But it didn’t.
Somehow, he raised his face from the marble. “All of your hatchlings are dead,” he whispered. “And so is Scrounge.” A tiny, defiant smile came to his frozen lips. “At least I accomplished that much . . .”
Unperturbed, Nicholas placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, but the agony torturing Tristan did not abate. “It is of no concern,” he said simply. “How you and the wizards managed to accomplish their demise is of some small interest to me, but the truth of it is that the hatchlings only served to buy me time. Time to collect the consuls and have them construct the Gates, and time to keep your Minions at bay, once you finally brought them here. Which, of course, I knew you would. You had no other choice. But in the end all you have really accomplished is to grant me a blessing, don’t you see? For now I needn’t waste the time or the energy killing them myself. Neither the hatchlings, nor Scrounge, nor your Minions are worthy of any place in our new world. Nor even Ragnar, for that matter. He too has gone to his reward. As have the consuls who tried to resist me.”
Nicholas looked down briefly to the congested, swirling mass of carrion scarabs, black against the snow. “After the Confluence, the scarabs and their eggs shall also perish, their duties fulfilled. Like all my servants, they were never more than a simple means to an end. The spell that will destroy them is already in place. Even the wraiths who bled you are gone—easily conjured, and just as easily done away with.”
Tristan could scarcely breathe. Writhing and trembling on the cold, unforgiving marble, he curled up into a fetal position and clutched his abdomen, the searing pain slicing through him mercilessly.
“Tell me about . . . about the children,” he gasped, his tortured brain finally remembering what Scrounge had said. “What . . . have you done with them? Why must they live with you . . . forever?”
“Ah, yes, the children.” Nicholas finally smiled. “One of the greatest of the keys to all that has transpired, and all that is yet to.” He bent down, staring directly into Tristan’s eyes. “Did you know, Chosen One, that you should have gone to Fledgling House long before Scrounge, and taken the children for yourself? And do you also know that had your egocentric, blind lead wizard not been so protective of his silly secret of the training of young females in the craft, you could have easily stopped me from accomplishing all that I have? Not simply due to the fact that I needed their blood to bring forth the Confluence, because I would have taken the children back. No, Chosen One, there is far more to the story than that. It has to do with an ancient, underlying concept regarding young endowed females that even your wizards are not completely conversant with. The answer to stopping me was, as they say, right under your nose the entire time. But, as they also say, that is a topic better left for another day. Except you have no other such days left.” Nicholas paused to take a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if relishing the freedom from pain that the prince would never again enjoy.
“And . . . the rest of the consuls—” Pain caused Tristan to retch, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. When he could speak again, he whispered, “What . . . of them?”
“Safe and sound, I assure you,” Nicholas answered. “And obediently awaiting the Confluence.”
Tristan took a short, deep breath in a final attempt to beat back the incredible agony, but it was unrelenting. With a supreme effort of will, he managed to lift his face from the marble again.
“I refuse to believe that my seed could have vomited forth upon the world something as evil as the being that now stands before me,” he whispered, the words dripping from his tongue like venom. “Even though you were the product of rape, and forcibly taken before your time from the womb of a sorceress.” It had required every scintilla of strength he had left to speak the words without passing out.
Then, completely beaten, left with nothing with which to fight, he placed his head back down on the marble, certain he had spoken the final words of his life.
Nicholas examined his father closely, as if Tristan had suddenly evolved into some kind of sick, twisted experiment. “ ‘Evil,’ Chosen One?” he asked curiously. “History is written by the victors—don’t you know that? And our history—that is, yours and mine—shall be recorded for all time as the story of a father who failed to realize the importance of not only the past, but the future, as well.”
Nicholas turned his attention to the hatchling that had brought the prince to the Gates. It stood quietly to one side, waiting. “I can feel the influence of another’s endowed blood within the bird,” he said softly. “Fascinating. I am unsure of how this came about, but it is of no consequence.”
Slowly, he raised his right hand toward the creature, and pointed his index finger. A bright azure bolt shot from his fingertip and screamed across the Gate to slam into the hatchling’s breast. The bird exploded. Bits of leather and offal rained sickeningly down on Tristan as he lay there, his body twisted in excruciating pain.
Nicholas lowered his arm and smiled. “And now, if you will be so good as to excuse me, I have a great mission to complete,” he said quietly. “I leave you to die alone. But you are young, and strong. You may even live long enough to have the pleasure of witnessing their coming.”
Standing, the young adept turned to walk across the top of the Gate, back to where the gleaming, silver objects rested.
Through his pain, the prince looked away from the beautifully sweeping curve of the Gate, out toward the snow-covered fields of his beloved Eutracia. He then looked down, wondering if he might be able to manage killing himself without the use of the brain hook.
Even from this angle he could see the hungry, black masses of beetles. Perhaps he could roll himself off the Gate. At least the fall would kill him, rather than the scarabs. Either way, what did it matter? The pain would stop. He curled up a little tighter, the torture cascading through his nervous system in nauseating, unbearable waves. His mind teetering on the edge of madness, he looked toward his son.
Ignoring his father’s plight, Nicholas stood calmly before three silver goblets that glimmered beautifully in the gathering rays of the sun. Arranged in a row, each of them rose in height to about the level of his knee. Even through his pain, Tristan knew what they held.
The fluids required for the Confluence.
One goblet would contain the endowed blood of the children, one some waters of the Caves, and the last would hold his own, perfect azure blood, taken from him that fateful day by Nicholas’ wraiths. The final ingredient—the other brilliant, azure blood of the Heretics—was already held within the marble of the three Gates, silently waiting to be called upon. When combined with the power of the Paragon, these seemingly disparate elements would allow Nicholas to separate the heavens, bringing forth the Guild of the Heretics.
It was clear to the prince that his son was about to begin.
Closing his eyes, Nicholas turned his body to face the rising sun. Bowing his head, he raised his arms in supplication.
Almost immediately the first of the glimmering goblets began to rise into the air. Rotating slowly, it poured forth its contents: the dark red waters of the Caves. But instead of falling through the air and splashing down upon the Gates, the waters gathered hauntingly into a thin, flat, square sheet that hovered gracefully before the young adept.
Then, just as slowly, the second goblet began to rise. It too poured its contents—the blood of the endowed children—into the air. Another square sheet of fluid formed, moving down to hover against the first. And finally, the third goblet rose. Pouring forth the azure blood of the prince, it formed yet another sheet, which layered itself against the first two. The three goblets came back down to rest at Nicholas’ feet.
Struggling to control his mind against the pain, Tristan tried to think back to Faegan’s explanation of the Confluence. First . . . the necessary fluids would somehow be joined. Then Nicholas would use them to empower the Gates. And finally the heavens would literally part, allowing the Heretics to come through. Their endowed blood, locked within the marble for eons but now charged and alive, would animate them as they flew between the legs of the three structures. The returning Heretics would then reclaim their original forms, free to walk the earth once more, just as they had done ages ago. But this time their circumstances would be different. This time the Ones Who Came Before would not be here to defy them.