"Are they all this magnificent?" he asked.
Alrik smiled. "Indeed they are. They have to be, to qualify for this place."
Then the Minion did something strange. After turning to Celeste, and giving her a quick, conspiratorial wink behind Tristan's back, he nodded toward the rear of the barn. Celeste turned to see that a large group of warrior stable hands had quietly gathered, all on bended knee, their heads bowed.
Celeste gave Alrik a quizzical look. But before she could speak, the warrior placed a forefinger against his lips. Still confused, she nodded back. Alrik turned back to the prince.
"If my lord would allow me, there is something else that I would be pleased to show you," he said.
"Of course," Tristan answered, his full attention still upon the mare.
"What is it?"
"It is my understanding that the Jin'Sai recently lost his favorite mount," Alrik said gently. "Is that true?"
His back still to them, Tristan lowered his head. "Yes. Pilgrim was killed during our battle to secure the Scroll of the Vigors. There will never be another like him."
"With all due respect, my lord, you may be in error."
Turning around, Tristan scowled at him. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Alrik turned and gestured to the kneeling warriors at the other end of the barn. As he did, they rose, and their ranks slowly parted. One of them walked forward leading a horse.
The magnificent black stallion was easily as tall as Pilgrim had been, but he looked younger. His mane and tail were exceptionally long. Large, spirited eyes sat on either side of his wide, beautifully shaped head. As he walked, taut muscles swelled beneath his shining coat. He wore a highly polished black bridle and saddle. The pure silver hardware of the horse's tack was adorned with the lion and the broadsword.
Tristan had always believed that he would never again see a mount as magnificent as Pilgrim. But standing here in the light of the torches, he knew he had been wrong.
"We understand that we cannot replace Pilgrim," Alrik said humbly. "It would be presumptuous of us to try. But on behalf of myself and the Minion stable hands, please accept this stallion as a token of our admiration and our loyalty. Trained by the best of our handlers, he is the finest horse in all of Parthalon."
Tristan didn't know what to say. He looked at Alrik and Celeste, and then back at the stallion again. Fighting a lump in his throat, he walked over to the horse and accepted the reins from the groom. As he stroked the stallion's neck, the horse rubbed his head against his new master's shoulder. The bond was immediate. Tristan looked at the warriors again, and then to Alrik.
"I accept," he said softly. "And thank you."
Alrik and Celeste joined him. Celeste put out a hand to stroke the horse's silky nose.
"How did you know I was coming to Parthalon?" Tristan asked.
Alrik smiled. "We didn't," he answered. "We have been training this stallion for months in the hope that you would soon visit. As the First Wizard and I walked over the drawbridge together and into the Recluse, it was he who mentioned that you had lost your previous mount. So you see out of darkness there comes a bit of light."
Celeste smiled at Tristan.
"He's beautiful," she said. "What will you call him?"
Tristan looked back down the length of the barn, and to the torches that burned so brightly. As they cast their flickering shadows across the walls, he made up his mind. He turned back to Celeste.
"I will call him Shadow," he said.
Tristan placed a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. The leather was soft as butter, and he immediately felt comfortable. Shadow began to dance about beneath him, telling his rider that he was eager to go. The prince easily stayed with him. He smiled.
"If you will excuse us, Shadow and I are going to get to know each other better," he said. He looked at Alrik. "You will see that Celeste is safely escorted back to the Recluse?"
Coming to attention, Alrik clicked his heels. "On my life," he promised. The prince nodded back gratefully.
Saying nothing more, Tristan wheeled Shadow around. Without looking back he galloped the stallion out of the barn and into the moonlight.
CHAPTER XLIII
"Now then," Faegan said. "let's begin, shall we?"
The wizard had chosen this chamber of the Redoubt because it had gone unused for centuries. It was dark and unfurnished, save for the simple table and five chairs he had requested. Moisture seeped freely from the walls. Mildew had crept in long ago, making the place smell musty and abandoned. A single wall torch burned quietly.
Faegan, Abbey, and Adrian sat on one side of the rectangular table. Next to Faegan was Lionel the Little-the wizard's herbmaster and the trusted keeper of the herb cubiculum in Shadowood. Since arriving at the height of their trials with Wulfgar, Lionel had stayed on at the palace.
The Valrenkian captive sat across from them. Bound to his chair by a wizard's warp, he glared at Faegan with venomous eyes.
The prisoner was of average build. He appeared to be about forty-five Seasons of New Life. His blond hair was thinning at the top, and he still wore his bloody butcher's smock. A purple bruise had risen on his jaw from Ox's blow; his broken ankle had been set by the wizard. He had remained unconscious all of the way to this room.
After placing him in the chair and securing him with the warp, Faegan had carefully examined the Valrenkian's blood signature. Sure enough, it revealed him to be a partial adept. The abbreviated signature had possessed curved lines, indicating that the man's gifts had been inherited from his mother rather than his father. His examination complete, Faegan had then employed the craft to rouse the man.
Summoning all of the saliva he could, the Valrenkian spat at them, then sneered arrogantly.
"What do you want with me?" he growled. "I demand to know why I have been brought here!" Pausing for a moment, he looked around the bleak, unforgiving room.
"Wherever this might be," he added nastily.
"Where you are is not important," Faegan said. "We require answers from you. We can either do this the simple way-with me asking the questions and you answering them honestly-or we can proceed the hard way, through my use of the craft. First of all, you are a Valrenkian, are you not?"
The man just spat at them again.
"What is the name of the assassin who was hired to kill the inhabitants of the royal palace?" the wizard pressed. The prisoner again remained silent.
Abbey placed her mouth near the wizard's ear. "This is getting us nowhere," she whispered. "Time is precious."
Faegan nodded. Narrowing his eyes, he called the craft. Almost at once the Valrenkian's eyes widened with surprise.
"What are you doing to me?" he shouted.
"Enhancing your willingness to comply," Faegan answered calmly.
The man's head suddenly snapped back and his eyes opened wide. Abbey realized that Faegan had just successfully entered the Valrenkian's mind. The captive's rebellious attitude might remain, but now he would be forced to answer their questions-and truthfully.
"Let's try again, shall we?" Faegan asked. "Are you a member of the rogue Valrenkian community?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Uther, of the House of Kronsteen."
"Tell me, Uther of the House of Kronsteen, what is the name of the assassin hired to kill those living at the royal palace?"
"The only assassin I know of is called Satine. She buys her wares from Reznik."
"So this assassin you speak of is a woman?"
"Yes."
Thinking for a moment, Faegan sat back in his chair. "Who is Reznik?" he asked.
"He is a most accomplished Valrenkian. He leads us. Satine buys the tools of her trade from him."