Kluge stood there silently, trying to fathom the reasons behind his bizarre battle orders. The Princess Shailiha, her unborn child, this so-called Paragon of Eutracia, and a simple gold chalice filled with indescribable red water. How was he supposed to recover all of the fluid without spilling so much as a drop? Would the mistresses even know if he tried to replace it? And he ached for the loss of the plunder of Eutracia. From the splendor of the scene before him, this surely was a kingdom of riches to be had. But despite his avarice, he would perform as he was told. He was, after all, the commander of the Minions. And his loyalty, like that of his warriors, had been unfailingly bred into him.
Zabarra rose from her throne and stood before the viewing wall, ever toying with one of her blond ringlets. “If I may interrupt, Sisters,” she said, more to Failee than the group as a whole. “It is now time the commander learned how to retrieve the Paragon from King Nicholas.” She smiled, drawing a line across her throat with a long fingernail. “After all, separating the Paragon from Nicholas is not as simple as separating Nicholas from his head. And although his head is expendable, the Paragon is not.” She glanced at Failee, and her expression grew more serious. “May I continue?”
For the first time today, Kluge noticed that Failee had begun to look tired. In fact, it was the first time in his life he ever remembered seeing her so. He assumed that the maintenance of the mental link to her confederate at the Eutracian court was heavily taxing her powers. Now she walked to her throne and sat down. “You may continue,” she said simply.
“First there is an issue of which my other two Sisters and I feel it is imperative to speak,” Zabarra said. She looked quickly to both Succiu and Vona before continuing. Then she looked directly into Failee’s eyes.
“We must once again voice our protest over your instructions to our confederate in Eutracia to recall and set free certain of the blood stalkers and screaming harpies,” she said firmly. “Although we realize that we probably will not change your opinion in this matter, we nonetheless feel that your decision was unwise. There seems, at least to the three of us, no reason for these actions that can further our cause. To provoke the Directorate in this way only raises the possibility of showing our hand and far outweighs any damage, no matter how well deserved, that can be caused to the wizards. We respectfully request that you withdraw your decision and use them to ravage the land after the attack.”
Kluge was stunned. Blood stalkers and screaming harpies? He had no idea what she was talking about. But even more surprising was the fact that the other three sorceresses were challenging a decision of Failee’s.
The First Mistress turned her hazel eyes upon Zabarra and was obviously trying hard to control her temper. She looked at the other two women and then back at Zabarra. “They are to pay,” she said, trembling with anger, her voice a mere whisper. “And I have decided that it does no harm to toy with them a bit, and kill a few of them beforehand. That is my final decision, and there will be nothing more said of it.” She leaned forward, putting her hands flat upon the table, her normally beautiful face contorted into a contemptuous sneer. “Now, are you going to continue briefing the commander, or shall I be forced to demonstrate to the three of you a rather unpleasant use of the Vagaries?”
As though the conversation had never taken place at all, Zabarra positioned herself between the table and the viewing wall. She bent over slightly, exposing the ample cleavage above the bodice of her ornate, rust-colored gown. Kluge refused to let his eyes drift down. Zabarra had always been dangerous, he reminded himself, because she loved to play games, and he knew from previous experience that her mood could change drastically in the blink of an eye. He gazed into her green eyes without smiling, tacitly telling her that he was not amused.
She straightened with a pout. “You wish to be all business today,” she said to him in mock disappointment. “Very well. Since that is how you prefer it, then listen carefully, for I shall only instruct you in this once.” She turned and pointed to the gold chalice that rested upon the marble altar.
“This is known as the Chalice of the Abdication Ceremony,” she began, “and has no great significance other than that during the ceremony it is always the traditional resting place of the water from the Caves of the Paragon. The Paragon of Eutracia, as Sister Failee has explained to you, indeed has a life of its own. But, as is true of any life, it must be nurtured and sustained. While it is worn around the neck of a person with endowed blood, it harvests strength from that person, and returns that strength back to the wearer many times over. That is why the wizards of the Directorate do not allow one of their own to wear it, because it would engender an unheard-of amount of power in one of endowed blood who had also been trained in the craft. But a person of endowed blood who has not been trained in the craft cannot amplify his power with the stone, because there is no knowledge of magic to strengthen.
“It is impossible, even for a sorceress, to kill anyone while they are wearing the stone. In addition it is quite impossible to remove it from his person. Only the bearer of the Paragon has the power to lift the gold chain and the stone over his head.”
She placed her hands flat upon the table, bending over and placing her face very close to his. He could smell the jasmine in her hair. “So you see, my dear commander, things are not as simple as they may have first appeared.” She reached out and squeezed his right biceps. Hard. Despite Kluge’s own unusual strength, her grip hurt, serving to remind him of the amazing amount of purely physical strength that any one of these women could produce. “I’m afraid that when it comes to the Paragon, these big, strong muscles of yours are not the answer. In this case, the brute force you pride yourself on simply is of no use.” She released her iron grip on his arm and backed away, apparently pleased with her sarcasm.
Kluge decided it was time to speak. He had questions that he must have the answers to if he was to be completely successful in this madness. “Then, pray tell, Mistress, how indeed do we remove the stone from the king?” he asked courteously.
She slowly shook her head, again in a manner that could easily be taken as insulting. “I knew your mind couldn’t possibly come to this conclusion on its own,” she said nastily. “If no one can remove the stone from Nicholas, then the good and cooperative King Nicholas shall have to give it to us himself.” As she emphasized the last words of her sentence, she bounced the end of her index finger off the point of Kluge’s nose several times, as if she were reprimanding a misbehaving child.
Then her tone became more grave. “During the ceremony Nicholas will remove the Paragon himself and hand it to Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate.” She fairly spat out the last words of the sentence. “As I said, the Paragon has a life of its own, and therefore requires sustenance from its host. As a result, when it is removed from its wearer, it immediately begins to die.” She waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. “Once again, however, I shall not waste my time trying to educate you with things that are so far beyond your ken.”
“Cannot Nicholas simply place the Paragon around Tristan’s neck, and therefore let it take its sustenance from its new wearer?” Kluge asked.
Zabarra turned upon him angrily, having temporarily forgotten that Failee had given him permission to speak at will. She stopped herself, reining in her emotions. One corner of Kluge’s mouth turned upward into an almost imperceptible smile.