Failee stood and walked up to him, holding his eyes steady in the hazel irises of her own.
“Commander,” she said quietly, “give me your sword.”
Kluge grasped the hilt of his dreggan and drew it from its scabbard, the curved blade making its unusual signature sound in the air. The blade’s song hung for a long time in the stillness of the chamber and then finally faded away, as if it had a life of its own that was not anxious to be extinguished. The chamber then became as silent as death.
Upon taking possession of his sword, Failee took a step closer. She studied his face for a moment.
“Kneel,” she said softly, menacingly.
He immediately went down on one knee, lowering his head.
Without hesitation, Failee snatched a handful of the long, gray-streaked hair at the back of his head and snapped his face back as if his neck had been a dry tree branch, placing the tip of the dreggan hard at the base of his throat. A drop of his blood formed at the point of the blade and ran into the shallow trough of the blood groove, beginning a slow but inexorable journey toward the hilt. Succiu licked her lips.
“I bred you for this myself, Kluge,” Failee hissed, her eyes narrowed. It was the first time in his life she had ever called him by his name instead of his rank. “You are mine to do with as I wish.” She frowned darkly. “Do you understand your orders?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Had she been a mortal he could easily have killed her with a single blow, despite the blade at his throat. But not a sorceress, and certainly not Failee. There was something even more frightening about her than the sword she held to his throat. Looking up into her manic, hazel eyes, he wondered once again if she was mad.
She used her power to treble the strength in her arm, stretching Kluge’s neck backward almost to the breaking point. Her eyes went wide.
“In just over a week you sail for Eutracia,” she whispered.
“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered hoarsely. “The Minions of Day and Night shall prevail.”
The pain in his neck was excruciating, but he knew he must not flinch. If this was a test of his nerve, so be it. He had come too far to be proven unworthy of his mission. He watched her thumb slowly cover the blade release lever in the hilt of the dreggan. If she pressed the lever now, the point of the dreggan’s blade would enter beneath his jaw and violently exit through the top of his skull. He held fast, holding her deep, mystical eyes on his.
Failee twisted his hair even tighter and moved the dreggan imperceptibly forward. “The Minions shall prevail?” she asked. Her eyes were crazed and seemed to look right through him. “See that they do, Commander,” she whispered. “See that they do.”
Part III
Rammeriand
6
The Chosen One shall come, preceded by another. And the knowledge that he seeks he shall one day demand of the one who recovers the stone. And those of the Pentangle, the ones who practice the Vagaries, shall require the female of the Chosen Ones, and shall bend her to their purpose.
Tristan awoke to find her still lying beside him, her back to him and the warm curve of her buttocks pressed into his groin. When he opened his eyes, he found that his face was only inches from her long blond hair. It had the delicate texture of corn tassels, and as he moved his face even closer he could smell the lingering jasmine in her hair, just one of the many things about her that had attracted him last night. Slowly taking back possession of his right arm, he gently slid it from beneath her. As expected, she only stirred slightly and murmured something in her sleep, once again lost to her dreams. Sweet ones, he hoped. He reached behind him to gather up more of the silk-covered pillow beneath his head and sat up a little, only to remember that he had consumed too much wine at last night’s inspection ceremony. Thankfully the room was not spinning nor was he ill, but there was something more than a faint pounding in his head from the fine red wine that had flowed like water last night. The wine had come from the vineyards of Florian’s Glade, the finest grape-producing area of the realm, southwest of Tammerland. Only the best for the heir apparent, he thought. But if not having to become king would mean drinking only cheap wine for the rest of his life, it would have been a price he would gladly have paid.
He turned his face back to the beautiful young woman next to him, remembering the events of last evening. Her name was Evelyn of the House of Norcross, and he faintly remembered something about her father being a wealthy landowner in the area of Farplain, in the center of the kingdom. She had come to the inspection ceremony with her parents out of a sense of curiosity, as so many of the guests had. They were staying at one of the many inns in the city, and her parents had left her behind at the ceremony last night, apparently pleased that she was so lost in conversation with the prince. He rubbed his hand over his face, wondering what their mood was like this morning after discovering that their daughter’s bed had not been slept in. He found himself sincerely hoping that her father was not more than a casual acquaintance to the king.
She had come to his quarters very willingly, as women always did, and they had laughingly fallen into each other’s arms almost immediately. Twice more in the night she had reached out for him, and he had obeyed. But as usual, for him it had not been love.
She stirred and turned his way. He put his fingers through her hair and lifted it from her forehead, kissing her lips gently. Her blue eyes opened, slowly at first, and then quickly the rest of the way as the realization of her surroundings came to her and the memories of last night began to transform themselves into something more than a small measure of embarrassment. She immediately pulled the dark-blue silk sheet up over her breasts, as though he had never seen them before. He smiled, running a hand back through his hair.
“It isn’t as though I’m not familiar with them, you know,” he said gently, a smile upon his lips. “Besides, I don’t remember anything about them for which you should be ashamed.” He kissed the end of her nose and watched the apprehension in her face begin to melt away.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” she said tentatively. She looked around in amazement at the sumptuous decorations of his private bedroom, still holding the sheet up to her chin like a shield in battle. “Apparently we fell asleep last night,” she said, a hint of mischief crowding into the corners of her mouth.
“Yes,” Tristan said smiling, his hand once again in her hair. “And we did a good deal more, as well.”
He got out of bed and stood slowly, stretching his muscles as he walked naked to the balcony of his bedroom. Despite his unusual experiences of the previous day and the events surrounding the celebration last night, he had awakened early, just as the sun was starting to find its way over the horizon in the east. Stretching and waking the rest of his body, he remembered that the great sense of physical strength and mental well-being that he had garnered from his time in the Caves had gradually diminished and had been replaced by wine as the evening went on, and this morning he was sore and lame from all of the bumps and jolts he had taken during his adventures. He made a mental note to himself to check on Pilgrim, as well.
Now standing upon his balcony and looking down at the golden glow of the morning as it slowly blossomed into a new day, all his experiences in the Hartwick Woods seemed to be a dream. But one thing remained as strong and as real as ever: His intense hunger to learn the craft was still with him, coursing through his veins of endowed blood more strongly than he had ever known.