Failee raised her hand, and an empty gibbet appeared, hovering in the air next to the prince’s. She pointed to the wizard and levitated his body upward and back into the floating prison. Wigg tried to stand but was too weak, instead half collapsing, half kneeling in the cruel cage.
Failee turned to her prisoners as she gathered her mistresses around her. “Sleep well,” she said sarcastically. “Especially you, Chosen One. I have decided that there will be a special surprise awaiting you tomorrow.”
Tristan looked at each of their faces in turn, ending with Succiu. As she looked him up and down, her almond eyes smiled and the full, red lips parted to allow the tip of her tongue out to touch one corner of her mouth. Smiling, Failee led them out of the room. Once the women were gone, the light from the wall sconces faded, finally dying entirely.
The three captives continued to twist and turn in their strange, hovering prisons, lost in the total, empty darkness of the belly of the Recluse.
29
In his strange, cruel prison, Tristan had lost all concept of time. He knew neither what day it was, nor the hour. Pain wracked his legs, and a powerful thirst rose with the realization that he could not remember how long it had been since he had consumed food or drink.
The pitch-black darkness of the room was now impenetrable, and he knew that his vision would not improve in it or become accustomed to the light, because there was none.
He made a mental note to himself to close his eyes the next time he heard the Coven enter the room. He remembered stories from near the end of the war of prisoners who were suddenly released after having been held in total darkness, only to be rushed out into the sunshine and immediately be struck permanently blind, their eyes unable to adjust quickly enough to the sudden brightness. But first of all he had to know about Wigg.
“Wigg,” he whispered tentatively in the dark. For some reason, whispering seemed the only appropriate tone of voice in this place. “Wigg,” he repeated, “are you all right?”
The reply was immediate. “If you mean having had my gift taken from me, my wizard’s tail removed, and being almost choked to death, then yes, I’m fine,” came the caustic reply. Despite their circumstances, Tristan managed to smile to himself in the dark, glad to see that the old one had not completely lost his sense of self.
“We need to talk,” the wizard said seriously, “and we must speak obliquely, if you follow my meaning. There is much to be said, with perhaps little time in which to say it, for I fear these walls may have ears.” Wigg paused for a moment, and then added, “Geldon, are you conscious?”
Tristan could now hear the soft, low sobbing that came from the direction of the dwarf’s gibbet.
Geldon finally spoke, his voice cracking and childlike under the strain. “I am better,” he said softly. “Succiu has used her powers to tighten my collar a great many times over the course of the last three centuries, and it is something I will recover from this time, as well.” He paused, and both the wizard and the prince could tell he was struggling with his next words.
“I killed them,” he said finally. “All of those whom I brought here, to this awful place… It is my fault.”
“It is no one’s fault but the Coven’s,” Wigg said adamantly. “And I do not have the time to waste to try to convince either of you of that fact. We have other matters to attend to. Remember, Tristan, speak obliquely.”
Tristan’s mind went back to his education with the wizards—the education he had then thought to be of such little use, and which he now wished he had paid more attention to. Think obliquely, he remembered the wizards of the Directorate teaching him. Try to think as we do. In intricate layers of thought and deed.
“We have an old friend at home, do you remember?” the wizard began. “He likes to think he lives rather above us all.”
An old friend, Tristan thought. Faegan. Living above us in the tree house. “Yes,” he said.
“He is very generous, do you remember?” the wizard asked.
Tristan was initially stymied. Generous… giving… gifts… And then he had it. The locket!
“Yes,” he said. “I remember his generosity.”
“Good,” Wigg said. “I remember it, too. His generosity still touches my heart.”
He’s telling me that the locket Faegan gave him is still around his neck, lying upon his chest. If only he had told me what it was for. “Open the locket, look into it, and you will understand,” was all he said.
“I remember. Sometimes one must uncork the stream of knowledge to recognize what is before him,” Tristan replied, referencing the unknown contents of the locket.
“Good,” Wigg said. “Then you remember what I said of it. But there is something else that our friend said to me, about you, that I passed along to you just before we entered this place.”
The prince remembered back to when he had made use of his gift to see the bridge to Shadowood, without having been first trained in the craft, and to the words Wigg had spoken just before they entered the Recluse. “When Faegan heard of it, he was astounded,” the wizard had said. “He told me that he believes if you concentrate hard enough, due to the quality of your blood you might be able to use the craft… Not in any major way, since you are untrained, but hopefully in some small way that might help us. Something simple, such as moving an object or lighting a flame… When you finally hear your heart, you must use your mind to will whatever it is you want to take place… It will take everything you have.”
“I remember,” Tristan said. “Sometimes it takes another to convince one of his abilities.”
“Precisely,” Wigg said. “And knowing exactly when to do such a thing can always be of the utmost importance. Patience has always been a virtue.” He paused. “And sometimes the smallest urging can move mountains.”
Wait, Tristan thought. He’s telling me to wait until the right moment to try to use the gift, because there probably won’t be a second chance. But what did he mean by the smallest urging moving mountains?
Pausing for a moment, the old one finally said, “And do you remember the charge that our old friend burdened you with?”
This time he knew immediately what Wigg was referring to. My charge, my responsibility regarding Shailiha, he thought. That the time may come when I must kill her, and not hesitate in doing so.
“I remember,” he said. If either the wizard or the slave had been able to see his expression, they would have known it had become hard and dark with responsibility. “My heart does not reject the duty as it once did,” he said simply.
“Good,” Wigg said compassionately. “For all things there is a reason.” Darkness and silence hung between them like a cloud for several more moments before the wizard spoke again.
“Each time a door opens, another closes,” he said simply. “Just like the quest for knowledge, doorways can be elusive.”
Doors, Tristan thought. Faegan’s portal. The swirling vortex that brought us here, and the knowledge of it that could take us home. But how many days has it been?
Panic began to grip his mind. He had no idea how long he had been here, and did not know how many more times the portal would be opened, if at all. Has the portal opened and closed for the last time? he wondered.
Tristan decided to play on the wizard’s own words. “Each time a door opens, another closes,” he repeated to Wigg. “But sometimes, despite the best of intentions, one misses the opportunity.” He hoped he was not being too revealing.
“And then again, if one is lucky, one may grasp the opportunity for such freedom of knowledge not just once, but perhaps even twice more,” Wigg answered.