As he thought about the odds building against the Conclave, Faegan shook his head tiredly. He would have been far more comfortable about all of this if everyone were staying at the palace. Wigg's gifts in the craft were second only to his own, and he was sure that the Minions placed far more confidence in the prince than they did in him. He felt a deep need for Celeste to stay so that he could watch over her. But he also knew that Tristan was right. With Celeste accompanying them, they had a much greater chance of saving her life.
It was imperative that they find the Scroll Master. Absolutely nothing could be allowed to interfere with returning Tristan's blood to normal. Then the Jin'Sai might-somehow-repair the rent in the Orb of the Vigors and, everyone fervently hoped, save Celeste's life. But succeeding in these trials would be nearly impossible and the wizard knew it. As he looked back down at the grimoire, he couldn't help but think back to those days before the Sorceresses' War, when their world was still at peace and their early discoveries in the craft all seemed so wondrous and new.
Wigg and Failee had been married then, and at first they had seemed happy. For a long time Faegan had secretly envied Wigg's relationship with Failee. Not only was she beautiful, but her intelligence and skill in the craft were nearly without equal. That was why he and Wigg were both so stunned when she began to dabble in the Vagaries and to recruit others to follow her in her new cause.
But her imperfect use of the dark side of the craft had driven her mad. The result had been the Sorceresses' War, which had nearly torn both the nation and the craft asunder. Two centuries later, the Directorate learned that each blood signature had a discernible lean, and that Failee's angled far to the left. Such a trait inspired in her not only a desire to practice the Vagaries but a compulsion to do so-probably one beyond her ability to control. Had her crimes not been so heinous, one might even have been compelled to forgive her. We fought hard to survive those dark days, Faegan thought. But how will we survive the ones that lie ahead?
Suddenly he detected the presence of endowed blood. As it approached, he recognized that it belonged to Wigg.
The door swung open to reveal the First Wizard. Like Faegan, he looked tired and drawn. He had been this way ever since learning of Celeste's impending death. It was almost as if their lives and health were linked, one unable to survive without the other.
Wigg sat down heavily at the table. When he saw the grimoire, his brow furrowed.
"Shawna told me that I'd find you in the Archives," he said. "But what I didn't know was that you'd been laboring all night. What on earth are you trying to accomplish down here, all by yourself?"
Not entirely sure where to begin, Faegan spent the next several minutes outlining his plan. Wigg listened politely, but the more Faegan spoke the more skeptical the First Wizard looked. "What do you think of it?" Faegan asked.
Wigg pursed his lips. "A very interesting notion, I agree. But the first part of your plan is clearly impossible. I don't know how we could ever accomplish such a thing; we simply don't possess that much raw power. And as for the second part, you mean to dabble in a discipline of the craft that we really know nothing about. That's why you've locked yourself away here in the Archives, isn't it? To research Failee's grimoire and try to discover how she managed to do it. But I needn't remind you that her work in this field was only half completed. To fully implement your plan, you would also have to first complete her calculations. Who knows how long that might take, even if it's possible at all! And I'm afraid, my friend, that time is one luxury we don't have."
Faegan sighed. "I know. But this seems the only way to proceed. If you have a better idea, I'm certainly willing to listen."
Wigg shook his head. "No," he said softly. "Nor will I be able to help you in your work-at least not until Tristan, Celeste, and I return from wherever the River of Thought takes us. There's no telling how far afield we might have to go."
"Have you tried to employ the additional spell that I imparted into your blood last night?" Faegan asked.
"Yes."
"And when you activate it, what does it feel like?"
Wigg thought for a moment. "I almost feel as though part of me has become a living, breathing compass. I am inexorably drawn in a certain direction. And although I cannot say for sure, I suspect that the closer I come to the Well, the stronger the feeling will become. I must also remember what Sister Adrian said. If I try to travel too fast, I will overtake the spell and temporarily lose the sensation. But finding the Well quickly is exactly what must be done. Even though we haven't departed yet, I can't begin to tell you how maddening this restriction already seems!"
Nodding, Faegan put one hand over Wigg's. "I can only imagine," he said. "Tell me. In which direction does the spell bid you?"
"Northwest."
Faegan scowled. "I needn't remind you that the ruptured orb lies that way."
"Of course," Wigg answered.
Deciding to change the subject, Faegan leaned back and placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. "Has Jessamay returned?" he asked.
"No," Wigg answered. "But she can take care of herself. She was one of the most powerful sorceresses of the Vigors that we ever knew. We are indeed fortunate to have her back."
"Are you quite sure about that?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm talking about her blood signature," Faegan replied. "You said that it now has no discernible lean. But what does that mean for us? It would seem to make her more prone to want to practice the Vagaries, would it not? And to what degree? I do not need to tell you how dangerous it would be for such a person to be privy to the Conclave's plans. In fact, she may already know too much."
"I'm aware of your concerns," Wigg answered. "I have personally examined her signature. Since it shows no appreciable lean one way or the other, I am convinced that her past devotion to the Vigors and the basic goodness of her heart will win out. Besides, what other choice do we have? To forbid such a powerful sorceress to help us in this time of need would be inexcusable."
"I suppose you're right," Faegan said.
"When she returns you must make quick use of whatever information she brings you," Wigg cautioned. "If she has unearthed any link to Wulfgar's confederates or to the assassin Satine, you must deal with them quickly. But try to take at least one of them alive. The information they might provide could prove priceless."
As he recalled Geldon and Lionel's deaths, Faegan's look became harsh. No one had to remind him about Satine. Only she and the Afterlife knew how many more she had disposed of during the course of her grisly career. And his wizard's pride was still stung over the way Reznik had outsmarted him at Valrenkium. This is far from over, he thought. But when all is said and done, I will be the one to end it. He looked back to Wigg.
"Don't worry," he said. "Taking care of them will be my pleasure."
Wigg gave him a slight smile. "I know," he said.
Wigg reached out and ran his palm over one of the pages of the grimoire. The dry green ink and the wrinkled parchment felt dead, almost alien to his touch.
"Do you miss her?" Faegan asked.
Withdrawing his hand, Wigg sighed.
"I miss what she once was," he answered. "But certainly not what she became. For the last three hundred years I have struggled against everything that she believed in. And now here we are, trying to employ her tools to help the Vigors. It's ironic, to say the least."
"Indeed," Faegan answered. "This grimoire is a revelation, Wigg. I am only beginning to understand just how brilliant your late wife really was, and what an impact she has had on us all, right up to this very day."
Wigg stood abruptly, his face unreadable. "Tristan, Celeste, and the Minions who are to accompany us await me in the courtyard. But before I go, tell me. Are you completely in agreement with our battle plans?"