When the familiar azure fires died down, all that was left of the sorceress was a charred, black, lifeless form. Tristan walked over to it and knelt down. As if trying to retain some memory of the woman who had been his son’s mother, he reached out a finger to touch the remains.
Immediately the charred figure collapsed into a long, flat pile of ashes and began to scatter aimlessly on the rising breeze.
“The sorceresses of the Coven are no more,” Wigg said simply.
Tristan turned for the last time to look at the grave of his son, and then the two of them began to walk away in the rain.
33
Upon reaching the wagon, Tristan could see that Geldon had hitched a team of two horses to it. “I’m glad to see you are well,” the dwarf said. “When you ran from the Sanctuary, Wigg and I were greatly concerned.” Tristan smiled back as best he could.
Quickly walking to the back of the wagon, he looked down at the face of his sister. Peacefully asleep, her eyes closed, she seemed to be the same kind, affectionate woman he had known and loved in Eutracia, the long blond hair and strong jawline just as familiar as ever. A blanket had been placed over her and drawn up to her chin.
Tristan was suddenly reminded of the day she and the wizard had come to the Hartwick Woods to find him, the same day he had first found the Caves of the Paragon. She had gladly risked the wrath of both their parents and the Directorate of Wizards because she had been worried about him. He put a palm to one side of her face. You came to find me once, he said to her silently. And now I have come for you.
Wigg appeared next to him, also looking down at the princess. The infamous eyebrow came up. “There is something I must show you,” he said rather sternly. “I am hoping you can shed some light on the little mystery that I have uncovered.”
Without further discussion, the wizard pulled down the blanket from around Shailiha’s throat. The prince’s jaw fell open in amazement.
A gold medallion, identical to the one that lay around his own neck, was around the neck of his sister, lying upon the black silk of her sorceress’ maternity gown. The image of the lion and broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland, was clearly engraved upon it.
Impossibly, it was an exact duplicate of his own.
“It slipped out of her gown as we put her in the wagon,” Wigg said, frowning. “Was this a gift from her mother, as yours was?” he asked. He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the prince.
“It couldn’t have been,” Tristan answered, thinking to himself.
“Why not?” Wigg asked, testing him.
Tristan reached out to feel the medallion, as if needing to prove to himself that it was real. “The answer is simple,” he said. “Shailiha wasn’t wearing this at the coronation ceremony when the Coven first took her. I’m sure of it. If we are to assume that she was taken from the Great Hall directly to Succiu’s boat, then, impossible as it might seem, this medallion must have somehow originated here in Parthalon.”
“Precisely,” Wigg answered.
“But how?” Tristan asked. “I know much less than you about the workings of the Coven, but I cannot believe they would purposely allow her to wear something that would remind her of her homeland.”
“Of course not.” Wigg smiled. “The only answer is that she had been wearing it for only a short time, and the Coven was unaware of it.”
“But where did it come from?” Tristan asked, still incredulous. He could remember seeing the chain around her neck for the first time in the depths of the Sanctuary, but he had never been able to see what was at the end of it. He stared at the wizard. “How did it get around her neck?”
“Without time for a greater study of it, I can only guess the medallion to be some oblique manifestation of the Chimeran Agonies, perhaps even left here in the physical world as a result of Failee’s fragmentary knowledge. If the Coven did not put it around her neck, as we know they would not, then somehow perhaps the princess did it herself. The only continuing link to her mental condition is the Agonies. And if she does not show any signs of improvement, I fear we shall never know.” He paused, hoping that the prince would remember his duty regarding the princess if and when the time came.
“I’m sorry about Failee,” Tristan said simply. They were words that he would never have thought he could say, but that needed to be spoken, nonetheless.
“I know, Tristan,” Wigg said softly, pain and fatigue showing in his aquamarine eyes. “We have both had our losses in this place. It is perhaps best to leave the memories of them here, as well.”
He looked to the sky, where the sun was just beginning to break through the parting rain clouds. “We have only three hours until high noon,” he said sternly. “And a hard gallop to the Ghetto will take at least two, perhaps longer because of the princess. We must leave now.” Although it showed in his face, the old one made no mention of what all three of them knew to be their greatest challenge.
In her raging, insane hate, Failee had sent all the legions of the Minions of Day and Night to the Ghetto to look for conspirators. The entire force. And the prince, wizard, and dwarf knew in their hearts that despite the power of the Lead Wizard, even he would not be able to overcome all of them. Failee’s fateful decision would most probably spell their deaths.
Tristan climbed into the back of the wagon and cradled his sister in his lap, tucking the blanket snugly around her as the dwarf and the wizard climbed up onto the front seat. His thoughts went to Narrissa, wondering where she was and what had actually become of her. His jaw tightened, thinking of the unbelievable treatment she would have received from Kluge. Sadly, he had to admit to himself that with only hours remaining until the opening of the portal, he would probably never see her again.
With a snap of his whip, Geldon charged the horses down the road to the Ghetto of the Shunned.
Part VI
Nation of Parthalon
34
Of the seeds of the Chosen Ones, one shall live and one shall die, the two having been conceived of separate, and therefore distinct, philosophies. The mother of the first and the sire of the second shall both perish before seeing their progeny come to fruition.
As such, these lives shall be yet another manifestation of the Vigors and the Vagaries, those disciplines being two sides of the same coin, namely the craft, wrapped in the same confines but residing in different worlds. In this way the Vigors and the Vagaries themselves shall resemble the newborns of the Chosen Ones, being of completely different philosophies, yet each continually aware of the other’s presence as they move through space and time…
Tristan, Geldon, and Wigg held their breath as they lay on their stomachs in the grass upon the short rise, surveying the scene below. The sky had finally cleared to reveal a sun-filled morning, and the wind was calm. For the second time today their noses were assaulted by the acrid, sickening smell of burning flesh. Human flesh.
Their wagon ride from the Recluse had been harrowing, if for no other reason than the speed at which Geldon drove the horses and the constant veering to avoid the great number of people who were on the road, fleeing the area of the smoldering Recluse.
There had been absolutely no sign of the Minions along the way, and in this Tristan had been disappointed. Not because he and Wigg would have tried to stop and kill them—there was no time for that. But because it would have meant the troops had already left the Ghetto, their job there over. The fact that they saw no Minion troops increased even further his concerns for their safety. He instinctively knew that the wizard and the dwarf were thinking the same thing, and the silent dread in their hearts was palpable as they sped along the primitive, twisting road.