,” he said. “And as for your illness, it only makes me want to destroy the ones responsible for inflicting it upon you even more.” His hand tightened on his dreggan. “But I must also tell you that I am very glad the entire body of warriors did not see this. In truth, I cannot be sure how they would have reacted.” And then an unexpected smile spread across his face. “I shall now go to the wizards. They stand just outside the castle entrance, bickering at each other. Get well quickly, my lord, for we have some well-deserved killing to do.” Clicking his heels together, he turned and walked from the room, leaving Tristan alone with the women.
Tristan couldn’t remember ever having been so tired in his life. “Where is Ox?” he asked his sister.
“Just outside your door,” Shailiha answered. “I know of nothing in this world that could move him from his post.”
Then Celeste leaned over the bed, placing an affectionate hand on one of his cheeks. As she did so, her dark red hair fell down over one shoulder. He could smell the myrrh in it, just as he had that first night when he had saved her from diving off the cliff.
“I shall leave the two of you alone,” Shailiha said quietly. “When Celeste is done saying good-bye, I will return.” With that his twin sister quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.
Celeste picked up Tristan’s stricken right hand, holding it gently.
“I want to thank you,” she said, her voice dark and husky. She reached out with her free hand and smoothed back the usual, dark comma of hair from his forehead.
“For what?” he asked.
She smiled. “For saving my life, thereby making it possible for me to find my new one. Despite the fact that we may never see each other again, I shall never forget what you did for me.”
Tristan looked into her eyes and held her gaze. “If that is true, then promise me something,” he said.
“Anything.”
“If you should somehow survive all of this, and you truly value your new life as you say you do, then make sure you deserve it.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise.
“My life was once golden, with no worries or cares,” he said. “I foolishly took it all for granted, and for a very long time. I los
t almost all of my family and friends before realizing how precious they were. Your father tells us that your blood is inferior only to Shailiha’s, and Shailiha’s only to my own. Therefore, should I die, your blood shall become the second most powerful in the world. I can see that you have your father’s strength and courage. You must, to have survived all that you did. Listen to your father, and learn the craft well. Be one of the strongest of people ever to master it, for I know in my heart you will be able. But follow the teachings of Wigg and Faegan only, and do so strictly for the sake of the Vigors, keeping the ethics they deem so important alive for future generations of the endowed—generations that I shall never see.”
His eyes lingered on the graceful curves of her face. “There is something else I wish to tell you.”
Celeste placed her fingertips on his lips. “I know,” she said. “I may be new to your world, but I still see much, including the way you look at me.” She closed her eyes, choking back a sigh before opening them again. “But for now, I must leave.”
With that she touched her lips gently to his and then stood. Removing a scented handkerchief from the bodice of her gown, she placed it on his lap, then walked to the door. For a moment, she paused, her head lowered. And then, without turning back, she left.
Several moments later Shailiha reentered the room. She sat on the edge of his bed and smiled bravely. “It is now my turn to say good-bye,” she whispered. Her voice seemed very small. “And there is so little time. The Minions have already granted the wizards’ wishes, and everyone awaits me.” She looked down at Morganna in her sling. “I hope you can watch your niece grow up.”
Resolutely, then, she grasped the gold medallion hanging around her neck, the exact duplicate of his, and looked directly into his eyes. “I shall always wear mine, no matter what,” she said softly. “You came to the ends of the earth to find me, and if I must, I will one day do the same for you.”
“I know,” he whispered. There was so much more he wished to say, so much more he knew he would later greatly regret not saying. But just now, the words wouldn’t come. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
Shailiha closed her eyes, nodding gently.
And then she took a deep breath and stood up. Looking seriously into his face, she said, “Trust the process, Chosen One.”
Tristan’s brows drew down in confusion. “W-What?” he asked.
“Trust the process, Chosen One,” she repeated. With that, she kissed him on the forehead and turned to the door. Before he could speak to her again, she too was gone.
Tristan lay back in the bed, exhausted, wondering what she had meant. But he was asleep before any answer came.
As Shailiha stepped up into one of the several Minion litters, Martha smiled at her.
Wigg turned his head anxiously in the direction of the princess. “Did you tell him? Are you sure he heard you clearly?”
“Yes,” Shailiha answered, holding her baby close. “He did.” Tears came again, and she closed her eyes.
“Then tomorrow we shall know,” Wigg answered.
Gently rising into the sky, closely accompanied by the several thousand Minion warriors sworn to protect them, the litters turned north, toward Shadowood.
CHAPTER
Fifty
When Tristan finally awakened again, it was to find Ox looking down at him.
“It almost dawn,” the Minion said. “Chosen One all right?”
His head still swimming, Tristan got out of bed, testing his abilities. He hurt everywhere, especially in his right arm and shoulder. He found that he could move it, though it remained stiff. He shook his head. Bad as it is, it will simply have to do. For today we go into battle.
“I’m able to fight.” His grin to Ox was stark and determined. He dressed as quickly as he could, then placed the dreggan and scabbard over his back against the gray fur jacket Shailiha had given him and donned the leather quiver that held his dirks, adjusting it so that the handles of the weapons would not interfere with one another. He reached back to check that none of the weapons would stick, though the movement caused his shoulder to burn in agony.
And then he saw the brain hook.
He picked it up from the night table and turned it this way and that. Its pearl handle and the hook at the end of the blade gleamed quietly in the light of the chandeliers. For a moment he smiled, wondering how many secrets it held, and how many more it would yet participate in. Finally he concealed it within his right knee boot. Then, remembering another item he would like to have, he retrieved the handkerchief Celeste had given him and tucked it into a pocket.
Another table was laden with food and drink: tea, long since cold; dark bread; and cheese. The first few bites reminded him how long it had been since he’d had nourishment, and he ate and drank greedily. Finally feeling more refreshed, he squared his shoulders and walked to the door with Ox at his side.
As they neared the field to the north Tristan slowed, amazed at the sight before them.
All of the Minion warriors, some eighty thousand strong, were standing in the cold, white snow, awaiting his orders. The sun was just coming up, and its orange and golden rays illuminated the warriors one seemingly endless row at a time. When he saw what some of those in the forward areas were holding, it took his breath away.
At Traax’s sharp order, battle drums began to sound. Fifty of the warriors walked forward, each holding a long pole. At the end of each pole was a blue-and-gold battle flag carrying the heraldry of his family, the House of Galland.
The gold field of each flag had superimposed upon it a blue Eutracian broadsword and a roaring lion. The sight strengthened Tristan’s heart. They march to their deaths under my family’s flag. I could never have asked for more than this.
For the first time since he had seen them violently crashing through the roof of the palace on his ill-fated coronation day, he felt genuinely pleased to have the savage, winged warriors in his presence.
As Tristan watched, they all went to one knee in the snow, lowering their heads in submission. With a single, unified voice, they shouted, “I live to serve!” Several moments passed as Tristan looked down at them, the snow lightly falling on their bodies and wings.
“You may rise,” he said, finally finding his voice.
Traax approached him, smiling. “We didn’t think you would mind, my lord,” he said. “We asked the wizards where we might find these, and they gladly obliged us. We march for you, and you alone. Under your banner—the banner that is now also ours.”
“Thank you, Traax,” Tristan answered softly. “And I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”
Just as the prince was about to address the warriors again, some of them began looking upward, pointing to the brightening sky. Tristan, Traax, and Ox raised their eyes to behold what was taking shape above them.
Writing.
Spellbound, Tristan watched as a single hatchling with a rider, high over the royal palace, somehow began tracing words into the sky. With every turn the bird made, a flowing line followed gracefully behind it, leaving azure letters. Slowly, the letters began to spell out words. As he watched the twisted, sick poem continue to form, Tristan’s hands balled up into fists. The rider must be Scrounge, but he knew that the power would be coming from Nicholas. Finally the verse was complete:
Come up, Chosen One,
In the clouds we shall meet.
For when the fight is finally over,
And the carnage is complete,
I know I shall have found your death
To be marvelously, sinfully sweet.
S.
Traax turned to Tristan and saw the look of hate in the prince’s eyes. “This one called Scrounge waits for you,” he said quietly. “And it is now time for you to go to him.”
Tristan took his gaze from the sky just as Scrounge and his mount began to soar away to the northeast. “Yes,” he answered, his eyes dark. “There is much between him and me that needs to be put right. But first I will
address the warriors.”
Looking to the thousands of winged ones before him, he thought for a moment. Many, if not all of them, were about to die in his service. He wanted to make sure as best he could that his address would count for something.
“Warriors! Minions of Day and Night!” he shouted. “When you first came to my land, you came as attackers. This time you come as defenders of Eutracia. I am honored by your presence here today, for you are the most skilled warriors I have ever seen. Follow my instructions and those of your officers to the letter, and you may survive. If I should fall in battle, know that for as long as the struggle reigns, you are to take your orders from Traax. But following the conflict, no matter how it ends, you are to seek out the wizards Wigg and Faegan and submit to them as your new lords. Do you understand me?”
Again came the thunderous chorus. “I live to serve!”
Tristan reached painfully behind him and drew his dreggan. The deadly, familiar ring of the blade leaving its scabbard reverberated a long time in the cool, dry air before finally fading away.
“I also charge each of you with something else this day,” Tristan shouted. “It is no secret that we are greatly outnumbered. But if each of you kills at least three of the enemy, we shall win!”
With that thousands of dreggans came out of their scabbards, their blades ringing through the cold air amid eager cheering.
Tristan looked at the warriors for a time, and then over to both Traax and Ox. They were smiling broadly. “Remember our battle plan,” he said. “And may the Afterlife have mercy upon us this day.”
Saying nothing more, he replaced his dreggan into its scabbard and checked his knives. His hatchling was waiting nearby, and Tristan climbed into its saddle and strapped himself in. He wheeled the bird around to face his warriors a final time. And then a thought came to him.
He reached into a pocket and produced the scented handkerchief that Celeste had given him. As the myrrh hidden there came back to him for what would almost certainly be the final time, he smiled fatalistically and tied it around his left arm. Then he launched his bird into the sky.
The Gates of Dawn Page 54