“But harpies did not always have the faces of women,” the old one continued, “nor were they always this vicious. During the war they were caught and trained by the sorceresses to plague and frighten the population into submission before the Coven tried to occupy a particular region. If they could kill or frighten away some of the people beforehand, then the sorceresses’ task was just that much easier. Frankly, I am not particularly surprised that one or two of them still exist, despite the fact that one has not been sighted for over a century and a half.” He winced inwardly at the lie, but with so many standing before him and hanging on his every word, he had no choice. He decided to change the subject.
Wigg walked back to Tristan and handed him his dirk, which the prince placed back into the quiver. “I have never seen you use one of those before,” the wizard said with a short nod of approval. “You seem to be quite proficient with them. But let me give you a word of advice about taking a life, even a life as disgusting as the thing that is now trapped in my warp. Every time you use your dirks, or sword, or bow to take a life, try to think not of whom or what you are killing, but rather whom or what you are allowing to live. It will help with the eventual guilt that all those of our blood must deal with afterward. Endowed blood isn’t just a gift; it’s a responsibility. And sometimes it weighs heavily, indeed.”
Instinctively, Tristan knew the old one was right. He always was. But more than that, the prince also had begun to feel that taking any life, even in self-defense and when apparently absolutely necessary, was not always the correct way to resolve conflict. Perhaps that was one of the reasons for his hunger to learn the craft. A short part of the wizard’s vows now came back to him: take no life except in urgent defense of self and others, or without fair warning. He thought that he was perhaps beginning to understand.
Tristan watched as the wizard raised his hands before the warp. Immediately it began to dissolve, fading away into nothingness as the mangled creature inside dropped to the dust of the courtyard floor. Wigg motioned for Frederick to step forward.
“The orders I am about to give you are very specific, and must be followed to the letter,” he said sternly. “Order your men to cut the carcass into at least a dozen pieces, and then bury each piece in its own hole, each at least thirty feet apart from the others and no less than fifteen feet deep. Cart the pieces of the carcass at least one full league away from the city before digging the holes. And the entire process must be completed before nightfall. Do you understand?” His eyes were unflinching.
“Yes, Lead Wizard,” Frederick said dutifully. Inching closer to the wizard and lowering his voice, he asked, “But why must we take such precautions? Isn’t it already dead?”
“Screaming harpies have been known to regain life, even if dismembered, and especially if the various body parts were few and were laid to rest near each other.” The infamous eyebrow came up like a weapon. “You don’t want to have to relive this little episode, do you, Commander?”
“No, of course not, Lead Wizard,” Frederick blurted, more than a little surprised. “All shall be done as you order.” He turned on his heel and began to give a few of his troops the orders, as others of them began to lay sheets over the bodies of the dead soldiers.
“A good man,” Wigg said to himself after the prince’s brother-in-law had walked away. “But he limits his imagination to only what he sees before him on a daily basis, instead of allowing for the possibility of whatever his mind can conceive.”
As Tristan turned to start back to the palace, he was surprised to see his father and the five remaining wizards of the Directorate standing before him.
“I have never seen you throw one of those before, Tristan,” Nicholas said with no small amount of pride in his voice. “You are very good at it.” He turned his attention to the Lead Wizard. “Perhaps if we returned to the palace, you and the other wizards could explain to me just what it is that has happened here,” he said rather sternly. “I think we need to talk.”
He once again addressed the prince. “And as for you, Tristan,” he said, “as soon as you’ve had a chance to clean up and change your clothes, your attendance is required before the queen.” He leaned closer, smiling. “Don’t worry; you’re not in trouble, for once. She simply has not had an opportunity to see you much in the last few days, and would like to take tea with you and your sister this afternoon.”
Tristan hated taking tea, and his father knew it. When he started to open his mouth in protest, the king immediately cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You’re going,” he said, smiling with mock ferociousness.
Tristan, his father, and the Directorate all turned away from the grisly job that the soldiers were now performing upon the screaming harpy and began to walk back to the palace.
She reached up and moved an errant gray thread of wool a bit more to the right. It had been placed in the wrong spot, she could now see, and needed to be farther away from the shadowed area she was trying to create. This one would do well in the king’s private bedchamber, she thought as one of her five handmaidens handed her more of the thick yarn. The equestrian theme suits him, and since he has never seen this particular tapestry it will come as a surprise.
Queen Morganna of the House of Galland stood up from her velvet upholstered sitting chair and walked away from the large, rectangular loom that was before her. She needed to gain the perspective that sitting before the loom and doing the actual act of creating the tapestry always denied her.
She turned to the plump, elderly woman on her right who had faithfully served as her senior handmaiden for the last thirty years. “What do you think, Marlene?” she asked. “Is it too dark?”
Standing beside her queen, Marlene could see the faults in the work. “Perhaps a bit too much so around the area of the horse’s head, Your Highness,” she replied earnestly. “Other than that I think it is a fine piece, as usual.”
“And you, Shailiha, do you also agree?” the queen asked. Shailiha stood next to her, observing the tapestry and gently gliding her hand across her swollen abdomen in what had become an automatic gesture of maternal love. I shall soon be a grandmother, Morganna thought with pride. And perhaps someday Tristan will put aside his capricious ways and add to our family some children of his own. But then a darker thought began to invade her mind, and she tried her best not to let it show through. Provided the fears of the wizards do not come to pass, as they have warned my husband, she thought.
“Yes.” Shailiha smiled back. “Too dark. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you, Mother?” she answered playfully.
“Yes,” the queen answered softly. “I suppose so.”
Queen Morganna had spent the greater part of this afternoon doing two of the things that gave her the most joy: creating tapestries and spending time with her daughter.
Morganna had learned the secrets of the great weaving looms long ago from her now-departed mother and aunts, before she had met Nicholas and was still a peasant. Some at court thought it a waste of such an important person’s time, but no one could deny that she had talent. The various tapestries she had created over the years hung in many of the rooms of the palace and were also sometimes auctioned off at great balls, the money used to support the several orphanages in Eutracia. But this one was special. It was to be a gift to her husband. And then the screaming harpy had come.
After hearing about the death of the harpy and the part Tristan had played in it she had felt a sudden, compelling urge to see him, and to know he was well. She had therefore requested that the king summon him to her earlier than she had first planned, to take tea with her and Shailiha. She smiled. It was just the kind of thing that Tristan so hated.