"Are you all with me?" he asked. "Given his many sacrifices for us, we owe it to him to find out what truly happened." Without hesitation each of the women agreed.
"I have request," Ox suddenly said.
"What is it?" Faegan asked.
"On behalf of other warriors, I ask you grant him Minion funeral pyre when you done. He deserve it."
Faegan thought for a moment. "Very well," he answered. "But only after we have finished-and not before the other members of the Conclave have returned to the palace and paid their respects."
Ox nodded. "Minions thank Faegan," he said.
Faegan reached over to a nearby table and took up a small, razor-sharp knife. Its blade glinted in the light. Looking back down, he suddenly remembered the first crudely written note he had received from Geldon by way of a Parthalonian racing pigeon. He remembered how it had excited him to have finally found a friend from across the sea. Tears came again, and he brushed them away with a forearm.
Reaching down, he placed the blade of the knife against the cold, white flesh. less than an hour later, Vivian walked alone through the palace halls. She had told Faegan that the necropsy had made her ill and that she needed to get some air. Understanding, he had granted her permission to leave.
Quietly she made her way up out of the Redoubt and through the Hall of Supplication. As she walked among the healing stations, the midday breeze wafted pleasantly through the open windows. She continued on through the great room and out into the courtyard beyond. Pausing, she took a deep breath. She hadn't really been ill, but the fresh air rejuvenated her just the same.
Many Minion tents still stood here to shelter the wounded. More often than not, the stricken citizens looked up at her with gratitude as she walked among them. Unlike the way many of them felt about the prince and the rest of his entourage, they all seemed to have great respect for the kindly women in the red robes. To keep up appearances she stopped to speak with several of them before walking to the drawbridge.
As she strolled under the portcullis and started over the moat, the warriors standing guard came to attention and smartly clicked their heels. The assistant to the First Sister was an important person, after all.
She nodded back politely and pulled the hood of her robe up over her head. Turning right onto the nearest street, she continued on her way and became one with the crowd.
Most of the bodies had been removed from the streets, but an odd sense of fatalism lay over the city, combined with an atmosphere that was almost festive. It was almost as if everyone was waiting for the rampaging orb to reach the capital and destroy everything in its path, a dread anticipation that brought with it a sense of abandon.
This once-fashionable, quiet section of the city was deteriorating into another Bargainers' Square-complete with whores of both sexes, drunkards, and scoundrels of every kind. Had she not possessed her skills of the craft, Vivian would have been reluctant to venture here alone. Peering out from the shadows of her hood, she walked on.
The street ended in a roundabout surrounding a small fountain. A number of people loitered there, but she could afford to be patient. She sat down on the ledge of the pool to wait for the right moment.
At last, she slipped one hand into the pocket of her robe and withdrew a small handful of wheat grains taken from the palace kitchens. She kept her hand closed tightly around them and closed her eyes.
The faintest hint of azure escaped from between her fingers, then faded. Shifting her weight slightly, she released the grains into the water and smiled.
The dwarf was dead, the method of his death stymieing even the wizard Faegan. Clearly, Satine had succeeded with the first of her sanctions. Soon Bratach and Ivan would know, and would send Satine toward her next target. Then their master and his army would return from across the sea, and everything would change.
Her task here complete, the acolyte stood and stretched. As she started back to the palace, she smiled. Truth be known, she had been intrigued by the necropsy. Perhaps she would watch the rest of it after all.
CHAPTER XXXII
Wulfgar, Serena, and Einar stood together at the western shore of the Isle of the Citadel, the rays of the rising sun just beginning to emerge at their backs. As he cast his gaze out over the Sea of Whispers, Wulfgar thought of the orders the Heretics of the Guild had imparted to him the previous evening.
He had been with his beloved queen. It was early evening at the Citadel and the stars were just coming out. Seated in the throne room, the two of them had been happily considering names for their unborn daughter. Then the familiar feeling had come over him. Without speaking the Enseterat rose from his throne. Understanding what was happening, Serena watched in awestruck silence.
The Lord of the Vagaries walked to the open section of the wall and went down on his knees. He lifted his face to the heavens. As he did, the beautiful choir of voices came to him once more.
You have done well, the Heretics told him. You have raised the Black Ships, and you have conjured the beasts that will help you lay waste to the lairs of our enemies. It is now time for you to raise your other endowed servants from the depths. Of the hundreds condemned by the Coven of Sorceresses, only seven remain strong enough to rise and serve you. The calculations required for this feat are to be found within the Scroll of the Vagaries. To secure them, employ the index forestalled in your blood. Once your servants are among you, you may begin your campaign to rid the world of the Vigors and all those who would practice them.
I will obey, Wulfgar responded silently.
For the rest of the night, the Enseterat searched. Activating the proper Forestallment, he mentally scanned the scroll's index. Thousands of glowing numbers and letters floated before his mind's eye. Finally he found the ones he was looking for. Now knowing the locations of the calculations in the massive scroll, Wulfgar read them aloud while Einar recorded them on a piece of parchment. As he looked out over the sea, Wulfgar held that same parchment in his hand. After more than three hundred years of imprisonment, the onetime servants of the Coven would rise to serve him.
Serena touched her husband's good arm.
"Forgive me, my lord," she said. "But what is it that the Heretics have asked you to do? You have yet to tell me."
Wulfgar smiled. Then he looked down at the parchment.
"Watch and learn, my love," he said and began to recite the calculations in Old Eutracian.
As the sea before them began to burble and roil, Serena thought she must be seeing things. She looked over at Einar, but her husband's lead consul said nothing.
Then ghoulish faces appeared, rising to the surface of the sea and Serena understood. They were the Necrophagians-the Eaters of the Dead. Wulfgar paused in his incantation and lowered the parchment.
Seven faces lay just beneath the surface of the waves. Their skin was a putrid gray-green. Their eyes and mouths were no more than dark holes in their faces. The faces were covered with boils, and the awful moaning they made was the most plaintive sound Serena had ever heard. It was as if they were in some form of mortal agony and begging to be released from it. Wulfgar raised the parchment once again and resumed reading the calculations aloud.
The heavens began to tremble and azure lightning ripped across the morning sky. Thunder tore through the air. The wind howled, causing the sea to crash against the shore. The Enseterat dropped the parchment to the ground and raised his hands to the sky.