The Gates of Dawn

by Robert Newcomb

  “And because Nicholas was unable to complete the Confluence,” Tristan mused, “the process was halted, and the Gates self-destructed. Therefore the blood of the Heretics was never fully empowered, and their spirits were forced back into the heavens.”

  “Yes,” Wigg said. “And the spell Nicholas designed to destroy the scarabs was enacted, killing the vast majority of them before the Confluence was halted. We sent the Minions to search out and destroy the rest. But Tristan remains a wanted man. And the Brotherhood of Consuls has supposedly been turned by Nicholas’ use of the craft, and that body is now leaderless. Only the Afterlife knows their state of affairs. Such a group could become very dangerous indeed.”

  “And we still don’t know where the endowed children are,” Celeste added sadly. “Or the trained, fully grown women of the craft.” The resulting silence lasted for a long time.

  “But now I want the answer to my first question,” Shailiha finally demanded. “How is it that Tristan still lives?”

  “I can remember almost dying,” the prince said quietly. “I had the sensation of floating. It was almost as if my blood was trying to take me someplace far away. But most of what I recollect is nothing more than azure, pain, and darkness. I heard voices come and go, but they meant nothing to me. And then I was suddenly awake, here in the Redoubt. What happened?”

  “You were having your fourth and final convulsion just as the Gates were collapsing beneath you,” Wigg answered quietly. “You were unable to reach the antidote that Nicholas kept with him to tease you to his side. Then the Gates collapsed fully, and you started down with them.”

  “But how can you possibly know all of this?” Tristan asked incredulously. “You weren’t there!”

  “True,” Wigg replied, pursing his lips. “But Traax and Ox were.”

  “What?” Tristan exclaimed. “What do you mean, they were there?”

  “After we ordered your hatchling to fly you to the Gates, we ordered the two Minion warriors to follow you,” Wigg answered. His mouth turned up in a smile.

  Tristan looked at the two Minion warriors as they sat there, beaming with pride. “Ox save Chosen One after all,” Ox said, a huge smile on his bearded face. “It his duty.”

  Tristan smiled, closing his eyes in understanding. “And when Nicholas died and the Gates finally collapsed, the Minions plucked me from them, just as they went down.”

  “Yes,” Faegan said. “But not just you.” He unleashed the self-satisfied grin that told the prince there were still secrets to be revealed.

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

  Faegan leaned forward conspiratorially. “They retrieved Nicholas’ dead body, as well.”

  Tristan nodded. “And they took the antidote from his robes, and forced it down my throat.”

  “That’s right,” Wigg said. “And there was just enough left for me, as well. That is why my sight returned.”

  Tristan looked over at Shailiha. With tearful eyes she placed one hand over his.

  “We knew the odds were overwhelmingly against both Nicholas dying before you did, and the warriors being able to procure the antidote from him in time to help you,” Faegan added. “We also knew Traax and Ox would have to wait until Nicholas was dead, if indeed he was going to die at all, before they could risk exposing themselves. Had Nicholas seen them they would have died on the spot. But what other choice did we have? We asked for a miracle, and it was granted.”

  “And then Traax dropped Nicholas’ body into the ruins of the collapsing Gates,” Tristan assumed, nodding slowly. “It is somehow fitting.”

  Taking a deep breath and narrowing his eyes, Wigg smiled at Faegan. “Not exactly,” he said slyly.

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

  Wigg turned to one of the three rather mysterious tables that stood on the other side of the room. With a turn of his hand, the sheet rose from one of them.

  Nicholas lay on it, still dressed in his white robes. He was apparently quite dead. Dried rivulets of azure blood could still be seen on his face and robes.

  Shailiha gasped, covering her mouth; Celeste, Geldon, and the gnomes all opened their eyes wide in shock. The Minions simply grinned knowingly.

  “Why?” Tristan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “We considered ordering the Minions to cremate him at the Gates,” Wigg answered. “But then we took a chance and told them to bring his body back, if at all possible, so that we might further study his blood. We felt that much might still be revealed by such an endeavor,” Wigg said. “After all, we have never been able to examine endowed blood that has traveled not only to the Afterlife, but also back again. And secondly, if it could be returned without incident, we wanted it here, in the depths of the Redoubt. We certainly did not wish to leave his remains out in the open. We felt that if the body was placed here, so far below ground, the Heretics might not be able to retrieve it again. As for why they apparently did not try to take him back at the Gates, we can only surmise that they witnessed the flaw in this blood signature and realized they had no more use for him.” Wigg’s eyebrow came up once more. “And a good thing, too, for we wouldn’t want a repetition of what happened in Parthalon, now would we? But as it happened, there turned out to be an even more important reason for the return of Nicholas’ body. One that even we were unaware of.”

  “And that was?” Tristan asked.

  “You were very near to death when Ox finally brought you here,” Wigg said. He looked over at the Minion warrior. “I am forced to say that I am not sure I have ever seen such unswerving loyalty, even among what used to be our Royal Guard,” he added. “Anyway, you had almost no pulse. You were suffering from dehydration, exposure, and frostbite. Worse yet, the dark veins in your arm had covered almost your entire body. The antidote had done much to help keep you from dying, but you were too far along in your fourth convulsion by the time you ingested it. You were therefore left hanging somewhere between life and death. You were crossing over into the Afterlife, and we had to hurry.” Smiling again, he looked to Faegan. “So we improvised.”

  “You improvised?” Tristan exclaimed. He looked first at his sister, and then to Celeste. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said softly.

  Without speaking, Wigg again raised his hand. The other, much larger sheet covering the third table rose into the air, revealing what was beneath. Tristan’s eyes went wide.

  On the table sat a very large, clear ball. Its interior was separated into two equal parts by a transparent dividing wall. One half of the ball contained what appeared to be an azure substance, waving back and forth gently. The other half contained a darker, rather murky fluid that lay perfectly still.

  From the outer edges of the ball ran a great many individual tubes, also made of some clear substance. At the end of each tube was a shiny, silver needle. The strange-looking contrivance seemed to crouch on the table like some kind of horrific, multicolored, crystalline spider, its legs drooping down to the floor.

  “What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” Tristan asked. He was truly puzzled. “Where did it come from? What is in it?”

  “We don’t really know what it is called,” Faegan replied. “Or even if it has a name. Wigg and I have been calling it the Sphere of Collection.”

  “And just what does it do?” Shailiha asked.

  “Well, for one thing, it helped saved Tristan’s life,” Wigg answered.

  “How?” the princess asked.

  “Let me begin at the beginning,” Wigg said. “Just after Traax and Ox returned with Tristan, we administered the rest of the antidote to him. But, as I said, he was still dying. While we were attending him, we also sent a force of Minions, again under Traax’s command, to Fledgling House. We wanted to see if there were by chance any children remaining there. They found no children, dead or alive. But what they did find was another small contingent of hatchlings, camped outside, protecting the castle. Apparently Nicholas had planned to return. This time, however, it was t
he hatchlings that were outnumbered. Surprising them from above, Traax, Ox, and their forces dealt with them swiftly, wisely burning the bodies afterward. When they finally walked inside the small castle, they were astounded at what they saw.”

  “And that was?” Tristan asked impatiently.

  “In a great hall sat this sphere,” Wigg answered. “On the walls of the room were hung small, coffinlike structures. Remains of endowed blood lay everywhere—on the walls, the floor, and all around the sphere. Supposing it to be a device of the craft, perhaps even something important, Traax and Ox brought it here. Only later did we learn just how important it was.” Wigg glanced at the ominous-looking sphere. A dark look came to his face.

  “After examining some of the blood signatures taken from what remained in the sphere, we quickly ascertained that it was into this device that Nicholas had collected the blood of the children. Exceedingly clever, when you stop to think about it. Faegan and I can see many other practical applications that the sphere can lend itself to—applications for good, rather than evil. But I digress.” He returned his attention to the table.

  “Just how did this thing save me?” Tristan asked. Clearly tired, he took a deep breath, running one hand through his dark hair.

  “Endowed blood can live, albeit briefly, outside the body,” Faegan said. “This phenomenon is witnessed by the blood signature.”

  Tristan sat back in his chair, thinking. “But what does all of this have to do with me?” he asked.

  “After the failed Confluence, Nicholas’ blood, because it had been infused with such an inordinately vast amount of the power of the stone, lived far longer than normal without its host—his living body,” Faegan interjected. “This amazing precedent, plus the recovery of the Sphere of Collection, got Wigg and me to thinking. We formulated a plan, and then carried it out.” He grinned mischievously at the prince, knowing that in a few moments he was about to shock everyone. Except for Wigg, of course.

  “So what did you finally do?” Tristan asked.

  Faegan looked across the table at Wigg. Taking a breath, he pushed his cheek out with his tongue and raised his eyebrows. “We used the Sphere of Collection to remove some of your poisoned blood, simultaneously replacing it with an equal amount from the corpse of your son.”

  Aghast, Tristan couldn’t speak. He had never heard of such a bizarre thing. It seemed to him as if they had both somehow gone completely, irretrievably mad.

  “You did what?” he shouted at last.

  “It was your poisoned blood that was killing you, Tristan,” Wigg said. “And it was the very high quality of Nicholas’ blood, empowered by the stone, that was keeping his blood alive long after his body had expired. We believed that if we removed some of your tainted blood, replacing it with an equal amount of Nicholas’, your blood would in turn be ‘healed’ from the poison. We were right. In less than two days following the procedure the dark veins covering your body began to recede, and you regained consciousness. We are sure it shall require at least several weeks for you to return to full health, but we are also equally sure that you shall. No one else—other than Traax and Ox, of course—knew that you were here, alive and under our care. We felt it best not to get everyone’s spirits up, only to have them dashed again. Your funeral pyre and our descriptions of the searches conducted by Traax and Ox were merely window dressing, so that we might work uninterrupted.”

  “But why couldn’t you tell us?” Shailiha protested. “What you did seems terribly cruel!”

  “I know,” Wigg answered softly. “And we apologize. But we thought it for the best. At the time, we couldn’t be sure there weren’t still hatchlings about, such as those Traax discovered waiting at Fledgling House. Or, for that matter, if Ragnar was dead. Should they have regrouped and come for us again, they wouldn’t be able to torture from you what you didn’t know. Had that happened, and they learned that the prince lived, they would have come for him, and we would have been unable to stop them. Then he would have died in truth. I am truly sorry that we had to cause so much pain with this deception.”

  Tristan looked over at his sister. The look on her face was one of both amazement and consternation. She wanted to be angry at the wizards for not telling her, but she couldn’t be.

  Wigg then looked into the dark eyes of the Chosen One with a meaningfulness he rarely showed. “In some ways Nicholas will remain a part of your being,” he said. Another long period of silence descended.

  “But what are the ramifications of this?” Shailiha finally asked. “Will Tristan’s blood be somehow harmed, or changed?”

  “No,” Faegan answered. “You see, Nicholas’ blood was already partly Tristan’s blood, as well. Because of that, they are compatible, so to speak. Also, we did not have to employ a large quantity of Nicholas’ blood. Therefore, the blood of the son shall not overcome the blood of the father. Rather, the reverse will become true. Given time, Tristan’s blood shall be just as it once was. We are certain that a simple test of his blood signature, taken several weeks from now, will confirm this.”

  “And then there is perhaps the most important development of all,” Wigg went on. “The improved condition of the Paragon. Blessedly, the stone has completely reclaimed its power.”

  “But there is yet another issue that must be dealt with,” Faegan interjected.

  “And that is?” Tristan asked.

  “Why Nicholas let us have possession of the Tome,” Faegan replied. “We had always considered that to be extremely odd, to say the least. Upon restoring it to its original size and examining it closely, I got my answer.”

  “How so?” Shailiha asked.

  “Because the great treatise of the craft, the one work we rely on the most for our understanding of magic, has been altered,” Faegan said bluntly. “As Nicholas read the Tome, he was at the same time changing it. Falsifying it, to suit his plans. He no doubt had the power of Consummate Recollection, as do I, and had read the entire treatise. But in his case, the gift of Consummate Recollection would have been vastly more powerful, probably enabling him to recite specific passages, perhaps even entire volumes, immediately. Therefore he no longer required the original. So he altered it, turning it into yet another weapon to employ against us. The concept was fiendishly clever, for the changes he made were not blindingly obvious. They were designed to make us stumble and try again, rather than to fall outright. Such small changes also helped ensure that it would take much longer for us to realize it had been violated. He knew that we would rely on the great book to help us better understand our many problems. What better way to make things more difficult for us than to falsify the very text we needed the most? With great effort, I should be able to use my gift of Consummate Recollection to restore it. But the amount of work and time required will be staggering.”

  Tristan looked around at his friends, then at the dead body of his son.

  Nicholas, he thought grimly. The forced product of a sorceress of the Coven and the male of the Chosen Ones. The child I left behind.

  “There is something else that you must know, Tristan,” Wigg said gently. “And this may be the most difficult thing of all for you to hear.” The wizard glanced at the Sphere of Collection, then looked back at the prince. “It’s about Nicholas’ blood,” he said. “All of the power of the stone is now gone from it. Therefore the last part of your son’s living being is finally dying.”

  Tristan looked over to see that the little azure waves in the sphere were moving more slowly now. Taking a breath, he placed his hands flat on the table in preparation to stand. Immediately Traax, Ox, and Shailiha stood to help him. Tristan looked darkly at Wigg, and the wizard understood. With a quick, sure gesture from the ancient one, Traax, Ox, and Shailiha all stopped and moved away.

  With great difficulty, the prince stood on his own. Walking to the sphere on shaking legs, he stared down at the strange device that had helped save his life. He gently placed one of his palms atop it.

  As he watched, his son’s bloo
d slowed its movements even further, finally stopping. And then, as if someone had silently extinguished a candle, the glow emanating from the blood softened . . . and vanished forever.

  Wiping away tears, Tristan shuffled over to the table that held the body of his son. The dark blue, upturned eyes were still open. Reaching down, he gently closed the lids. Then he picked the sheet up from the marble floor and carefully draped it over the body. He knew the wizards would want to cremate the remains. And this time he would not stop them.

  Nicholas II of the House of Galland, he thought, remembering the words he had carved into the makeshift marker he had shoved into the soft earth over the little grave in Parthalon.

  You shall not be forgotten.

  Walking back to the table, the prince leaned weakly against his chair. Extremely tired, he wanted nothing more than to return to his bed and sleep forever. He said so. With the help of the Minions, he went back into the other room and fell into bed. Celeste gently pulled the covers up around his shoulders.

  Tristan looked up into Wigg’s face as the old one came to the bedside. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Would you do me a favor, Lead Wizard?” he asked sleepily.

  “Anything.”

  “The next time you and Faegan make such grandiose plans, tell me about them, would you?”

  Wigg looked down, his eyes shiny. He raised the infamous eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth came up knowingly.

  “We’ll try, Chosen One,” he said softly. “We’ll try.”

  Tristan slept.

  CHAPTER

  Fifty-six

  The freshly fallen snow twinkling beneath his horse’s hooves, Tristan rode Pilgrim ever higher up the side of the mountain. It felt good to have the dappled gray-and-white stallion beneath him again, and being here was a welcome change from the relative mustiness and seclusion of the Redoubt. The air was clean, cold, fresh, and laced with the scent of pine needles. As Pilgrim brought down each hoof, taking Tristan deeper into the Hartwick Woods, the memories of this place came flooding back.