“But can’t the Vigors be used for selfish reasons, too?” Tristan asked innocently. “Haven’t any of them ever tried?”
“Oh, yes,” Wigg sighed. “No system is perfect. But the number of Consuls is very large now. When they are out in the field, they see each other often in the scheme of things. The abuse of the Vigors by one world would probably come to the attention of the others. And those, in turn, would inform us—or so we would hope. Such things were known to happen in the early history of the Brotherhood, but are now very rare.”
Wigg clasped his hands behind him and looked down at the rich marble floor as they continued on along the seemingly endless hallway. “They are not protected by time enchantments, Tristan. They live and die just as any normal citizen of the realm would. Such wandering rural wizards are called the Consuls of the Redoubt. By sending them forth in this way everyone, endowed or common, has something to gain from the craft.”
Wigg sighed, for the question was one the Directorate had long struggled with during the formation of the brotherhood of Consuls. “To understand why we did not give them time enchantments, one must have lived through the period of war that we had,” he answered. “A harsh decision—perhaps too harsh. But we were very afraid of the craft being used against us once again. Right or wrong, we of the Directorate felt that, for the safety of Eutracia, both the higher applications of the craft and the gift of the time enchantments should be kept strictly among ourselves—among only those we knew we could trust. As to whether the Consuls desire time enchantments, or resent not having them, well, the only thing I can say is that if that is their motivation for joining, they join for the wrong reasons. Those who do join us, knowing the limitations about to be placed upon them, do so with a purity of heart. In short, they know the rules going in. And the Directorate may expel any who seem unfit.”
He gave Tristan a meaningful look. “This process is the closest thing to an organized religion that Eutracia has, and as such must be monitored carefully.”
Tales of such lesser wizards were not uncommon, but they were always assumed to be mere myth, since in each and every case following their supposed accomplishments they were reported to have vanished without a trace. Now Tristan knew why.
“Do they all know each other upon sight?” he asked. “There are so many of them now that it is probably impossible for any one of them to know all of the others,” Wigg said. “Therefore, before they are sent out into the world they are each given a tattoo. It is a likeness of the Paragon, and it is placed high up on their right arms. This way it can be hidden by their clothes, but if one consul wishes to prove his identity to another of his brothers he may do so, and without the more obvious use of magic.”
As he walked along next to Wigg, Tristan noticed that many of the hallway doors were open, revealing the interiors of some of the rooms. When he was able to catch a quick glimpse into them as he walked by, he was stunned at what he saw. Several of the rooms appeared to be immense libraries and places of quiet study, lined floor to ceiling with huge and dusty books, many of which were titled in the same obscure language he had discovered circling the ceiling of the cave. Other rooms seemed to be storerooms: he saw containers of herbs and fluids, charts, scrolls, and symbols drawn upon parchment that hung randomly upon the walls. Still other rooms seemed to be fairly luxurious living quarters, presumably where the consuls resided during their training and subsequent visits back to the Redoubt.
But when he looked through an open pair of great double doors that had appeared at his right, he stopped dead in his tracks. It was a schoolroom.
The large, bright chamber was filled with young boys of varying ages, from toddler up to what looked to be as old as ten. There had to be at least forty of them in the attractively painted room. They were not being tended to by nurses or maidservants as one might have expected, but rather by yet more wizards, who watched and cared for the children as attentively as if they were their own. Perhaps they indeed are their own, Tristan thought. But the most amazing thing of all was the fact that the children weren’t simply playing. The longer he stood there watching them, the more certain he became that, despite the playful aspect to their behavior, they were learning.
And some of them were executing aspects of the craft. He stood there, mesmerized. He saw a pair of boys happily playing catch with a brightly colored ball, except they weren’t using their hands to throw and catch it as it flew back and forth between them. Instead, it simply stopped in midair when it reached one of the boys, then flew back again to the other. They couldn’t have been more than six years old, effortlessly laughing and playing at magic as if it were second nature to both of them.
At the back of the room, he saw a boy of about ten standing alone with his eyes shut. He appeared to be doing absolutely nothing. Nothing, that is, until Tristan looked down at the boy’s feet and realized that the child had levitated himself at least a foot off the floor. Still more boys were seated on the marble floor in a semicircle, listening intently to an older wizard who was showing them a parchment full of symbols.
Tristan heard Wigg clear his throat. He turned quickly and looked directly into the ageless aquamarine eyes.
“A nursery?” he asked incredulously. “Whose children are these?” He turned once more back to the room, as if to reassure himself that he was not seeing things.
“Nursery, nursery, let me think,” the old wizard said, enjoying the chance to tease the prince. “Yes, I do believe that’s what they call a roomful of tutored children, isn’t it?” He smirked at Tristan. “And to answer your question, yes, you are right in your assumption that these are the children of wizards. Or, to be more precise, the endowed sons of the consuls of the Directorate. Of course not all of the consuls’ children are endowed. Consul wizards are, in many respects, just like everyone else, Tristan. Remember, they are not protected by time enchantments. After leaving the Redoubt, they take on occupations that suit them, blending back into society. Sometimes they fall in love, marry, and have children. Eventually they die, just like ordinary people. As the membership of the consuls grew over the centuries since the war, more and more of them began to bring their sons of endowed blood with them when they came here to visit.” He ran an ancient hand down the length of his hawklike face as he recalled the distant, cherished memories.
“The bond between a wizard and his child is a particularly strong one, and it is not uncommon for the son of a wizard to wish to travel with his father, rather than be left behind at home with his mother. It seemed only the right thing to do when we decided to construct a nursery. With our supervision and permission, the fathers began to use this room to show their sons the ways of the craft. To our knowledge, such a thing had never been done before. It wasn’t until we observed so many male children of endowed blood interacting in one place that we began to understand the true value of the Consuls’ Nursery, as it is now called. Even these young boys before you, happily at play, have taken the Vows of the Consuls and are taught only the Vigors.” He turned a compassionate gaze toward the roomful of peaceful boys.
Tristan’s mouth turned up into a smile when he tried to imagine what Shailiha’s reaction would be if she could ever see this amazing place. A thought came to him. “If Shailiha’s child is a boy, will he come to this place to learn?” He genuinely hoped so.
And just how does one answer such a question as that? the old wizard thought. How does one explain to this young man that the quality of both his and his twin sister’s blood makes these children seem as mere dullards? He shook his head imperceptibly.