And then Shailiha blinked.
Gasping, Tristan was just able to stop the downward cut of the blade as he stood there in shock, looking at his sister.
She blinked again, and then she looked down at the medallion upon her chest, and back up at the one the prince was wearing.
Tristan dropped his sword and fell to one knee before her. Grasping her jaw with one hand, he held up his medallion, forcing her to look at it.
“You know this!” he half asked, half exclaimed, as he continued to hold it in front of her eyes. “Tell me you know this symbol!” She looked directly into his face.
“It is somehow familiar to me…” she said, blinking in the sunlight. She looked into his dark eyes, searching his face.
“Tristan…” she said weakly. “Your name is Tristan… I do not know who you are, yet your face is so familiar…”
The joy he felt at hearing her speak his name was cut short by the grisly image of the task that the Lead Wizard would be performing right now.
“Wigg! Stop!” he shouted. He stood up and whirled around, in a panic to find the wizard and stop him from destroying the child.
“Over here,” Wigg said calmly. “There is really no reason to shout.”
Tristan ran back to where Wigg was standing, still holding the baby in the blanket. With a great gasp of relief, he smiled into the wizard’s eyes.
“You didn’t kill her,” he breathed. “Thank the Afterlife.”
The old one’s infamous eyebrow shot up into its familiar arch of annoyance. “Of course not.” He winked. “The truth is, I was watching you. Watching and waiting to see if, at the last moment, there might be a miracle.” He smiled, continuing to rock the baby.
“And we got it. Sometimes one does not need the craft to produce the greatest of victories.” He smiled again and handed the baby to the prince. “Take the child to her mother. Given all that she has been through, I think it is exactly what she needs most right now.”
Tristan took the baby, walked over to where Shailiha was sitting, and knelt in front of her once again. His sister’s eyes went to the new baby, in that ages-old way that only a new mother’s can.
“Whose child is this?” she asked, still dazed.
“She’s yours,” Tristan said, handing her the baby girl.
Shailiha took her daughter in her arms and instinctively started to rock her, cooing slightly as she did so. Then she looked at Tristan again. “What is her name?” she asked him rather blankly.
Tristan thought for a moment of the sad little grave that he had been forced to abandon at the edge of the Recluse and then said, “Morganna. Her name is Morganna the Second, of the House of Galland. Named after her grandmother.”
“Hello, Morganna.” Shailiha smiled.
Suddenly remembering the waiting Minions, Tristan reluctantly took his eyes from his sister and looked back to the square, to the hordes of winged warriors who were still obediently kneeling before him in the heat of the midday sun. He had to address them, he thought. Give them orders. He could not leave them to run amok in Parthalon. He had to think of something to tell them—even though the mere idea of addressing the murderers of his family and nation revolted him.
Beckoning Wigg to join him, he walked back to where Traax and Geldon were standing, the Minion second in command still at attention before the dwarf.
“You may all rise,” the new lord ot the Minions ordered. The entire Minion force stood, their dreggans still at their feet. Tristan knew that all of the troops could not be here in the square; the others must have been standing outside the city walls, thousands and thousands of them, waiting for the orders to be passed.
“They are a very potent and well-trained force,” Wigg whispered into the prince’s ear. “Despite their bloody history, it is still a fact that they were obediently following orders, and did so exceedingly well. You would also do well to remember that the Eutracian Royal Guard is no more, and we cannot be sure of the conditions we will find upon returning home. Circumstances have changed dramatically, and we have no choice but to change with them. As difficult as it may seem to be at this moment, do not let your hatred of the Minions color the judgment of what you do here today.” His eyes narrowed. “I suggest you put them to good use,” he added slyly.
Tristan thought for a moment. The old one is right, he realized, trying to adjust to the magnitude of all that had had happened that day. He always is.
“I am Tristan of the House of Galland, ruler of Eutracia,” he began awkwardly, finding it difficult to use such grand words in his own description. He pointed to the headless corpse of Kluge where it lay in the blood-soaked dirt of the square. “I am also your new lord. The orders I am about to give you are to be followed to the letter.” He took another step forward and stood next to Traax, motioning to the second in command to turn around and face the legions with him. To the astonishment of the warriors, the prince bent down, picked up Traax’s dreggan, and gently handed it to the man. The same dreggan Tristan had been so sure was to have been the instrument of his death.
“In my absence, Traax is to be your undisputed leader. First, I wish all of the Minion brothels to be opened, and the women there to be freed. They are to live among you as equals. The warriors of the Minions are now allowed to take wives, providing the women are in agreement. They are in no fashion to be coerced. In addition, no permission is needed to have children. However, birth and death records are now to be kept.”
He could see the looks of astonishment gathering in their faces, as they first stared at him and then at one another. He gave them a moment to let his words sink in before continuing.
“Second, the areas holding the Gallipolai are to be opened. They, too, are to be freed to live among you as equals. Unions between Gallipolai and Minion are now to be allowed, following the same rules that I have just described. No longer are their wings to be clipped or their feet to be bound. In this there is to be no room for disagreement. Anyone of you who violates these orders shall be subject to punishment.”
Upon hearing this, even Traax turned and looked at him in disbelief. Tristan continued to regard the legions sternly, as they stood absolutely speechless in the confines of the square.
“No more violence is to be visited upon the population of this country,” he added, shouting more strongly so that there would be no possibility for misunderstanding in his words. “The people here have suffered enough. Although you are to remain a fighting force, you are forbidden to take up your swords against anyone without explicit orders from myself, and the custom of succession by death is hereby outlawed. To that end, you are to commit part of your legions to rebuilding the Ghetto as a proper Parthalonian city, freeing the people inside and tending as best you can to the leper colony that exists here. All of the people who died here this day you are to burn, rather than bury.
“The Recluse is to be rebuilt, and all signs of the Pentangle and the existence of the Coven are to be eradicated,” he continued. “We shall one day perhaps use the structure for the common good, and I will expect it to be finished before the turn of the year.”
“And lastly, know that I will soon return here, to Parthalon, to see that what I have ordered this day has come to pass.”
He turned to Traax. “Face me,” he ordered his second in command.
Traax obediently turned to look his new lord in the eye. Despite the fact that this warrior had been one of the butchers of his family and his nation, Tristan was beginning to realize that he would also be completely loyal to whomever he recognized as his lord.
“Do you understand the orders that I have given you this day?” Tristan asked him sternly.
“Yes, my lord,” Traax responded.
“Good. You are dismissed. I wish you and the legions to return to your various fortresses and make plans for what I have ordered to come about. Go now.”