“Well done,” Ragnar answered. “We must have as many of the Brotherhood as possible stripped of their markings and under our control before the arrival of our very special guests.”
The child would be pleased to learn that so many have been taken in a single day, he thought. “I will now go to him.”
Ragnar turned away from Scrounge and left the room, his slow, heavy steps curiously quiet upon the shiny marble of the floor. Through numerous corridors he went, until at last he stopped before a heavy door of the finest black marble. From beneath the door seeped an intense glow, its radiance flooding the marble floor where he stood. It was far brighter, he noticed, than the dimmer, more ethereal glow that accompanied the actions of those less powerful in the craft. It seemed to possess a genuine physical presence that could be actually touched.
His aura is even brighter than before, the stalker mused. His knowledge and stature grow daily. And the Chosen One is not yet trained in the craft, nor does he know the child lives.
Ragnar continued to stand there for a moment, remembering the day not so long ago when the child, little more than an infant at the time, had literally materialized before him and begun speaking. Ordering Ragnar to do his bidding, the child had partially explained from where he had come, and why. And after hearing the wonder of it all, the blood stalker had gladly obeyed him.
Gathering up his nerve, Ragnar slowly opened the great door, and stepped inside.
In the stillness of the room, a young boy hovered above the marble floor, unmoving, silent. He was surrounded by an incredibly intense azure glow. The last time Ragnar had seen him, he had appeared to be no more than eight Seasons of New Life. Already his power had been immense. Now the boy seemed to be around the age of ten.
All his attention was focused on the table before him—and what sat on that table.
The Tome, the great treatise of the Paragon.
The boy’s face was observant and peaceful as he continued to regard the pages of the Tome. His eyes were of the darkest blue and slanted upward at the corners slightly like those of his mother, giving him an exotic, attractive appearance. He had high cheekbones, the beginnings of a strong jawline, and a firm, sensual mouth. Black, straight, shiny hair that could have been made of strands of silk reached almost to his broad shoulders. His simple, unadorned robe was of the purest white, untouched by the glow that surrounded him and radiated ever outward, constantly waving to and fro in its strength.
Ragnar went down on both knees. “You summoned me, Lord?” he asked, head bowed in supplication.
It was like kneeling before a god.
As the boy narrowed his dark eyes, the gilt-edged pages of the great book turned themselves over. He read them in the blink of an eye—far more quickly than Ragnar would have ever dreamed possible. Successive pages flashed by hauntingly one after the next in the ghostly silence of the room. The child didn’t even require the Paragon to read the Tome; he had told Ragnar that his “parents above” had gifted him with the power of doing so. After what Ragnar could only guess to be several hundred more pages had flown by in mere moments, the child finally lifted his face to the stalker, his eyes going to the wound at the side of Ragnar’s head.
“The fluid has come?” he asked quietly. His voice was young, but neither pliant nor soft.
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered. “There was a sufficient quantity for my needs, and for the requirements of Scrounge, as well.”
“And the single, dead consul that I requested?” the child said. At Ragnar’s nod, he went on. “You will now have him taken to the palace, his tattoo intact. As for the others, I am inducing the spell of accelerated healing upon them as we speak.”
Without emotion, the boy returned his attention to the great book. The pages again began to hurry by at unbelievable speed.
His abilities grow every day, Ragnar thought.
“And the hatchlings?” he asked the child. “They continue to perform their deeds well?”
“Yes,” the boy answered without looking up. “The maturation of the first generation is complete.” He paused for a moment.
“The two Chosen Ones and the lead wizard have returned to Eutracia,” he went on at last. “And the crippled wizard of Shadowood is with them. I can feel the twisted, flaccid return of the Vigors, and the pestilence it has caused within the endowed blood of the two wizards.”
“As can I, my lord,” Ragnar responded. “It was wise of you to order the moving of the Tome to this place.” He paused for a moment, wondering if he had overstepped his bounds. “Your reading goes well?”
The youth raised his face again. A short, menacing smile flashed briefly. “The Tome amuses me, nothing more,” he said. “I find this supposedly magnificent work to be both boring and sophomoric. But it is interesting from a historical standpoint, written as it was by the Ones Who Came Before. In truth, I do not need it to practice the craft. Nor shall I eventually require the Paragon, that bauble they all seem to prize so highly.”
The child looked down to the great, gilt-edged book. The pages resumed flying by at a dizzying speed. “The ones we seek will soon be here,” he said suddenly, “and all must be ready. It is now time to spread the word of the Chosen One’s return, and also the news of the bounty that is to be offered for his life in punishment for his murder of the king. The wizards will never allow him to be caught, but there are other, more compelling reasons for what I now do. Reasons far beyond your ken.” The child lifted his exotic eyes to the stalker.
“They have without question taken refuge in the Redoubt of the Directorate,” he said. “But there is no need for us to go to them, for they shall come to us. And my father of this, the lower, lesser world, shall know of my existence soon enough.”
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar said reverently.
Without being told, the blood stalker knew it was time for him to leave. He rose and walked softly from the room. And though he closed the door behind him, the child’s radiance again spread across the floor, spilling out into the darkness of the serpentine hallways.
Part I
The Hunted
1
It shall therefore come to pass that the Chosen Ones shall suffer individual agonies regarding the use of their gifts. He in his blood, and she in her mind. For it is only through such terrors that the true art of the craft shall be revealed to them.
Tristan of the House of Galland smiled slightly to himself as he looked down at his twin sister Shailiha. He was watching her sleep, just as he had for so many days now.
They were in the Redoubt of the Directorate, the secret haven where the many consuls of the Redoubt, the lesser wizards of Eutracia, had been trained. It was also the place where he had first reluctantly admitted to both his now-dead father and the murdered Directorate of Wizards the secrets he knew regarding the Caves of the Paragon. He had found that day so painful and difficult, but now he wished with all his heart that he could have it back.
The happy times, he thought. Before all the madness began.
Sometimes during his quieter moments, his weary mind still tried to convince his heart that everything that had so recently occurred had been long ago. As if year after year of his life had already passed. In reality it had only been several months. But because so much had changed, it still sometimes felt as if it were all a dream.
No, he told himself as he continued to look down into Shailiha’s beautiful face. Not a dream—a nightmare. One from which Shailiha is finally waking up.