“We need to be going now,” he said, rather rudely ignoring the prince’s question. “Are you forgetting that there are others who are waiting for us?”
If only I could, Tristan wished to himself as the wizard’s words snapped him back to reality.
Wigg reached out to shut the huge double doors, and began once again to walk down the interminable hall in silence with Tristan alongside him.
The door that Wigg and Tristan finally stopped before did not look like any of the others they had passed. This door was the largest yet, and the front of it was intricately inscribed with the same odd writing that he had seen in the cave and on the bindings of some of the books here in the Redoubt. Had Tristan not been so apprehensive about his meeting with his father and the Directorate, he would have taken the opportunity to ask the old wizard what the writing meant. As it was, he now found himself much more concerned with who was behind the great door rather than what was engraved upon it.
Wigg gave Tristan a quick but compassionate look before he knocked twice, softly. When the door opened, he walked through, then motioned for Tristan to follow. With a sense of finality, the door shut heavily behind them.
The conference room was not particularly large, but what it lacked in size it more than made up for in elegance. From the center of the high ceiling hung a single gold chandelier of oil lamps that gave a subdued beauty to the room. Paintings and tapestries covered much of the four mahogany-paneled walls. It struck him that since no women were allowed here, the decor could not have been suggested by his mother and therefore, presumably, reflected his father’s taste. In the center of the room, his father and the other wizards of the Directorate were seated around a large, circular conference table. He recognized the battle ax of the blood stalker upon it, and noted the scratches in the table’s varnish where it had come to rest. A warm fire danced softly in a light-blue marble fireplace that ran along the length of the right-hand wall, its burning wood occasionally popping and snapping, the only sound in the otherwise palpable silence. The fire gave warmth and familiarity to a room that otherwise, he was sure, would show no friendliness to him.
Wigg walked over to his chair and sat down. There were no more seats in the room, suggesting to Tristan that visitors were few and far between. He walked to the fire and blatantly turned his back to the seven men in the room as he held his hands before the flames. Until now, he had not realized how cool it was this far below the palace.
Nicholas sat in his throne looking at his son’s dirty back and the odd knives arrayed across it, wondering how things could ever have come to this. Never before had he been so disappointed in Tristan. It wasn’t just the prince’s actions of today. Indeed, his son’s discovery of the Caves had probably been an accident. But added to Tristan’s general disregard for the things that mattered so much to the future of the nation, today’s revelations had somehow all become too much for the king to bear. Despite the fact that Tristan had long since grown into manhood, Nicholas was near the breaking point with his son. He loved Tristan more than his own life, and he knew the feeling would never leave his heart. But instinctively he also knew that his relationship with Tristan was about to change, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Long-since dusty hopes are about to float away upon the invisible ink of time, he thought.
“Turn around and face us, Tristan,” the prince heard his father say. It wasn’t the request of a father to a son. It was a command from a king to one of his subjects.
Tristan turned back toward the men. He was acutely angry. He’d had quite enough of being ordered about today. To hide his emotion, he looked down at his trousers and tried to brush away some of the red stains, but they remained persistently in place. Finally giving up on his appearance, he faced his father, ready to accept whatever it was that was about to come his way.
“Don’t bother with the stains,” the king began, his eyes boring into those of his son. “They will never come out.”
Tristan was stunned. How could he possibly know that? his mind asked.
“Thanks to the wizards in this room, you are a very well-educated young man,” his father said. “Therefore, let us pay you the compliment of being blunt. You’ve made a lot of mistakes lately.”
“I know,” the prince said without hesitation. “I’m beginning to enjoy them.”
“We don’t have time for your insolence, Tristan.” The king was shocked. Never before had his son spoken to him this way. Wigg gave Nicholas a hard look.
“We need to ask you some questions, my son,” the king continued in a somewhat softer vein. “And we expect to receive truthful answers.”
“Not until I get some of my own,” Tristan said firmly. He glanced at the Lead Wizard. “Wigg has been kind enough to tell me of some things today, and I thank him for that.” Wigg could tell that the prince’s eyes were burning brightly with a need to learn, the azure glow about him as strong as ever.
“But it isn’t enough,” Tristan went on, achingly. He could literally sense his endowed blood coursing through his veins, and he still felt incredibly strong from his time in the water beneath the falls.
“What is it you would choose to know?” Wigg asked gently, raising an eyebrow.
“What I’ve always wanted to know!” Tristan burst out. He shook his head in frustration. “The things that I have begged you all to tell me since I was old enough to speak! Are you all deaf? Or are you all simply mad?” He felt in the grip of something he didn’t understand. The hunger to learn that had been with him since this afternoon was suddenly exploding in his head. The deep, visceral need to know more about magic, and about himself.
“Why—no, how is it that I am different from everyone else?” the prince shouted. His eyes narrowed, and his hands balled up into tight fists. “Why is my father the first king in all of Eutracian history to decide to join the Directorate and watch his wife die of old age? Why am I the first son of a king to be told that he, too, must join the Directorate at the end of his reign, when every single king before me has had the power to choose for himself?” He frantically searched each pair of eyes in turn, but no one spoke. Surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears, he turned back toward the fireplace.
Wigg noticed that Nicholas was about to speak, but the old wizard quickly placed his index finger across his lips, indicating silence. Nicholas closed his mouth and reluctantly nodded back.
Wigg’s heart was breaking for Tristan, but he realized that they must leave the prince alone just now. They all needed to see whether Tristan could come out of his rage by himself and begin to control the effects of the blood that was racing through him. It was imperative that the prince answer of his own free will. Despite the combined powers of the Directorate, had this one already been trained in the craft he could have killed us all at once with a single thought, the old one ruminated. The Chosen One will come, but he shall be preceded by another—the prophecy is not only true, it is now upon us.
Wigg gratefully saw the prince’s breathing begin to slow, and his sharp eyes noticed one of Tristan’s tears as it sadly fell to scatter like broken crystal upon the marble floor. The old one looked at Nicholas and nodded.
“Tristan,” Nicholas began gently, “I am truly sorry for all that you have been through, and all that you may yet have to endure. But believe me when I say that every man in this room loves you, none more than myself, and that everything that has occurred in your life, indeed even the things that have not occurred, have all been for a reason.” He looked questioningly at Wigg. The Lead Wizard closed his eyes briefly in affirmation.