She has a special way about her, especially when it comes to loving and understanding me, he thought. She always has. He slowly removed his hand from her and smiled into the lovely face before him. My sister. My twin, and my best friend.
“I will do my best, Shailiha,” he said, fearing that his voice was about to crack. “For you, anything. Wherever you may go, whatever may happen. For you, anything.”
A knock came on the door, and after a greeting from the queen two liveried servants entered with a silver tray holding two pots of tea and a plate filled with scones. The queen thanked them, and they bowed and left the room. Morganna beckoned for her children to leave the balcony and rejoin her in her private quarters.
The queen poured herself a cup and tentatively tasted it, making sure it wasn’t too hot. “I understand you have been very busy lately,” she said to Tristan as they each took a seat around the small table now loaded with tea and scones.
Tristan turned rather uncomfortably in his chair as he watched Shailiha bite her lip, trying to control an impending smile. He turned back to the queen. “If you are referring to the Caves, Mother, that wasn’t really my fault.”
“The Caves?” Morganna asked innocently. “No, your father has already told me all about that, and I leave the handling of such things to him and the Directorate.” She smiled knowingly into his dark-blue eyes. “I was referring to Evelyn of the House of Norcross.”
Tristan swallowed. Hard. He was certain that he must be blushing, but surely this couldn’t be the only reason she asked him here. Evelyn wasn’t the first of those his mother had known about. And he would rather face a thousand screaming harpies than have to discuss his private matters of the heart with either of his parents or his sister.
“Don’t worry, Tristan. Your secret is safe with us,” his mother said lightly, pressing one of her hands against his crimson cheek. She and
Shailiha had always been more forgiving of the prince’s dalliances than had been Nicholas or the Directorate—after all, they were women and could better understand the effects he had on so many of the young ladies of the realm. And she could tell that his heart was breaking at the thought of becoming king, and then a wizard of the Directorate. There was so little about any of it she could do.
“I also heard about the harpy. Are you sure you are all right?” She glanced over at his shoulder, thinking of the knives he so often carried there. “Your father says you are very good with those knives of yours,” she said encouragingly. “I think he now better understands why you carry them.”
Tristan shrugged. “It was really Wigg who killed it,” he said, almost apologetically. “I just did what I could.” He watched while she took another sip of tea. “Mother, is there a special reason you asked me here today?” he asked.
Morganna smiled to herself, once again reminded that the man sitting before her was not only her son, but also a very special person, indeed. She rose and walked a short way over to a mahogany writing desk that sat against the opposite wall. Opening the top drawer, she took out a velvet-covered box. She returned to her chair and held the small box in her lap with both hands.
“This was to be a gift to you from your father, your sister, and me after your coronation as king,” she began quietly, “but we have decided to give it to you now, instead. Your father wanted to be here, but many important affairs have commanded so much of his attention of late that Shailiha and I decided we would present it to you ourselves.” She handed him the box and, smiling, sat back in her chair.
Tristan took the box from his mother and slowly opened the lid.
What he saw took his breath away, and he could feel his eyes begin to tear.
Inside the box was a piece of gold jewelry on a gold rope chain. But not just any jewelry. Hanging from the chain was a small medallion, and engraved upon it was a broadsword with a fancy hilt, superimposed with a roaring lion. The heraldry of the House of Galland, the same as appeared upon breastplates of the Royal Guard. He took it from the box and held it before him as he watched it turn in the light. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
Morganna could tell instantly that he was pleased. “We had it made for you last month, as we knew the time of your father’s abdication was coming near. Please wear this with the Paragon, which will be placed around your neck that day, as a token of the love of your family.” She blinked back the tears that threatened when she thought about what she could not tell him. How do I tell my son that I must give this to him now, because of what the wizards have told us? That if we do not show our love for our children now, we may soon never be able to again?
Tristan placed the chain and medallion around his neck, and he looked down at the jewelry as it twinkled against the black leather of his vest.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I shall wear it always, no matter where my life leads me.” Turning to his sister, he could see tears in her eyes. “And thank you, Shailiha,” he said softly. “For everything.”
Shailiha cast him a knowing smile through her tears.
Even though he does not realize the full impact of what he just said, I could never have asked for more, Morganna thought. Wear it well, my son, with or without us.
She stood and beckoned him toward her. Tristan immediately rose and embraced his mother, but as he did so she made sure that neither of her children could see the lone tear that had begun to wend its way down her cheek.
The many oil sconces and chandeliers burned brightly in the ornate meeting room, and the hour was late. The heavy, self-imposed burden of complete silence reigned over everything as the many men sat there in their dark-blue robes, waiting for their revered teachers. It was rare for the Directorate to call such an impromptu meeting, especially at this hour of the night, and every one of the men in the rather stuffy, ornate room knew it. Something was afoot.
Before being allowed entry to the room each of them had been made to stand before the Lead Wizard himself and raise the sleeve of his robe, showing Wigg the tattoo of the Paragon upon his upper right arm. They had also been asked to perform some small use of the craft, in order to prove that they were in fact endowed and truly belonged here. Therefore the process of admittance to the meeting had taken hours to perform. Such precautions were a rarity, indeed.
There were several hundred of them in attendance, and although they were only a fraction of their total numbers they nonetheless represented the best of their kind. These hand-chosen men were the finest, the most highly trained of their brotherhood, other than the wizards of the Directorate.
The meeting room they had been summoned to was sumptuous, and the delicate, light-blue Ephyran marble of the walls, ceiling, and floor belied the serious, questioning attitude of those who had been ordered to attend. This room was in the farthest reaches of the Redoubt and was used only very rarely, when absolute security was required. The scent of anticipation swirled heavily upon the air.
Finally and without fanfare, the Directorate of Wizards entered the room from a door at the end of the hall and, all except for Wigg, walked to a row of high-backed chairs upon the raised dais at one end of the room. Wigg, Tretiak, Killius, Maaddar, Egloff, and Slike—the ancient heroes of the Sorceresses’ War. Each of them wearing his gray robe of office and his braided wizard’s tail falling down the center of his back, they stared politely out at the crowd. One by one they took their chairs, except for Wigg. The Lead Wizard remained standing and turned to address the group. The room somehow became even more still as Wigg looked out upon their numbers, rather unsure of how to begin. We have never asked such a thing of them before, the Lead Wizard thought. We have never asked them to kill. And I am not sure myself how to ask them to perform the tasks that only they are now capable of accomplishing.